5
It was on a brisk winter morning, three days later, that King Rap caught himself whistling. Somewhat shaken by this discovery, he eventually decided that he was feeling almost maniacally cheerful. The faun in him took to a coach and four as his jotunn half took to ships, and a Krasnegarian could ignore the cold. He was far enough from Hub now to have escaped from the sprawl of satellite towns and rich-folk country mansions. The surrounding plains were lush with orchards and farms. He gloried in the scenery and fine weather—wind in his hair, sun on his back, ice crackling under the wheels, the stark beauty of branches against the frosty fields.
There was more to it than that, though. He was caught up in a sort of wicked juvenile glee at this mad adventure. Even a king could crave a change once in a while, and now he was a hunted outlaw. There could be no greater change than that. And his cause was just. If, by the grace of the Gods, Shandie and his tiny band of supporters could pull off the miracle they planned, they would have made a better world. If they failed—well, they would have tried. A man could take heart from that prospect, no matter how unlikely success might seem at the moment. With a little effort, Rap could probably recall some suitable proverb of his mother’s on the subject.
Thinking of his mother, though, brought on thoughts of prescience and young Gath, back in Krasnegar. That was not a cheerful topic. And he missed Inos as he would have missed both legs and an arm.
He had done well in his choice of horses, although the roan was weaker than the other three and might need to be traded off soon. They had a long way to go, so he was setting an easy pace for them. Who would question a faun driving a coach? He had thought to make himself some passable livery before leaving White Impress, so he looked the part.
At his back, the hatch clicked open. He twisted around to see Thinal’s gaunt face peering out like a ferret in a burrow. His nose was red with cold and the tip of it sparkled wetly.
“I’m hungry!” he complained. Whined.
Thinal was bored to distraction, that was the trouble with Thinal. Scenery and adventure held no interest for him. Nothing did, except extracting wealth from its rightful owners.
“Then you should have gotten up earlier and eaten breakfast,” Rap said crossly. He recognized the tone he used on Kadie at her worst, and stopped himself before he broke into a lecture on what happened to people who sat up until all hours gambling in bars. Admittedly Thinal had rattled the ambience very little, and he had won more than enough to pay for their joint board and lodgings. Gods knew how much he could have collected had he really tried.
“Wait an hour, and we’ll give the horses a rest.”
“You care more for them than you do for me!” Thinal snarled—which was perfectly true—and slammed the hatch shut on an obscenity.
Rap continued to drive on along the road, but his cheerful mood had dimmed. Obviously he was going to lose his traveling companion very soon, for Thinal would not endure much more bouncing around. A faun driving an empty carriage might be asked questions. Thinal himself Rap could do without, but he was potentially four other men, also, and they were handy accomplices in dangerous escapades, as experience had demonstrated, long ago. Pity!
At noon, Rap felt he had barely caught his second wind, but the horses needed a rest. He pulled into a stable yard in some anonymous little farming town. Only the great trunk roads of the Impire provided posting stations, and the inn he had chosen was a humble establishment. Thinal, the thief, stalked off in search of lunch, playing gentleman. The king of Krasnegar rubbed down the horses and saw to their needs. Fortunately his sense of humor was capable of appreciating the irony.
He joined the servants in the inn kitchen for a quick slab of cheese and rye bread, deflecting questions with vague tales of taking the master home for Winterfest. The only fauns who ever roamed the Impire were hostlers; despite his size, he was inconspicuous in that role. Nobody spoke of sorcery or politics or the new imperor, only the unusually cold weather and the price of grain. He was much more at home with these humble, honest folk than he was with royalty like Shandie. When the time came to dash out and rig up again, it seemed much too soon.
Thinal sauntered out, accompanied by a well-dressed middleaged couple—a portly, florid-face man and a lady even more so. Rap lowered the steps for them and held the door, keeping his face straight with extreme effort.
Thinal paused before following his guests into the coach. “Master Orbilo and his lady have kindly offered me hospitality for the night,” he explained airily. “Carry on along the river road and we’ll direct you where to turn off.”
“Yessir.” Rap touched his cap in salute.
“We shan’t be going far out of our way,” Thinal added, his eyes glittering with mischief. “And, boy . . .”
“Yessir?”
“Remember what I said about tiring the horses, or it will go hard with you.”
“I’ll be very careful, sir.” The king of Krasnegar bowed respectfully. As he closed the carriage door, he said a prayer that Thinal would be able to restrain his larcenous instincts. A little finger work would do no harm, but he might attract occult attention if he started romancing these worthy citizens about his grandfather’s lost gold mine.
An hour or so later, the road came to a bridge. Rap reined in at the toll gate. At once a half-dozen legionaries appeared from nowhere to surround the carriage, and his heart began to thump with rare enthusiasm. They were looking at him, not the door, so their interest was in the driver, not the passengers. That was very bad news. He needed no occult talent to see the suspicion in their gaze. Zinixo controlled the Imperial army, and could have issued warrants for the arrest of all oversize fauns. Normally mundanes could be no threat to Rap, but the Covin would still be listening for any use of power near the capital.
The centurion drew his sword as his men took hold of the reins. “You, boy! Down!”
“Master?” Rap exclaimed, trying to look stupid, and thinking that it would be altogether appropriate under the circumstances. He began tying the reins, although legionaries were holding the lead pair’s cheek straps. He moved clumsily along the bench, taking his time so he could analyze the situation. The closer he could come to the centurion himself, the less power he would need to use to influence him. And then, amid the sparkle of sunlight on chain mail, he saw a faint shimmer of sorcery on the man.
It might be a loyalty spell, in which case he was one of the dwarf’s votaries. That seemed unlikely, for this was a very minor road, one of hundreds in the Capital District. Zinixo could not possibly have enough manpower to post sorcerers on them all. The centurion did not show in the ambience, not at the moment, so probably he was just a bespelled mundane. Rap dared not pry deeper, to discover what the magic did. It might make the wearer immune to mastery, or sound alarms if it was used near him, or . . . or . . . Holy Balance! Now what?
Then the side window of the carriage clicked open, revealing the rubicund face of Master Orbilo.
“What’s happening? Oh, it’s you, Uggleepe!” Startled, the centurion saluted._ “Uncle!”
“Well? What’s going on?”
“Just a routine check, sir.”
“Well, you’ve checked. You know me, I hope?”
“Of course, Uncle!”
“Good. Then clear the road.” Orbilo disappeared. Uggleepe backed up quickly, sheathing his sword and shouting at his men to stand clear.
Saved! Rap climbed back on the box and took up the reins again. “Have a nice day, Centurion,” he murmured quietly. Thinal was going to be unbearable over this incident when he got Rap alone—bless him!