6
Either the execution scheduled for noon was postponed or there was a last-minute change of cast, because arguments over the elvish affair continued all day in the lictor’s office. Rap watched the crowd there grow, but for information on what was being said he had to rely on Quip’rian.
The young elf was a loose ball in the game. The ancient rituals gave Nearest Kinsman a major role in all proceedings, but senior Imperial officials preferred not to discuss confidential financial matters in the presence of a trainee waiter, so they sent him off to attend Rap.
A short time in the cell was enough to make him nauseated, palsied, and likely to faint. At that point Rap would suggest he go and gatecrash the meetings again, and after some shouting for the jailers, he would be released. In an hour or so, someone would notice him in the lictor’s office and toss him out again. Then he would force himself back down to the dungeon to report to Rap, for he had an elf’s compulsion to perform duties conscientiously.
He told all he could, but young Quip’, while he was sensitive and willing, was clearly neither well educated nor especially intelligent, and he had no inklings of finance or politics. He did report that the entire elf community of Noom was involved now, rallied around Lord Phiel’nilth. If the distinguished visitor chose to regard the insult paid him as an honor, then he must be given every assistance. Arcane rites had an undeniable appeal for elves.
The imps were seemingly divided between those who saw the practical advantages of accepting compensation, and those who insisted that the law must be upheld—meaning that the two culprits should be disassembled as soon as possible, in public. Rap began to suspect that the contest was unfair, that the elves were outmatched in the bargaining, caught between two grindstones that opposed each other to a common purpose. As the day wore on, Quip’ was gasping out numbers even Gathmor could not comprehend.
And certainly the negotiations were only possible at all because the patron lord whose name Rap had invoked was a sorcerer. Lith’rian’s credit was infinite.
Of course Lith’rian himself must be still unaware of all the good things being done on his behalf. The imps proposed leaving the felons to marinate in jail for a few weeks while a message went to Hub. The elves insisted that the rituals must be followed exactly, and Rap should be sent immediately to Lith’rian’s enclave, the sky trees of Valdorian.
And the warlock was not available to sign and seal. Bankers could advance the necessary funds upon suitable security, but all bankers were imps, more or less by definition. Few elves were wealthy, and Quip’ reported that every elf in the city was having to mortgage all he owned to provide the necessary bond. Rap glumly concluded that an agreement might be attainable when the last groat was pledged, and that did seem to be what happened.
Just after sunset, Quip’rian and a jurist came down to the cells and joyfully informed Rap that he was to be sent to Ilrane, to be judged by the ancient ceremony he had invoked.
Rap stayed on the floor. “How about my friend?”
“Noon tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
Rap used some nautical expressions that neither Quip’ nor jurist would have met before. “Both of us or neither,” he added, in case of misunderstanding.
The exhausted negotiators upstairs were just starting to leave when a horrified Quip’rian came rushing up to break the news. The bargaining started all over again.
It went all night and most of the next day. Rap would not leave his cell voluntarily, so he was hauled out bodily and dragged before the lictor. He was warned that this was his last chance to avoid a terrible death. He refused to accept better treatment than his fellow felon. As he had spent a whole day and night in the dungeons, his mere presence could contaminate even the largest of rooms. He was quickly returned whence he came and thereafter the visitors came to call on him, speaking through the judas hole.
Elves came, pleading both the impossibility of fitting a jotunn into the traditional ceremonies and their inability to raise any more money. The jurists came, muttering that the procedure was highly improper and if word got out then it would have to be stopped. The lictor himself, the families of the injured, representatives of the city . . . all came to argue and beg and be turned down. He was denied food and water. Two stalwart jailers came with boots and other hard things. Still Rap refused. He wasn’t certain just what leverage he had, but apparently he must travel voluntarily, and both ancient ritual and underhand dealing had now gone so far that they had taken on a life of their own and could not be reversed. So he did have leverage, somehow. The graft seeped steadily upward until it reached the praetor himself, and then the cost rose enormously. By now, of course, the imps knew that they had stumbled into a gold mine, and the elves were hopelessly trapped.
When the first round of appeals failed, they all came back and tried again, including the two jailers.
Rap stopped talking altogether.
He knew he was being crazy. He was tormented by the thought that he was breaking his word to Ishist, but he could not bring himself to desert Gathmor.
He could have used mastery to convert the visitors to his cause, but that use of power might alert any sorcerer in town and the goodwill would evaporate soon after they left his presence; so he tried not to, although he did ease the beatings a bit. Even Gathmor started telling him he was crazy.
Rap told him to shut up, he wasn’t helping much.
One elvish worthy called him a stupid troll, and another a brutish jotunn. The imps said he was being as stubborn as a faun. Quip’rian broke down and wept, then explained apologetically that he always reacted to the smell of blood like that. And he had not slept the last two nights. None of them had.
When the second round of visits failed, everyone came round a third time.
In the end they all just succumbed to exhaustion, and Rap had won.
They also serve:
. . .thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.— Milton, On His Blindness