Darkspell

by Katharine Kerr

  For some time Alastyr treated them kindly but distantly. They had nice clothes, warm beds, and all the food they wanted, but they rarely saw their benefactor. When he looked back on how happy he was then, Sarcyn felt only disgust for the innocent little fool he’d been. One night Alastyr came to his bedchamber, first coaxed him with promises and caresses, then coldly raped him. He remembered lying curled up on the bed afterward and weeping with both pain and shame. Although he thought of running away, there was nowhere to go but the cold and filth of the streets. Night after night he endured the merchant’s lust, his one consolation being that Alastyr had no interest in his sister. Somehow he wanted to spare Evy the shame.

  But once they moved to Bardek to live, Alastyr turned his attention to the girl as well, especially after Sarcyn reached puberty and became less interesting, at least in bed. The year Sarcyn’s voice changed, Alastyr began using him for dark dweomer-workings, such as forcing him to scry under the master’s control or mesmerizing him so thoroughly that he had no idea of what he’d done in the trances. Alastyr did offer repayment for using him in this particular way: lessons in the dark dweomer itself. Evy he taught nothing. When she reached puberty, Alastyr sold her to a brothel.

  Without even his sister left from his old life, Sarcyn devoted himself to the dark dweomer—it was all he had. Not, of course, that he phrased it that way to himself. In his mind he’d endured the first stages of a harsh apprenticeship in order to prove himself worthy of the dark power. And so he was still bound to Alastyr, even though Sarcyn hated him so much that at times he dreamed of killing him in long, detailed dreams. It was worth putting up with the master to gain the knowledge—he told himself that constantly. At least he’d be free of Alastyr for some days now while he sold his wares. The master never stayed long in Cerrmor; there were too many people who might recognize him.

  His way back to the inn took him through one of the many open squares in the city. Although there was no market that day, a good-sized crowd had gathered round a platform improvised from planks and ale barrels. On the platform stood a tall, slender man with the palest hair Sarcyn had ever seen and smoky-gray eyes. He was also very handsome, his regular features almost girlish. Sarcyn stayed to watch. With a flourish the fellow pulled a silk scarf from his shirtsleeve, tossed it up, and made it disappear seemingly in midair. The crowd laughed its approval.

  “Greetings, fair citizens. I am a mountebank, a traveling minstrel, a storyteller who deals in naught but lies, jests, and fripperies. I am, in short, a gerthddyn, come to take you for a few pleasant hours to the land of never-was, never-will-be.” He made the scarf reappear, then vanish again. “I hail from Eldidd, and you may call me Salamander, because my real name’s so long that you’d never remember it.”

  Laughing, the crowd tossed him a few coppers. Sarcyn considered simply returning to his inn, because this sort of nonsense had nothing to offer a man like him, who knew the true darkness of the world. On the other hand, the gerthddyn happened to be an excellent storyteller. When he launched into a tale of King Bran and a mighty wizard of the Dawntime, the crowd stood fascinated. He played all the parts, his voice lilting for a beautiful maiden, snarling for the evil wizard, rumbling for the mighty king. Every now and then he sang a song as part of the tale, his clear tenor ringing out. When he stopped halfway and pleaded exhaustion, coins showered down on him to revive his flagging spirits.

  Even though he felt foolish for doing so, Sarcyn enjoyed every minute of the tale. He was amused for more than the obvious reasons. Whenever the crowd shuddered with pleasurable fear at the abominable doings of the evil wizard, Sarcyn inwardly laughed. All that wanton slaughter and ridiculous scheming to do people useless harm had no place in the dark dweomer. Never once did the tale touch on the true heart of the working: mastery. First a man mastered himself until he was as cold and hard as a bar of iron, then he used that iron soul to pry what he wanted from the clutches of a hostile world. True, at times other people died or were broken, but they were the weak and deserved it. Their pain was only incidental, not the point of the matter.

  At last the gerthddyn finished his tale, and the ragged edge to his voice showed why he wouldn’t do another, no matter how much the crowd pleaded. As the crowd broke up, the gerthddyn hopped down from his perch and walked away. Sarcyn worked his way through and pressed a silver coin into Salamander’s hand.

  “That was the best-told tale I’ve ever heard. Can I stand you a tankard of ale? You need somewhat to ease your throat.”

  “So I do.” Salamander considered him for a moment, then gave him a faint smile. “But alas, I cannot take you up on your most generous offer. I have a lass here in town, you see, who’s waiting for me at this very moment.”

  There was just enough stress on the word “lass” to convey a clear message without discourtesy.

  “Well and good, then,” Sarcyn said. “I’ll be on my way.”

  As he walked off, Sarcyn was more troubled than disappointed. Either the gerthddyn had unusually good eyes, or he’d revealed more of his sudden interest than he’d meant to. Finally he decided that a man who wandered the roads for his living had seen enough to know a proposition when he heard one. Yet on the edge of the square he paused for one last look at the handsome gerthddyn and saw a crowd of Wildfolk trailing after him as he walked away. Sarcyn froze on the spot. Although Salamander seemed unaware of his strange companions, their interest in him might have well meant that he had the dweomer of light. You were cursed lucky he turned down that tankard, he told himself. Then he hurried off to his inn. He would make very sure that the gerthddyn never got another look at him while he was in Cerrmor.

  On the morrow the overcast lifted, and strong spring sun blazed on the harbor. As he stood on the poop deck of his Bardek merchantman, Elaeno, master of the ship, was wondering how the barbarians could stand wearing wool trousers in this kind of weather. Even though he himself was dressed in a simple linen tunic and sandals, the heat was oppressively humid. On his home island of Orystinna, summer days were parched and easier to bear. Below him on the main deck, the crew of Cerrmor longshoremen worked stripped to the waist. Nearby, Masupo, the merchant who’d hired the ship for this run, watched over every barrel and bale. Some of them contained fine glassware, specially made to sell to barbarian nobles.

  “Sir?” the first mate called up. “The customs officials want to speak to you.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Waiting on the wooden pier were three blond, blue-eyed Deverry men, as hard to tell apart as most of the Cerrmor barbarians were. As Elaeno approached, they looked startled, then carefully arranged polite expressions on their faces. He was used to that, because he drew those startled looks even in the islands that Deverry men lumped together under the name of Bardek. Like many of the men on his home island, he was close to seven feet tall, heavily built, and his skin was a rich bluish black, not one of the various common shades of brown.

  “Good morrow, Captain,” said one of the barbarians. “My name is Lord Merryn, chief of customs for his grace, Gwerbret Ladoic of Cerrmor.”

  “And a good morrow to you, my lord. What do you need from me?”

  “The permission to search your ship after the cargo’s been unloaded. I realize that it’s somewhat of an indignity, but we’ve been having a problem with smuggled goods of a certain kind. If you insist, we’ll exempt your ship, but if so, neither you nor any of your men can come ashore.”

  “I’ve got no quarrel with that. I’ll wager his lordship means opium and poisons, and I’ll have no truck with that foul trade.”

  “Well and good, then, and my thanks. It’s also my duty to warn you that if you have any slaves onboard, we won’t hunt them down for you if they seek freedom.”

  “The people of my island don’t own slaves.” Elaeno heard the growl in his voice. “My apologies, my lord. It’s a touchy subject among us, but of course, you wouldn’t realize that.”

  “I didn’t, at that. My apologies to you, Captai
n.”

  The other two officials looked profoundly embarrassed. Elaeno himself felt uncomfortable. He was as bad as they were, he knew, always lumping all foreigners together unless he watched himself.

  “I must compliment you on your command of our language,” Merryn said after a moment.

  “My thanks. I learned it as a child, you see. My family had taken in a boarder from Deverry, an herbman who came to study with our physicians. Since we’re a trading house, my father traded lessons for his keep.”

  “Ah, I see. Good bargain, it sounds like.”

  “It was.” Elaeno was thinking that the bargain had been a better one than ever these men could know.

  Once the goods were unloaded onto the pier, one crew of customs men went through them and argued with Masupo about the duties while a second searched every inch of the ship. Elaeno stood on the poop, leaned comfortably onto the rail, and watched the sun sparkling on the gentle swell of the sea. Since water was his most congenial element, he reached Nevyn’s mind easily and heard the old man’s thought that it would take him a moment to find a focus. Soon the image of Nevyn’s face built up on the sea.

  “So,” he thought to Elaeno. “You’re in Deverry, are you?”

  “I am, down in Cerrmor. We’ll be in port for a fortnight, most like.”

  “Splendid. I’m on my way to Cerrmor now. I’ll probably get there in a couple of days. Did my letter reach you before you left?”

  “It did, and a grim bit of news it was. I asked around various harbors, and I’ve got information for you.”

  “Wonderful, but don’t tell me now. We might be overheard.”

  “Indeed? Then I’ll see you when you reach town. I’ll be living aboard while we’re in port.”

  “Very well. Oh, here, Salamander’s in Cerrmor. He’s staying at an inn called the Blue Parrot, a fitting enough name.”

  “The Chattering Magpie would be even better. Ye gods, it’s hard to believe that the lad has the true dweomer.”

  “Well, what do you expect from the son of an elven bard? But our Ebañy has his uses, wild lad or not.”

  Nevyn’s image winked out. His hands clasped behind his back, Elaeno paced back and forth. If Nevyn was afraid of spies, the situation must be grave indeed. He felt angry, as he always did at the thought of the dark dweomer. It would be very satisfying to get his massive hands around the neck of a foul master one fine day, but of course, it was better to fight them with subtler weapons.

  It was just three days later that Sarcyn was loitering outside a tavern just on the edge of the Bilge. With his aura wrapped tight around him, he leaned against the building and waited for the courier. He never told any of the various men who smuggled drugs and poisons into Deverry where he was actually staying in Cerrmor; they knew to find him here, and he would lead them to a safe place for their transaction. In some minutes he saw Dryn’s stout figure coming along the narrow street. Sarcyn was just about to release his aura and reveal himself when six city wardens appeared from an alley and surrounded the merchant.

  “Hold!” one barked. “In the gwerbret’s name!”

  “What’s all this, good warden?” Dryn tried to muster a smile.

  “You’ll find out back in the wardroom.”

  Sarcyn waited to hear no more. He slipped back around the tavern, then walked fast through the maze of the Bilge. Down alleyways, between buildings, in the front door of Gwenca’s and out the back, his route twisted and turned until at last he was through the Bilge on the north side and heading back to his inn. He had no doubt that Dryn would spill everything he knew in an attempt to save his own skin.

  But long before the wardens had beaten Sarcyn’s name and description out of the merchant, Sarcyn was riding out the city gates and heading north to safety.

  In his chamber of justice, Gwerbret Ladoic was holding full malover. At a polished ebony table he sat under the ship banner to his rhan, while the gold ceremonial sword lay in front of him. To either side sat priests of Bel. The witness stood to the right, Lord Merryn, three city wardens, Nevyn, and Elaeno. Before him knelt the accused, the spice merchant Dryn, and Edycl, captain of the merchantman Bright Star. The gwerbret leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin as he thought over the testimony that had been laid before him. At thirty, Ladoic was an imposing man, tall and muscled, with steely gray eyes and the high cheekbones common to southern men.

  “The evidence is clear enough,” he said. “Dryn, you approached the herbman and offered to sell him some forbidden merchandise. Fortunately, Nevyn is an honorable man and consulted with Elaeno, who immediately contacted the chief customs officer.”

  “I didn’t approach the cursed old man, Your Grace,” Dryn snarled. “He’s the one who made hints to me.”

  “A likely tale, indeed, and it wouldn’t matter if it were true. Can you possibly deny that the city wardens found four different kinds of poison on your person when you were arrested?”

  Dryn slumped and stared miserably at the floor.

  “As for you, Edycl”—the gwerbret turned cold eyes his way—“it’s all very well to claim that Dryn shipped the foul herbs without your knowledge, but why did the customs men find a cache of opium in the walls of your personal cabin?”

  Edycl trembled all over, and sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “I’ll confess, Your Grace. You don’t need to put me to the torture, Your Grace. It was the coin. He offered me so much cursed coin, and the ship needed repairs, and I—”

  “That’s enough.” Ladoic turned to the priest. “Your Holiness?”

  The aged priest rose and cleared his throat, then stared into space as he recited from the laws.

  “Poisons are an abomination to the gods. Why? Because they can only be used for murder, never in self-defense, and so no man would want them unless there was murder in his heart. Therefore, let none of these foul substances be found in our lands. From the Edicts of King Cynan, 1048.” He cleared his throat again. “What is the fit punishment for the smuggler of poisons? None fitter than that he eat some of his own foul goods. The ruling of Mabyn, high priest in Dun Deverry.”

  As the priest sat down, Dryn wept, a silent trickle of tears. Nevyn felt sorry for him; he wasn’t an evil man, merely a greedy one who’d been corrupted by the truly evil. The matter, however, was now out of his hands. Ladoic took the golden sword and held it point upright.

  “The laws have spoken. Dryn, as an act of mercy, you will be allowed to pick the least painful poison from your stock. As for you, Edycl, I have been informed that you have four young children and that, indeed, poverty did drive you to this trade. You will be given twenty lashes in the public square.”

  Dryn raised his head, then broke, sobbing aloud, throwing himself from side to side as if he already felt the poison gnawing at him. A guard stepped forward, slapped him into silence, then hauled him to his feet. Ladoic rose and knocked the pommel of the sword onto the table.

  “The gwerbret has spoken. The malover has ended.”

  Although the guards dragged Dryn away, they left Edycl crouched at the gwerbret’s feet. Quickly the hall cleared until only Nevyn and Elaeno remained with the lord and the prisoner. Ladoic looked down on Edycl as if he were contemplating a bit of filth on the streets.

  “Twenty lashes can kill a man,” he remarked in a conversational tone of voice. “But if you tell these gentlemen what they want to hear, I’ll reduce your sentence to ten.”

  “My thanks, Your Grace, oh, ye gods, my thanks. I’ll tell them anything I can.”

  “Last year you wintered in Orystinna,” Elaeno said. “After making a very late crossing. Why?”

  “Well, now, that was a cursed strange thing.” Edycl frowned in thought. “It truly was late, and I was thinking about putting the Star in dry dock, when this Bardek man approaches me and says that a friend of his, a very rich man, had to reach Myleton before winter. He offered me a cursed lot of coin to take them over, enough to turn a big profit even with the expense of wintering in Bardek
, so I took them on. I wintered in Orystinna because it’s cheaper than Myleton.”

  “I see. What were these men like?”

  “Well, the one who hired me was your typical Myleton man, on the pale side, and his face paint marked him for a member of House Onodanna. The other fellow was a Deverry man. Called himself Procyr, but I doubt me if that was his real name. There was somewhat about him that creeped my flesh, but cursed if I know why, because he was well-spoken and no trouble. He stayed in his cabin mostly, because it was a rough crossing, and I’ll wager that he was as sick as a pig the whole way across.”

  “What did this Procyr look like?” Nevyn broke in.

  “Well, good sir, I’m not cursed sure. It’s cold out to sea that time of year, and whenever he was on deck, he was muffled up in a hooded cloak. But he was about fifty, I’d say, a solid sort of man, gray hair, thinnish sort of mouth, blue eyes. But I remember his voice well. It was oily, like, and too soft for a man. It creeped my flesh.”

  “No doubt,” Nevyn muttered. “Well, there you are, Your Grace. Elaeno and I are as sure as we can be that this man Edycl described is very important to the drug trade.”

  “Then I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Ladoic said. “Or perhaps, considering his voice, keep my ears out.”

  The supposed Procyr was, of course, likely to be more than merely a drug courier. Nevyn was fairly sure that he must have been the dark dweomerman who started Loddlaen’s war the summer before and who seemed to be determined to kill Rhodry. As he thought it over, he wondered why for perhaps the thousandth time.