by Julian May
‘No, my dear.’ She gave silent reply.
‘Then bespeak Zirinna one last time, giving her what information you can about the Salka tactics.’
‘I tried,’ Tallu admitted. ‘But there was no reply to my hail. The wind is strangely empty of any windthread, as though we were enclosed in more than fog – as though we were walled away from the world of life itself. It’s strange…’
‘Then all is lost,’ the little shaman murmured.
The sealady took up a coil of hempen line. ‘Dear husband, only this ship is lost. We who die on her can take comfort in knowing that our first warning was passed on. I shall so inform our crew. But first –’
She began to tie Ontel to the binnacle, the tall case holding navigation instruments that stood just behind the ship’s wheel.
‘I’ll return to you immediately and lash myself in place,’ Tallu assured him. ‘From here you and I will direct Gyrfalcon’s last battle.’
The memorial ceremony for Lord Chancellor Kilian Blackhorse was only sparsely attended. Lurking in the narthex where he had a clear view inside the chapel, Beynor counted only eighteen black-robed Didionite wizards ranged around the simple open coffin, holding candles and chanting ritual praises to the deceased sorcerer. Neither Duke Ranwing nor any nobles from the court of Somarus had felt it necessary to pay last respects to the foreign magicker who had exerted such a powerful influence over their king.
Beynor had come to reassure himself that the body was that of Kilian, and that he was truly as dead as mutton. No suspicion had attached to the death, which was officially adjudged by the coroner to be accidental, and unofficially viewed as fortuitous. Rumors that the chancellor had schemed to unite Cathra and Didion under a single ruling dynasty had incensed the most powerful nobles of the northern nation and kindled fresh resentment against the Sovereignty.
When the service ended, Beynor stood watching impassively as pallbearers carried the now-closed coffin past him and down the steps into the outer ward. To his surprise, one of the wizards in the funeral procession broke from the line and approached him in a purposeful fashion, drawing back the hood of his robe. The man was well-built and quite good-looking, of no great age. He made a perfunctory bow and spoke without diffidence.
‘Conjure-King Beynor of Moss, I presume.’
Beynor frowned at the fellow’s over-familiar manner – but of course his own appearance was unique and striking. By now, the lowliest scullion in the castle kitchen would be able to recognize him. ‘I am Beynor,’ he admitted. ‘Who are you, and why do you presume to address me?’
‘Garon Curtling, at your service, Majesty. I was a close associate of the late Lord Chancellor Kilian. Like him, I am a Cathran and a former Brother of Zeth. If you could spare me a few moments, I have a proposal that might appeal to you.’
‘Do you indeed, wizard? What sort of proposal?’ Beynor moved out of the vestibule into the chapel porch and watched the cortege as it headed toward the watergate. The brief announcement of Kilian’s demise that morning stated that his remains were to be sent downriver after the memorial service, to be interred in the royal cemetery in Didion’s capital city of Mallburn.
The eyes of Garon Curtling revealed only a modest talent, but his attitude was that of a man with business to conduct. He glanced about to be sure that no one else was close enough to hear. A small bell had begun to toll the noon hour.
‘Since I’m about to lose my special position and now face an uncertain future,’ he said, ‘I must do what I can to provide for myself. My late master kept a journal. I have it. It is written backwards to discourage ordinary snoops, but simply holding it to a mirror reveals the sense of it. It contains much that might interest one who has lived outside the higher social circles of the Sovereignty for some years – one who might be gratified or amused by an intimate view of notable personages as observed by a member of Didion’s Grand Council. The journal is for sale.’
Beynor’s mouth quirked and he almost smiled. ‘By a thief?’ he said without rancor.
‘I only took it for safekeeping, after finding it discarded on the floor of Lord Kilian’s bedchamber. It lay in a heap of other items from a ransacked iron coffer that the chancellor always kept locked. We – that is, I myself and Lord Kilian’s other close confidants, Niavar Kettleford and Cleaton Papworth – always suspected that he kept his treasure in that box. I found no money or jewels. Since Niavar and Cleaton have disappeared, I fear they may have absconded from the castle with the valuables.’
‘You did not raise a hue and cry over this?’
‘No, Your Majesty. I can’t prove anything was taken. Furthermore, my two fellow-wizards are highly experienced in conjuring expert spells of couverture. Finding them may be impossible for those having only moderate talent – and that description fits most adepts in Didion, including myself. I took charge of the journal, which has no obvious monetary value, because I’m sure Lord Kilian would have wanted me to have it as a souvenir of our years together. You see, I was the one who guided him over the trackless Sinistral Range on his escape from Zeth Abbey. In the ensuing years I’ve served him faithfully –’
‘Ten gold marks,’ Beynor interrupted the self-congratulatory gush with a laconic flip of his hand. ‘Bring the journal to me at once and I’ll pay you. I’ll be walking along the esplanade. Don’t let anyone catch you with the book or our bargain is void.’
Garon blinked. The sizable sum would buy a fine cottage, or ten superior horses with their tack, or keep a man in decent food, liquor, and feminine comfort for a year.
‘All right, Your Majesty. I agree.’ With no more ado, he hurried off to the Wizards’ Tower, where the visiting magickers had their apartments.
‘A self-confident sort of rogue,’ the Conjure-King said to himself, ‘And unemployed! A wastrel as well, unless I miss my guess. But he may have his uses.’
Beynor walked through the north barbican and over the moat’s drawbridge to the long strip of gardens and parkland that formed an ornamental promenade along the castle’s river side. The day was now pleasant and sunny, and many noble ladies and their male companions were taking the air. He strolled for nearly half an hour, using his keen windsight to survey the many military camps on the opposite shore, which were in a predictable state of ferment at the prospect of demobilization. At last he reached the western boundary of the esplanade, where the moat joined a natural stream that debouched into the great river. The main gatehouse of the castle was visible from this vantage point, as was the highroad leading to Boarsden Town.
Beynor took a seat on a stone bench and waited. There was no one else near by. Finally Garon Curtling reappeared in the distance, moving at a leisurely pace through the well-dressed gentlefolk, looking like a lone black crow amongst a colorful flock of finches and orioles. Beynor waited patiently for him and pretended to study boat traffic rounding the great bend in the river.
When the wizard approached and made a respectful obeisance, as though he were delivering some message, Beynor motioned him to sit down on the bench beside him. Garon obeyed and proffered a buckled leather dispatch case with bellows-sides.
‘It’s in here. When the case is opened wide, you may easily examine the journal without taking it out.’
‘Excellent.’
They sat in silence for many minutes while the Conjure-King thumbed through the volume bound in worn brown pigskin. It was not easily deciphered, for Kilian had not only written backwards but also overwrote each page with vertical as well as horizontal lines, making a crosshatch that strained the eyes even in bright sunshine. Turning to the last entry, Beynor was able to read an account of the Lord Chancellor’s disastrous final visit to Somarus. He chuckled aloud as he came upon Kilian’s doleful speculations about the king’s dreams of independence for Didion – dreams that Beynor himself had skillfully implanted.
‘Do you find the journal good value?’ Garon inquired.
‘Yes, indeed.’ Beynor refastened the straps of the case and took a pur
se from his belt. ‘And here is your price.’
The other man reached out eagerly, but the Conjure-King kept the pouch just beyond reach. ‘I’ll be honest with you. This is sorcerer’s gold – adequate tender only when the buyer will be quickly away and never again see the person who accepted it. The money is solid only for a single day and night, after which it vanishes like a blown-out candleflame.’
Garon’s eyes widened with outrage. ‘What?!’ He tried to seize the dispatch case, but discovered that his arms were paralyzed. ‘You cheating whoreson –’
Beynor laughed. ‘Not at all. Hush! Be easy, Garon Curtling. No one will bilk you of your due. Didn’t I warn you that the money was bogus?’
The younger man’s anger melted into perplexity. ‘But why?’
‘Because I want more from you than just this journal – and I’m prepared to offer you a hundred times the journal’s price, paid in coin of the realm, for your help in a certain venture. Plus one-tenth of whatever loot we recover on the job. And if you think it worth your while, I also offer you a place as one of my men, at a generous stipend, for as long as you wish to serve me…Now! If I release you, will you sit still and make no rash move?’
‘Yes.’ The wizard shrugged. ‘Why not? I have no chance of besting one such as you in sorcery.’ He eyed Beynor slyly. ‘And neither did Kilian Blackhorse, I suspect. Did you slay him?’
‘Of course.’ Beynor freed Garon from the magical restraint. ‘We were once allies, then became mortal enemies. One of us had to kill the other. I admit I was stupid not to have considered that he’d have a treasure cached away. My mind is too much befuddled by dirty politics these days.’
It was Garon’s turn to laugh. ‘Tell me about your venture, and how it might concern me. Although I suspect I know what you’re about to say.’
‘Do you, indeed! Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it: I want that treasure. I need it if I’m to re-establish my kingdom. No one can be a king without real money. Given time, I could do this task alone. After all, I invented the superior spell of couverture your larcenous friends are hiding under. I taught it to Kilian before he taught it to them. They can’t evade my mind’s eye.’
‘Then why not nab Niavar and Cleaton yourself and take away their goodies? They have only eight or nine hours’ start on you.’
‘My time is limited and I have other vitally important things to attend to. You know this precious pair of thieving magpies from long association, and they know you. If you approach them they won’t be suspicious. At least, not at first.’
‘Perhaps,’ Garon flashed a cynical smirk. ‘But I won’t bet my life on it. My talents are no match for their combined sorcery. They’d blast me to greasy collops with uncanny lightning. I’ve seen them do such a thing before, to a cutpurse that was stupid enough to attack us in the back lanes of Mallburn Town.’
‘You’ll be quite safe if you use the spells I’m prepared to teach you.’ Beynor looked away, distracted by a commotion of shouts and neighing horses over at the west gatehouse of the castle. The double portcullises lifted and a dozen or so mounted men, led by a knight bearing the guidon of the Sovereign, emerged at full gallop and headed toward the city.
‘Spells?’ Garon was intrigued. ‘What kind of spells?’
‘Wait!’ the sorcerer commanded. He rose. His countenance was like wood and his dark eyes wide open but unfocused as he scrutinized the troop closely with his windsight. They were all Cathran knights and warriors save for one, who wore crimson leather with a hooded capuchon, the customary riding habit of ranking Brothers of Zeth. Beynor identified the Royal Alchymist, Lord Stergos.
‘Well, well!…Garon, didn’t King Conrig ride out earlier in the day to tour the military camps around Boarsden Town?’
‘Such was the gossip among my fellow-wizards at breakfast. It was said he wished to inspect the condition of the men and mounts in the various companies before giving the official order to disperse. I believe the High Sealord accompanied him, and the Cathran Earl Marshal, and the new Prince Heritor – along with a gaggle of generals from all nations of the Sovereignty. But King Somarus was indisposed and stayed abed.’
Beynor uttered a bark of laughter. ‘No doubt – after last night’s bout of feasting and drinking.’
Getting up from the bench, Garon screwed his features to a gargoyle grimace as he windwatched the departing riders himself. ‘I wonder whether some important report may have been vouchsafed to Lord Stergos, which he now carries personally to the Sovereign?’
‘Doubtless we’ll learn of it in good time,’ Beynor said coldly. ‘Meanwhile, other matters concern us. If you accept my offer and agree to track down your former mates, I’ll instruct you in several types of advanced sorcery. You won’t need to scry out Niavar and Cleaton – I’ll find them for you. But you will have to defend yourself against whatever magic they’re likely to throw at you. And ultimately, you must slay them.’
‘I know.’ Garon glowed with arrogant confidence. ‘It won’t break my heart. Both bastards despised me because I took time to enjoy life’s pleasures, rather than serving Lord Kilian with blind devotion as they did.’
Beynor bit back the contemptuous remark that sprang to mind. An ascetic and sexless man himself, he despised those who were overfond of fleshly indulgence.
I’ve chosen another unworthy and venal henchman, he thought, even though he’s hardly as vicious as the hedge-wizard Gorvik Kitstow. Still, the knave would probably perform his task adequately, especially if his smug self-confidence was rattled a wee bit. What a pity that the restrictions of Bazekoy’s pearl were still in place!
‘Once you have the treasure,’ Beynor said, reaching out and placing his hands lightly on the other man’s shoulders, ‘you must bring it to me promptly. All of it! I’ll know if you attempt any boneheaded trickery – or if you run.’ He pinched both sensitive clavicle nerves, using somewhat less pressure than he’d exerted while torturing Kilian.
Garon screamed. But not a sound escaped his clenched lips.
‘Do you understand?’ Beynor inquired amiably.
‘Yes! Yes!’ The reply came on the wind.
‘The punishment if you betray my trust will be more horrible than you can imagine. I’ll find you, wherever you hide. The worst of it will be that you beg for death, but are unable to die.’
‘Please – I won’t play you false! I swear it.’
Beynor smiled. ‘I think I believe you. You want the reward I’ve promised, and you shall have it if you carry out your task faithfully and well…Or would you rather just walk away, leaving me to secure the treasure myself?’ Beynor’s hands dropped from Garon’s shoulders and he untied the man’s tongue. ‘You can walk away if you wish. I won’t force you to serve me.’
Perspiration bathed Garon’s brow and his attractive face had become grey and drawn. The choice was no choice: he either threw in with the terrible Conjure-King or he was doomed. He knew too much now.
‘Swear you will never harm me again,’ Garon said in a surprisingly steady voice. ‘Not with sorcery, nor with physical weapons, nor with your own body’s might and main. Swear you’ll never command other persons or inhuman creatures or natural elements to harm me. Swear that a tenth of Kilian’s treasure shall be mine to keep forever. I’ll ask no other reward of you if you swear all these things, Beynor of Moss, on pain of eternal damnation.’
‘I do so swear,’ said the Conjure-King. His black eyes gleamed with reluctant respect. Perhaps this one was not so unworthy after all! ‘And if I break this oath, may the Beaconfolk cast me into the Hell of Ice that claimed my poor mother.’
Garon let out a pent-up sigh of relief. To Beynor’s astonishment, he managed a crooked grin. ‘When do we begin the sorcery lessons?’
‘Go to your rooms and wait. Gather what you’ll need for travel. I want you on your way tonight. I’ll come as soon as possible and teach you what you need to know. I hope you’re a quick study.’
‘When it’s to my advantage. But wouldn’t it
be wiser to get on with this business without delay?’
Beynor glanced in the direction Stergos and his companions had taken. ‘Do as I say without arguing! Now get out of here. I need to concentrate if I’m to read lips at long distance.’
‘After the brief message of warning was received by the shaman-farspeaker at Fort Ramis,’ Stergos said to Conrig, ‘nothing else was heard from Sealady Tallu and Ontel. Of course, they may be keeping wind-silence so as not to be overheard by the main body of monsters.’
‘Do you really think they might have survived, Gossy?’
‘No. I believe those two brave souls and all their crew have perished.’
The High King and the Royal Alchymist stood beneath an open-sided pavilion that served as an officers’ mess and place of ease for the battle company commanded by Duke Norval Vanguard of Cathra. The sun was high and it was getting very hot. Flagons of drink, along with platters of meat, bread, and fruit covered with gauze to stave off the abundant clouds of flies and wasps, had been laid out on trestle-tables for the royal inspection party; but few of the battle-leaders were partaking of it. They had gathered in a silent, baffled group on the opposite side of the tent, along with High Sealord Sernin Donorvale and his sons, Prince Heritor Corodon, and Crown Prince Valardus of Didion. All wondered whether the Sovereign intended to share the obviously urgent news just brought by his brother.
Conrig’s face betrayed nothing of the turmoil within his brain. A fresh Salka assault aimed at Blenholme’s west coast had the potential for total catastrophe. The monsters might come ashore anywhere. Tarn and Didion were equally imperiled. And his army was massed here, smack in the middle of the island, hundreds of leagues from any likely point of attack.
From what he’d seen on the morning’s tour of the camps, neither the men nor the horses were ready for a lengthy forced march – especially one over mountains – all the way to the Western Ocean. Many of the nonprofessional levies were slack from the long period of inactivity. The conscripted Didionites, especially, had prematurely celebrated their dismissal and return home and were in a sorry state, hungover and insubordinate as they were formed up for inspection.