by Rob Scott
Gilmour squinted and rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m afraid this fisherman didn’t have very good eyesight; I may have to work on that a bit when we get out of here. But you’re right.’
Steven tried not to think about how little time they had. ‘Maybe we should just take it and run, get back to the boat and try to escape.’
‘No, either we figure it out here, or we use our combined forces to delay Nerak long enough to get it open and then escape. There’s no point running away at this juncture: no matter how quickly we paddle away in that little boat he’ll find us, and we’ll have no chance.’
Steven’s heart raced. This really was it. He struggled to open his mind as he examined the box from every angle. While he paced, the old sorcerer tried using his own magic, but it too had no effect. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and announced, ‘I don’t think it’s magic.’
‘What?’ Steven had not been paying attention. ‘Say that again.’
‘The door, this room, that book there on the table, even the table itself: I can feel the magic in the fundamental fabric of each. Although there’s a spell protecting this box from being destroyed or blown apart by our power, I don’t believe it’s a spell keeping it locked – I would be able to detect it. It’s just a confounding, tricky box.’
Suddenly Steven’s thoughts shifted. This wasn’t a problem he had to address with his limited understanding of the staff or its magic. This was far simpler, like a problem he might have tackled in school, or while working out a loan at the bank, or even— Steven paused. ‘Jeffrey Simmons.’
‘Who?’
‘Jeffrey Simmons,’ Steven grinned. ‘He’s a doctoral student in mathematics at the University of Denver in Colorado.’ His face had changed. This was what he was good at: the abstractions that made sense in layers of cognitive twists and turns; it frustrated and confused most students, but not him. Steven worked the problem.
‘How can Jeffrey Simmons help us? I remind you, our time is alarmingly short.’
‘Two, four, two, one, two, one on four sides and a top,’ Steven muttered to himself, and began pacing more quickly.
‘Steven?’
‘Two, four, two, one, two, one on four sides and a top. Think it through: what makes sense?’
‘To me or to Nerak?’
‘Neither. What makes sense mathematically?’ Steven smiled and continued, ‘You said yourself there was magic protecting the box, but no magic keeping it locked. So it has to be a mathematical riddle. Watch—’ He began moving the silver ornaments. ‘If two from the right and two from the left slide to match the four in the middle—’ He slid the ornaments simultaneously and for the first time both double cones remained in place. Steven repeated the process on each side. ‘And one cone from the left and one cone from the right slide to match two cones in the middle— ’ He slid the single cones towards their matching twins on the top.
‘Now we should be able to open the box.’ He released the cones. Both slid back into place.
‘Bloody demonpiss,’ the old man grumbled. ‘I thought you had it.’
‘Don’t get discouraged. That was only the first side.’ Steven repeated the process with one of the remaining four sides, but the cones slid back to their original position. ‘Shit.’
‘This isn’t working,’ the fisherman entreated. ‘Steven, we’re almost out of time. We have to think of something else.’
‘No,’ Steven said brusquely, ‘there are three more sides. Maths makes sense.’
‘It never did for me.’
‘It does. Trust me. This will work.’ He tried sliding the single cones to match the double cones on each of the final three sides, but each time the raised silver knobs slid silently back home. Steven’s resolve began to flag, but he gritted his teeth and muttered, ‘No, this has to be the answer.’ He ran through the entire process a second time – but still again the uncooperative cones failed to align with Steven’s geometric logic.
His mind raced. This was not right. Curse this miserable land. Nothing made sense here, not even maths. And yet mathematics went unperturbed by the soft philosophies and gummy epistemologies that trapped so many thinkers by the ankles: it was almost truculent in its determination to make sense. That’s why he adored it, because with enough time and intellectual determination, it all added up.
But not in Eldarn. Not in this inane land of horse-lion creatures, subterranean demons, dictators evil beyond the ken of mortal man, Cthulhoid cavern-dwellers with a penchant for bone-collecting, murderous spirit wraiths and long-dead sorcerers giving orders on barren mountaintops. What kind of place was this? Damn, damn and curse this hellish land.
Why was he here – and who or what had gifted him the hickory staff? More importantly yet, why couldn’t he stomach the thought of just going home and leaving Eldarn to the natives? Let Gilmour and Kantu – or even Lessek – sort out the problems.
Sweat poured off him as Steven struggled to understand. What am I doing here? Nerak is coming to kill me and I don’t know what I’m doing here. What do I care if Sandcliff Palace crumbles, if the spell table is opened again, if Lessek’s Key is ever found?
Steven stopped abruptly. Lessek’s Key. Lessek. ‘Holy shit,’ he shouted, ‘Lessek!’
‘What of Lessek?’
‘My dream – that night on Seer’s Peak, I had a dream. I remember it as if it were last night; you made us go over it, again and again.’
The old man was looking over his shoulder now, as if he expected Nerak to stride into the room at any moment. ‘Yes, yes, your dream. Lessek. Please Steven, focus! What of your dream?’
‘I was at the bank with Howard and Myrna, the day I met Hannah. I thought it was supposed to show me that Nerak was telling the truth, that Hannah was here in Eldarn – but that wasn’t it.’
‘So what was it?’
‘It was the maths.’
‘Yes, yes, I remember, the maths. You said something about pyramids, or Egyptians. I never saw the pyramids, myself – well, once, in a book—’
‘No, it’s not the pyramids, nor the Egyptians – I thought that too, because when I came out of my office to leave for Denver, I caught Myrna Kessler working on a problem, a circle drawn on a notepad, but that wasn’t it.’
‘I don’t want to rush you, my boy, but if you would get to the point, I would appreciate it.’
‘Telephones and calculators.’
‘Now you’ve lost me. And if you don’t get a move on, you’ll have lost us all.’
‘They’re simple electronic devices, each with a series of numbers, zero to nine. The telephone is organised top-to-bottom, one through nine with a zero at the bottom; the calculator is organised from bottom-to-top, zero through nine.’ He laughed.
‘I don’t understand. What is funny? We’re about to lose everything!’
‘It’s a trick question: why are the numbers on a telephone and a calculator organised that way?’
‘Steven, just open the box.’
‘When we use a telephone, we dial a telephone number, but it’s not a number at all: it’s a series of digits.’ Steven did a little jig. ‘On a calculator we use actual numbers, quantities that compare to one another against a common standard … the number one.’
‘So the telething and the calculus machine—’
‘Calculator.’
‘They both contain the same series of numbers. They look similar, but they mean different things.’
‘Exactly. A similar design – with a few key differences – but an entirely different purpose.’
The old man studied the box. ‘So with this box, the two double cones slid to match the four cones together.’
‘Right. Two and two equals four. Couldn’t be simpler.’
‘However, the single cones do not slide to match the twins—’
‘Because they’re not numbers, they’re digits denoting something else.’
‘What?’
Steven’s heart sank. ‘I don’t know. My guess is they denote a progr
ession of sides.’
‘One, two, one. Same on every side.’
Steven was already at work: ‘If we start here on the front side and we call that side number one, then any of the adjacent sides might be side number two.’
‘Don’t wait for me. Just figure it out.’
Steven carried on thinking aloud, in case the Larion Senator picked up something he’d overlooked in the process. ‘If this is side one and either of these are side two, we can depress the first cone on side one.’ He did so and the cone remained in place. ‘Now the twin cones on side two.’ The conical carving remained flush against the smooth metal long enough for Steven to draw half an excited breath, then it popped back to its original position.
‘Damnit. Wrong.’
‘But look—’ The old man’s voice jumped an octave. ‘The first carving’s stayed in place.’
‘Excellent – so that must be side number one.’ He turned it round. ‘The other adjacent side must be number two. Let’s try it.’ He’d just spun the box on the table and was reaching for the twin silver cones when Nerak arrived.
THE QUARTERDECK
Malakasian Home Guardsman Private Kaylo Partifan struggled to push the clumsy wooden hatch open above his head. He had been sleeping in a tiny berth beneath the foredeck when a muffled explosion awakened him. His first thought had been to ignore it and go back to sleep; there were a number of members of the Home Guard on board, as well as a skeleton crew of some twenty-five seamen, at least six of whom would be standing watch. But lying there in his cramped, uncomfortable bunk, his thoughts returned to Devar Wentra, his former platoon leader – his former friend – killed by a glance from the dark prince. As Kaylo lost the wrestling match with his wool blanket, he could not tear his memory away from the sight of the lieutenant collapsing beneath Prince Malagon’s gaze.
He decided to grab some fresh air while investigating what would no doubt turn out to be nothing.
Most of his platoon had been ordered to the Falkan Occupation Headquarters. They very rarely travelled, so they’d had no idea what to expect. They had boarded the Prince Marek in Pellia, set sail for the Northern Archipelago and had not seen Prince Malagon again until they moored in Orindale Harbour. Kaylo had been a little surprised that the Home Guard escort was so small, although rumour had reached the Prince Marek that the combined occupation forces of southern Falkan were entrenched along the outskirts of the city. Prince Malagon might have feared an attack on Orindale, or perhaps even an attempt on his life, but he seemed confident that a single platoon of his Home Guard would be ample protection at Occupation Headquarters.
Apart from wishing he could see the old Falkan royal residence, Kaylo was happy to be one of the detachment overseeing security on board the Prince Marek. Being at Occupation Headquarters meant greater risk of ending up like Devar.
The city of Orindale was so close: Kaylo yearned for shore leave, but he knew his chances were slim. Still, the journey itself had been an adventure – he was only a hundred and fifty Twinmoons old, and he still was excited at the prospect of seeing new places and doing new things. He had wondered if sunsets looked different in other parts of Eldarn, if the fruit tasted sharper, or the wine sweeter. But thus far, he had seen and done nothing new except learn to stand watch on a rolling sea and to keep a trencher and goblet from falling off a listing tabletop.
Pausing on the narrow wooden ladder leading above decks, he stretched the stiffness from his back and legs and cursed his unyielding wooden berth. Sleeping on board had been the worst part of this trip; how he envied his colleagues who were resting ashore tonight, sleeping in comfortable – unmoving – beds. Then he thought of Devar and sighed, ‘No, I’m better off here.’ He stifled a yawn and pushed his way onto the deck above.
He found himself suddenly awake and quite lucid in the cool night air. He drew a deep breath of the sea-scented breeze and moved rapidly along the main deck. He could see no sign of the overnight sentry, but he wasn’t much surprised. The sailors were rubbish compared with Prince Malagon’s Home Guard, who were famous for being the best-trained and most efficient soldiers in Malakasia. Kaylo, despite his youth, was deadly with a bow, a short sword, a broadsword, a rapier, and an assortment of knives and daggers, and he was trained not to hesitate to engage an enemy of any size or strength in the prince’s defence. He was young to be a member of the élite force, and good as he was, Kaylo knew he still had a great deal to learn – ‘Like how to be as stealthy and near-invisible as whoever has watch tonight,’ he whispered, and searched for any sign of another Home Guardsman.
No one else was about. He needed to find someone who could tell him what had happened so he could go back to sleep. He wasn’t worried: there was little to threaten a ship of this size, especially as the Malakasian Navy controlled all shipping in the Ravenian Sea.
He was getting cold now. Kaylo squinted into the dim light provided by the sconces and marvelled at how far he had come without finding anything out of the ordinary. That began to alarm him somewhat. He considered how far he had already walked along the main deck and the distance the sound of the explosion had travelled to reach and wake him. He quickened his pace. ‘Destroying the ship ourselves,’ Kaylo grumbled, ‘I’d hate to have to explain that one to Prince Malagon.’
Mark sighed with relief as Brynne slipped over the stern rail and began climbing nimbly down to the skiff. He had no idea how many men she had been forced to deal with, but at least now she was back in the relative safety of their rowboat – not that there were any guarantees they’d be able to escape to their little yacht and sail away. But he felt better just knowing Brynne was off that ship.
He watched carefully, counting the seconds and hoping she wasn’t going to fall when Brynne surprised him by hefting herself back up the rope and over the side. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he whispered as loudly as he dared. ‘Come back!’
‘I’ll be just a moment,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I heard something.’
‘He wants you off that ship!’ Mark tried to avoid yelling.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and he was a little too quick to want me away. I’m worried something isn’t going well in there.’
‘Brynne,’ Mark pleaded.
‘I love you,’ she mimicked in broken English before slipping silently from view.
Kaylo stumbled across the first body. He crouched low and drew two knives from his tunic, cursing himself for leaving his sword and longbow stowed beneath his bunk. Creeping quietly, avoiding the pools of firelight beneath the sconces, he strained his ears to detect anything out of the ordinary. He laid his palms against the main deck to feel for vibrations of anyone moving through cabins or along companionways below, but save for the distant rumble of a prolonged thunderclap somewhere east of the city, he heard and saw nothing.
Twenty sailors and one Home Guardsman lay strewn about the main deck like forgotten marionettes waiting for the curtain to come up. No one moved. Kaylo checked carefully, but except for one burly seaman who had a gash like a half-moon across his forearm, no one showed any sign of injury. He moved further into the shadows and made his way towards the stern cabins. He fought to keep his head clear, but an uneasy thought kept recurring: the dark prince returning, finding something that displeased him, and wiping out every member of the skeleton crew left aboard.
He had nearly reached the aft end of the Prince Marek when he saw a solitary figure climb down the starboard stairs. Even from a distance, the Malakasian could see the man was scrawny, and unarmed – and something in the region of five hundred and fifty Twinmoons old. He watched, a little incredulously, as the unknown visitor walked – with no apparent concern or stealth – into Prince Malagon’s private chambers. As he recalled the bodies scattered across the main deck, an alarm went off in his mind.
‘Be careful,’ Kaylo warned himself. ‘Don’t be fooled by appearances. Those are strong, battle-hardened men unconscious on the deck.’
He kept his guard up, watching and listening
for any sign of other boarders as he moved warily towards the narrow door that led into the aft companionway, but there was still no sight or sound of any other crewman or Home Guardsman. Kaylo had to assume they had all been taken – maybe even killed – by whomever had overpowered the men on deck. Moving almost silently, he covered the final few steps to the aft cabins. He listened for what felt like a long time but might only have been a few breaths, then reached for the thin leather latch holding the companionway door closed. Oh gods, he thought suddenly, what if that old man is the prince? He’d never seen Prince Malagon disrobed. Kaylo feared he was about to enter the prince’s private chambers unannounced and uninvited, and the image of Devar’s lifeless body came back to him in a rush. He looked back at the score of sailors and crewmen slumped and crumpled in awkward positions about the main deck and dropped the leather thong. He stepped hesitantly back from the door.
Someone called from above, ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t leave me out here in the moonlight alone.’
Shocked by the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Kaylo leaped back into the shadows, his knives at the ready. ‘Who’s there?’ he rasped, trying to control his breathing.
‘It’s just me.’ Brynne stepped towards the rail that lined the forward rim of the quarterdeck.
Kaylo was taken aback. It was a woman, and except for a selection of knives and a small axe, she appeared to be unarmed. Was she alone? He couldn’t see any grappling hooks, so how did she get up there? Panting slightly in surprise, he looked around, trying to locate the other members of her raiding party. He had to assume he was now acting alone in defence of the ship.
‘What are you doing here?’ He was almost embarrassed by the absurdity of his question.
‘Just enjoying a night out.’ The woman was backlit by torches; he could hear her smile, even though he couldn’t see it. ‘You?’