Free Emperor and Clown by Dave Duncan Page B

luck. Two people with words of power
ought to be twice as lucky, I’d think,” he muttered. “And right now anything
would help ... Ah !” He released a long sigh of inspiration.
    “What-”
Kadolan said.
    “Just
watch. Here!” He pulled a dagger from his belt-a dagger that might still be
warm from cutting a boy’s throat. “Even Darad may need assistance this time.”
    The
handle was sticky. Kade accepted it reluctantly, unable to conceive that she
would ever bring herself to use it. She opened her mouth to say so, and
discovered she was facing yet another man-a shorter one, but not Thinal. Pale
jotunn hair shone in the darkness. She should have recognized him, but she
guessed first. “Jalon?”
    As
Andor had, the minstrel looked down at his bloodstained clothes and he
shuddered even harder. His teeth chattered briefly. She knew Master Jalon to be
a gentle, sensitive person, a dreamer. Never a killer.
    “Why
you?” she demanded. She could not take very much more of this. No more at all!
She chewed knuckles again, fighting down a crazy urge to scream. She was a
princess and at least half jotunn and she must behave accordingly. But
perspiration was pouring from her, and the foul air was making her head thump,
and she had never done anything more violent in her life than fly a hawk.
    Inos!
She was doing this for Inos! The thought seemed to steady her.
    But
Jalon also was teetering on the brink of panic. His teeth clattered again
briefly, ending with a click as he clenched his jaw. Then he began to whimper. “I
can’t! He’s crazy! Impossible!”
    Kadolan
had no idea what plan Sagorn’s brilliance had devised. She knew only that a
hundred family men would be pouring down those stairs any minute. There was
just no time! She tried the argument that had worked so miraculously on Thinal.
    “Please,
Master Jalon! Try! For Rap’s sake?” The whimpering stopped in a gulp.
    “Yes.
For Rap! You’re right!” The minstrel brought himself under control with an
effort that Kadolan heard more than saw. He put his head out of the doorway,
cleared his throat quietly, and then shouted. She almost dropped her dagger
from shock.
    “Hey!
Kuth! Look at this!”
    It
was a Zarkian accent. It was the voice of the dead man. It was perfect mimicry.
    A
muffled query ... then a clearer one, as someone inside came to the grille. “Who’s
that?”
    Jalon
moved back a step. “It’s Arg, stupid. Who else would it be? Come and see this,
for Gods’ sake.”
    “See
what?” The unseen Kuth was suspicious.
    A
lesser artist might have overdone it; Jalon knew when to stop. He went away, by
becoming Darad, who crouched low, sword at the ready.
    The
bolt scraped. The hinges groaned. Kuth put his turbaned head out. “Come on,
Arg-you know the rules. Five in here always. You want me to go see something,
then you gotta come here and-”
    Darad
went. Gritting her teeth and brandishing her dagger, Kadolan followed-out one
door, in at the other, and don’t fall over the corpse, into the painful
brilliance of the lamplit cell. The heat and stench struck her like a flood of
boiling sewage, the stink of men and oil smoke, and excrement, and also a sweet
rank rottenness that was worst of all.
    The
gamblers had been sitting on a rug at the far end of the room. Three were still
scrambling to their feet, drawing their swords. Another had perhaps been
already upright, for he was charging forward as Kade came in, and she saw Darad’s
blade twist into his belly. It didn’t kill him, but the sound he made showed
that it hurt. And right in front of Kade, where she must be careful not to trip
over it, was ...
    That
was where the awful smell was coming from. Naked, spread out like a chained
butterfly, swollen, twisted, blackened flesh rotting alive ... Could he possibly
be still alive? Mercifully unconscious, of course.
    Then
she saw that Darad was backing. The cellar was just wide enough for three men
abreast, and three men were what he faced. They all