1

“Nice little place they’ve got on the hill there,” Gathmor shouted.

Holding tight to the gunwale, Rap leaned sideways and peered under the sail at the great white and green city—rich and beautiful, seeming strangely cool in the blazing sunlight.

“Not bad,” he yelled, knowing that the wind might steal away his words before they reached back to the tiller. “Be a brute to heat in winter.”

The headlands slipped away on either hand as the Queen of Krasnegar raced into the harbor. There could be no doubt where this was, for the blot on the chart now lay directly on the name of Arakkaran. If Inos was living in that incredible palace, that shining wonder of domes and towers and spires, then she must be finding it very comfortable. Rap thought briefly of jungle and galley benches, of jotunn raiders and dragons and the nightmare journey now ending, and he felt an absurd twinge of envy.

Idiot! Where did stableboys live like queens? Nowhere. Never. And he had seen her in a tent, anyway.

Now the voyage was over, the time for action was at hand. He turned to Jalon, who was spread limp on the gratings amidships, covered with a length of salt-caked canvas. That was the only place aboard where anyone could even hope to sleep, where the boat’s unending mad leapings would not shake a man’s teeth out and bounce him until he was black and blue all over. A true storm raised a great swell, but the occult local squall that powered the Queen had lacked enough fetch to change the existing waves much, so the sea had remained relatively calm. Shrouded in flying spume, the boat had skipped and bounded over the crests in a strange unholy motion, all the way from Vislawn. “Belay the wind, pilot!” Rap shouted.

Red-eyed and haggard, Jalon fumbled for the pipes. He had worn them on a thong around his neck ever since Gathmor had asked what would happen if they fell overboard.

“I hope I remember the tune!”

“If you don’t, we’re going to wreck a lot of shipping!” Queen and her rigging were seemingly indestructible, but other craft were not. All over the bay, frightened men were hauling in sail as the freak storm roared in from the Spring Sea, turning silver water to lead and blowing a fog of spray. No one would notice one small unfamiliar boat in this sudden turmoil. The minstrel began piping the gentle strains of “Rest, My Beloved,” and the wind faltered, then began to subside. Jalon had played that song only once on the journey, after Rap’s nagging had led him to summon a typhoon so hectic that both crew and cargo had been in danger of being hurled overboard.

Rap ducked under the sail and knelt on the baggage in the bow, being tossed up and down and soaked by spray. He had not been dry in two weeks. He peered anxiously at the huge city ahead. His plans were vague in the extreme—find Inos, yes, but how? The palace alone was bigger than all of Krasnegar, or Durthing. Arakkaran was twice the size of Noom or Finrain, the only real cities he knew. He saw much shipping tied up along the waterfront, but less activity than he would have expected in the streets. The hour was too late for siesta and too early for serious drinking.

And this was not the Impire. The laws and those who made them might frown on visitors with no credentials and no patron. There would be jotnar aplenty in a port of this size, but a faun would be a rarity, and an oversized faun with goblin tattoos round his eyes was a conspicuous freak.

The boat settled lower in the water as the wind continued to drop. For the first time in two weeks the haze lifted, and the Queen sailed in clear sunlight. Rap crawled back below the sail, to find Jalon stripping off his clothes.

“You’ll not be wanting me, Rap?” he asked apologetically. “You can manage the pipes if you need them?”

“Of course.”

“Darad?”

“Yes, I think so. And, Jalon—thanks worlds!” Rap thumped the slim minstrel on the shoulder and won a grin. Once again, as in Dragon Reach, Jalon had revealed surprising tenacity. He could have departed at any time, just by wishing, yet he had stayed to endure two weeks of vicious battering and sleeplessness, cold and wet and salt sores, danger and boredom. He might not be a pureblood jotunn, but even Gathmor now conceded he was made of the right stuff.

“My pleasure!” The minstrel smiled through his stubble, wincing at the salt cracks in his lips. “I’m planning a romantic ballad about you, Rap, for the elves. And a saga for imps. Maybe a battle song for jotnar?”

“I hope not!”

“Don’t be surprised! Go with the Good.” Jalon shook Rap’s hand, and the Queen of Krasnegar wallowed as Darad’s great bulk replaced him. A whiff of spray blew over the naked giant and he roared like a sea lion in springtime. ”Might have dressed me first!” he complained, and spread his wolflike leer.

“Welcome aboard! Your clothes are in there.” Rap pointed at a bundle. He turned to the red-eyed, bristle-faced Gathmor. “See anything odd about this town, Cap’n?”

Gathmor narrowed his eyes and stared. “Like what?”

“Bunting? Streets quiet?”

“Public holiday?” Gathmor said, nodding. “Maybe. Celebration?”

Rap felt a twinge of premonition. He glanced at the bundle of swords.

“What we do now, sir?” Darad was busily hauling on pants vast enough to furnish the sails of a galleon. So far the boat’s cargo had supplied everything her crew had needed, down to the last needle. Obviously Lith’rian must have perfect foresight, and Rap worried constantly over what else the warlock might have foreseen—some event too close to call.

“I think we dock.” Rap pondered. Yes, he was learning to trust these twinges of his, this evidence of his adepthood. “And then . . . then I think you two stay and guard the boat. I’ll go ashore and ask someone what all the flags are for.”