Emperor and Clown (24 page)

Oh,
why didn’t they get on with it?

With
a funny little thrill of fright, Shandie thought about pretending to faint.
Then he’d get carried out! Ythbane would beat him raw, of course, but then Moms
would let him have lots of medicine. Be worth it, maybe, for the medicine.

Pay
attention.

The
jotunn was ... Well, he sure had muscles. And he wasn’t as fishy-white as most
of them-browner. His hair looked very pale, even for one of them. Moms said
they were murdering brutes, and this Kalkor looked mean enough to kill anything
with his bare hands, but he did have muscles, and he was bare from the waist up
so he could show them off. He wasn’t hairy and tattooed like the ambassador and
his followers. Disgraceful to come to court dressed like that! He didn’t look
very humble, either. Of course jotnar didn’t, usually.

Unexpectedly
catching those blue, blue eyes on him, Shandie looked away quickly and stared
at the White Throne. This was a north day, of course.

Pay
attention!

“The
ambassador never had authority to waive my claim to Krasnegar, Highness.”
Kalkor had a very creepy sort of smile-a nasty sort of smile.

“But
a Reckoning? That seems a very barbaric custom to us, Thane.” Ythbane was using
his lead-himinto-a-trap voice.

At
Kalkor’s side, the duke-king nodded vigorously. Even standing still before the
throne, he was having trouble balancing on his crutch and keeping his toga from
unraveling.

The
raider was as relaxed as a cat on a cushion. “Written agreements seem very
decadent to us, your Highness. Two men who need to write down what they have
agreed to obviously do not trust each other.”

“Then
why not settle your differences with King Angilki here in amicable conversation
and discussion, and bind your agreement with a handshake?”

Kalkor
did not even glance at the fat man beside him. “If I shake his hand, he’ll have
two casts to worry about.”

In
the background, Ambassador Krushjor guffawed, and his men followed his lead.

Behind
Shandie’s shoulder, Ythbane sighed. “Well, the Impire is not directly involved,
as we have said.” He was speaking loudly, so the senators would listen. “King
Angilki is our loyal subject only as the imperor’s cousin of Kinvale. He does
no homage to us for Krasnegar. I repeat-we are merely offering our good
offices, as friendly neighbors to both sides.”

The
jotunn laughed so harshly that Shandie jumped.

“Of
course, of course! And in a minute or two you’re going to have some perfectly
marvelous idea to suggest, aren’t you? I can hardly wait.”

The
Senate rumbled with disapproval.

There
was a pause, then, until Consul Humaise leaned forward and whispered something
in King Angilki’s ear.

“Er,
what?” King Angilki said. “Oh, yes! Look, Kalkor-”

The
jotunn whirled on him. “Thane, to you!”

The
fat man almost fell over. “Er, Thane. Yes. Thane!”

There
was another pause. He seemed to have forgotten what he was going to say, or
even that he had been going to say anything.

Kalkor
smiled his creepy smile at Ythbane again. “Strange friends you have, your
Highness.”

Ythbane
chuckled, very softly, and Shandie felt his insides quiver. He usually heard
that noise when he was on the writing table.

“We
are confused. You cannot seriously propose a duel between yourself and the
king, when he has a broken ankle?”

Kalkor
folded his arms, and for the first time dropped his smile and scowled. “I can’t
seriously propose a duel between me and that slug at any time. This isn’t what
I expected! But it seems to be what I’m stuck with. No, we allow the respondent
to name a champion.”

“Your
Majesty?” Ythbane said.

Angilki
looked blank for a moment, and then said, “Oh? Me? Er, yes?” His face was very
red and shiny, and there was a vein pulsing in his forehead. He wiped his face
with his toga.

Ythbane
spoke slowly, as if prompting a child. “Thane Kalkor is willing to allow you to
name a champion to fight in your stead. The outcome will settle the fate of the
kingdom. That is right, is it not, Thane? The loser loses on behalf of himself
and his heirs forever?”

Kalkor’s
amusement returned. “Of course. You mean he actually produces heirs?”

“But
if King Angilki nominates a champion, then we assume that you have the right to
name one also?” The jotunn shrugged. “I never have and never will.”

“Well,
then.” Ythbane had switched to his closethe-trap voice. “We are sure neither
side wants a war, and a personal duel is much less bloody. We suggest that you
accept, King Angilki.”

“Oh.
Right! Yes, I accept!” The fat man nodded vigorously, which was fun to watch.

“A
Reckoning?” asked the thane.

“A
duel in Nordland fashion,” the regent agreed. Thane Kalkor flipped his head in
a curious gesture. For a moment Shandie did not believe what he was seeing, and
probably no one else did, either, but there was spittle on Angilki’s cheek.

“By
the God of Truth,” the thane proclaimed, “I say you are a liar, by the God of
Courage a dastard, by the God of Honor a thief. May the God of Pain feed your
eyes to the ravens, the God of Death give your entrails to swine, and the God
of Life nourish grass with your blood. The God of Manhood shall support me, the
God of justice spurn you, and the God of Memory will lose your name.”

In
the ensuing silence, the duke raised the hem of his toga and wiped his face. He
seemed almost stunned.

Ythbane
laughed, then. “How picaresque! Your victim may now name his champion?”

“I
advise it.”

Everyone
looked to Angilki. “Ah. Yes? Well. My champion? Let’s see, it’s a short name .
. .” The king’s face seemed to redden even more. Maybe he was feeling
scratchy-twitchy, too? Shandie could feel the shaking coming on, and his mouth
was so dry he could hardly bear it.

Consul
Humaise whispered something in Angilki’s ear again.

“Ah!
Yes. I call on, er, Mord of Grool ... to be my champion!” The king dragged an
arm across his forehead and leaned harder on his crutch.

The
audience rumbled with astonishment and excitement.

Kalkor
shook his head in disgust. “I can guess, with a name like that.” He pouted
sourly at the regent. “Do we get to see the champion now, your Highness, or
will you unveil him in the morning?”

“In
the morning? Is that not rather soon? The arrangements-”

Kalkor
folded his arms again. “There is no room for discussion. You agreed to a
Reckoning, and so we are bound by the rules of a Reckoning. Disputes are
usually taken to the Moot on Nintor, but I can’t imagine your fat friend going
there, and he has accepted the challenge. Failing that, by the rules of
Reckonings, the battle must be held at noon on the day after the challenge, and
on the closest suitable piece of ground ... Do I hear his champion arriving?”

A
thunderstorm of laughter roared from the senator’s benches, and even from the
commoners’. Shandie risked a sideways glance at Ythbane, who had his head
turned away, and then farther yet, past him, until he could see the west door
and what was causing the laughing. A troll was coming in, wearing armor. Its
heavy, shambling tread seemed to shake the rotunda. Shandie had never been
really close to a troll before, and this one seemed much bigger than most. Even
two steps up, he wasn’t level with its muzzle. It was even taller than Thane
Kalkor, although jotnar were supposed to be the tallest race of all. Its
low-slung arms were as long as a horse’s legs. It had a helmet like a coal
shuttle.

He,
not It!

The
troll stopped beside Angilki and boomed out over his head, “You called me,
Majesty?” He knew his lines better than the king did. The whole Rotunda rocked
with mirth and sheer delight-senators, nobility, commonality-and the noise seemed
to swirl around and around like a wave in a teacup. Heralds thumped their
staffs for quiet. It eluded them for longer than Shandie could ever remember.
He wished he could laugh, too. He was shivering.

Kalkor
had been waiting in tolerant amusement, like a grown-up humoring children. He
obviously did not think that the laughter was directed at him. “Mord of Grool,
I presume?” he said, as the tumult finally died away. “If you come in second
will your orphans and widow be able to collect?” He was smiling a really happy
smile now.

“The
king’s champion is acceptable, then?” Ythbane said, and again the hall bubbled
with laughter. “Oh, yes. A close relative is the normal choice, and I can see
the resemblance.”

“You
still do not wish to name a champion of your own?” The regent’s question raised
more titters.

“No.
I expected something like him. Of course he must dress properly.”

“Perhaps
Ambassador Krushjor can loan us an expert to see that all the proprieties are
observed?”

“I
am sure he can.”

Shandie’s
hands were quivering like a bird in a net, and his head was thumping. If the
ceremony didn’t end very soon, he would pretend to faint and take the beating.
He was twitching so badly now that Ythbane must have noticed, so it would be
pants down again tonight anyway. He might as well fake a faint and save himself
any more of this. Very, very soon!

Kalkor
had turned to face Angilki, who quailed. “We meet tomorrow, then!”

Angilki
shuddered and licked his lips. “Yes.”

“And
you are aware of the Ultimate Rule, aren’t you?” Kalkor asked, and a strange
silence settled over the Rotunda as subtly as an overnight snowfall. “Wha ...
What rule?”

The
jotnar turned his blue smile on the regent again. “A Reckoning is a mortal
challenge. Either challenger or respondent must die, regardless of who does the
fighting. Champions may alter the odds, but not the stakes.”

Angilki
uttered- a strange bleating sound.

Ythbane’s
voice came out hard. “You mean that if you can beat the troll, then you get to
kill the king, also?”

Kalkor
snapped his fingers.

Ambassador
Krushjor flushed scarlet, but he strode forward. “That is indeed the Ultimate
Rule, your Highness. Obviously, it is the only fair way to stage a mortal
challenge when substitutes are allowed.”

“A
duel between willing warriors is one thing,” Ythbane said, “but a cold-blooded-”

“You
both agreed to the rules!” Kalkor roared. Even his great bellow was almost lost
in the surging anger of the audience. King Angilki made the strange noise
again, but probably no one farther away than Shandie heard it. The heralds were
thumping their staffs again. Shandie’s head was thumping, too. Crimson-faced,
King Angilki had come to the edge of the steps and was shouting at Ythbane. No
one was looking at Shandie, so he risked wiping the perspiration streaming down
his face. What in the names of the Gods would Ythbane do to him if he threw up
beside the Opal Throne?

But
then Angilki stumbled backward and crashed to the floor, and lay still.

Silence,
stunned silence.

Oh,
good! Maybe now they would stop all this silly ceremony and Shandie could go
and beg Moms to give him some of his medicine.

“And
that about sums up my day,” Senator Epoxague said. “No ... One other thing. The
duke seems to have suffered a serious seizure. The doctors are concerned.”

“Oh,
dear!” Eigaze wrung her fat, hands.

“I
am sorry to hear it,” Inos said. “Rough seas are not his waters. He asks only
to fish his own little pond and be at peace with the world.”

“I
believe that!” The senator was well preserved for his age, dapper and quiet,
and unusual only in that he wore a small mustache, a rarity among imps. He was
a small man, yet he radiated power in an astonishing way. There were always six
or eight people in attendance on him, but they kept their distance as if he
were surrounded by an invisible fence. He had shown no visible surprise at
finding his drawing room occupied by a supposedly dead relative and a djinn
sultan. He had merely settled into his favorite chair and listened attentively
to a brief summary of their problems, without comment. Then he had reported on
the events at court.

“And
now,” Inos said, “I expect you would like to hear my story in more detail?”

He
shook his head. “First a quick supper. After that we shall be joined by some
other people.” He smiled. “And then you may talk till dawn, I warn you!”

Inos
returned his smile gladly. The knots in her nerves were starting to unravel.
This magnificent house had a strong flavor of Kinvale about it, which might be
Eigaze’s influence, or just the style of the Imperial nobility, but was
soothing in either case. Eigaze had furnished a respectable wardrobe for her
shipwrecked relative at incredibly short notice and, best of all, had borrowed
a skilled cosmetician from a neighboring duchess. The burns still showed, of
course, but now everyone could reasonably pretend that they didn’t.

Azak,
at her side, was rigid, and so far he had been silent. Now he said, “So this
Kalkor dies tomorrow at the hands of the troll?”

Epoxague
flashed him an appraising glance and rubbed his mustache with one finger. “That,
of course, is the plan. Gladiatorial combat was outlawed by the present imperor’s
father when I was a boy-I can only just remember seeing one-but it is common
knowledge that such things continue in private. This troll who goes by the name
of Mord of Grool is the accepted current champion. His handlers were very
pleased to accept a match with only one man, even a notorious fighter like
Kalkor. Mord will take on four imps or two jotnar, sometimes.”

Inos
broke the silence. “Then why is there any doubt?”

Epoxague
sighed. “There were rumors ... Gods know who starts them! But the talk was that
Duke Angilki’s seizure was more than mundane.”