Warhost of Vastmark

by Janny Wurts

  Soon after Prince Lysaer and Duke Bransian shake hands to seal an armed alliance, and the mercenary camps at Alestron muster to cross Shand to stage an attack on Merior, the clansmen under Erlien, caithdein of the realm, engage his given order to strip every farmstead in the path of the army of horses and cattle, and to hamper their advance as they can …

  II. SHIPS OF MERIOR

  In the quiet back room of the widow Jinesse’s cottage, the exiled guard captain lay on his cot in recovery, while the wind through the opened casement beside him carried the distant beat of hammers. Their frenetic rhythm did not slacken for rain showers, nor for the onset of dark. Had Tharrick still burned to inflict his revenge upon the Master of Shadow, the desperate hurry implied by the pace would have rung sweet to his ears.

  The balm of his victory instead left him hollow and distressed. The undaunted resumption of activity on the sandspit abraded the satisfaction from his achievement until he felt shamed to puzzled anguish. His single-handed attack had fairly ruined a man’s hopes, and yet, no one close to Arithon stepped forth to berate him for the damage. The widow named his friend did not stint her hospitality. She did not speak out in censure. If her twin children were more aggressive in their loyalties, the morning she caught them paired at his bedside, accusing voices raised in a shocking turn of language, she scolded their mannerless tongues and packed them off on an errand to the fish market.

  While brother and sister raced in barefoot escape down the lane, their shouts washed into the tireless thunder of surf, Tharrick turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes. For hours he listened to the gusts through the palm fronds and the swish of the rush broom the widow used to tidy her floors. Left ill from his wounds, he skirted the dizzy brink of delirium. At cruel and fickle moments, his ears remade sound into the high, whining slash of the braided leather whip that stung him still in bad dreams.

  Weak as a husk swathed in dressings and poultices, he counted the knots in the ceiling beams, while the diced square of sun let in through the casement crept its daily arc across the floor.

  Afternoons, as the room cooled into shadow, Arithon came with a satchel of herbs to brew simples in the widow’s cramped kitchen. Her murmur beyond the inside door carried overtones of worry as she asked after progress at the shipyard.

  ‘The work goes well enough.’ Through the splash of well water poured from bucket to pot, Arithon explained how his craftsmen were breaking up the worn hulk of a lugger to ease the shortage of planking. ‘Dakar needs the use of your trestle table by tomorrow,’ he added in a brisk change of subject. ‘Would you mind? I’ve asked him to copy some nautical charts. He’ll stay sober. The twins have been offered three coppers to watch him. They’ve promised to fetch me running if he tries to sneak out to buy spirits.’

  Jinesse gave the delighted, little fluttery laugh she seemed to hoard for the Master of Shadow. ‘They’ll be like small fiends on his case. Won’t you pity him?’

  ‘Dakar?’ Visible through the narrow doorway, Arithon settled with his shoulder against the brick by the hob. His gaze stayed fixed on the water in defiance of the adage that insisted a watched pot never boiled. ‘The man’s been deadweight on my hands long enough. If he moans over-much, or his manners get crude, I’ll send two of my caulkers to sit on him while you sew his offensive mouth shut.’

  ‘I doubt I’ll notice his swearing,’ Jinesse admitted. ‘Dakar’s grumbles are no match for my twins when they’re shouting.’

  The astringency of steeping remedies wafted on the steam that trailed from the kitchen. From the back room, Tharrick made out the rim of the pot on the fire as Arithon crouched alongside. Sorcerer though he was, he made no spell passes over the brew. In Alestron, to treat whip weals, even the wizened herb witch had done as much while she mixed her powders and unguents. The Master of Shadow sometimes phrased a catchy bar of notes over the burble of hot water. All but plain song lay beyond him. The fingers that clasped the wooden spoon to stir were grained in dirt and callus, the split nails too work-worn to handle his exquisite lyranthe.

  ‘Too much tar on my knuckles again,’ he murmured, the struck resonance of his voice despair overlaid by chagrin.

  ‘Don’t you mind.’ The widow rummaged in her closet, found a tattered shirt of her late husband’s, and tore the clean linen into strips. ‘I changed the dressings yesterday. I can do the same again.’ She pushed a wisp of hair off her cheek with the back of a spidery hand. ‘If you need to be at the yard, you should go.’

  ‘I’ll thank you to handle the bandages. But I won’t leave until I’ve seen how Tharrick’s cuts are closing.’ Arithon swung the pot off the hob, arose, and tipped his raven head for Jinesse to pass ahead of him.

  The pair entered the sickroom, the widow with her face flushed pink above her blouse and her unburdened hands given to fidgeting with her skirts. Through his days of convalescence, Tharrick had taken quiet pleasure in her presence. She had a certain shy grace in those moments when she believed no one watched. But Arithon set her on edge. His quick, light movement and contained self-command hurled her off course like a moth thrown into strong light.

  The bandages provided the excuse she needed to steady herself. Despite her retiring nature, her handling was firm as she lifted the bedclothes to attend her battered charity case. The number and severity of Tharrick’s burns and cuts made even small movement unpleasant. Soothed by her touch, grateful for her gentle care as she used the herb infusion to soak and soften the scabs before she peeled the crusted linen, Tharrick sweated through the undignified process in silence.

  Jinesse was not alone in feeling unnerved before the intensity of Arithon’s regard. With the window at his back, his face looked drawn to hollows, the eyes like sharp points sunk in pits. His tone held the edge of a burr, struck from impatience or exhaustion as he said, Stay with the red clover for the burns. That gash on the thigh still looks inflamed. Along with elecampane and cone flower, let’s add wild thyme, and of course, keep on with the betony.’

  He began a step to fetch the pastes for the poultices, swayed, and snatched at the windowsill to steady himself.

  Jinesse rounded on him, as near as she ever came to scolding. ‘You can’t continue on like this!’

  A stunned second passed. Dismayed by her inadvertent boldness, Jinesse trapped a breath behind closed lips. As if to hold off an attack by wild wolves, she clutched the snarl of fouled linen to her breast.

  Too tired for temper, stung by her wary fear, Arithon gave way to wide surprise. ‘What choice do I have?’

  ‘Sit!’ Jinesse snapped. As if the half-naked presence of the invalid on her sheets were of no more account than cut wood, she cast the linens into her laundry hamper, yanked the high-backed chair from beyond the clothes chest, and plunked it on the boards by the windowsill. If you’re too pressed and dirty to attend this job yourself, the very least you’ll do for me is to spend a few minutes off your feet.’

  To everyone’s astonishment, most of all his own, the Prince of Rathain did her bidding. Up close, he looked drawn beneath his tan. His hair was caught in pitchy tangles at the temples where he had raked it back with knuckles still smeared from green planks. The thumbnail on his left hand was swollen black, perhaps from a mis-struck mallet. Unable to bear his appearance straight on, the widow threw open the curtains to flush out the cloying reek of herbs.

  Breezes off the ocean fingered the loosened laces of Arithon’s shirt. The impersonal touch relaxed him, or else the flood of fresh air. He tipped his crown to rest against the chair back and almost instantly fell asleep.

  Tharrick surrendered his chafed wrist to the widow for dressing, and pondered the incongruity; how unlikely it seemed, that a sorcerer of such black reputation could behave in mild, trusting innocence.

  To his dismay, he found he had mused his thought aloud.

  Jinesse slapped a heated strip of linen over the applied layer of poultice paste brusquely enough to raise a sting. ‘Arithon’s driving himself half to death in that
shipyard!’ At Tharrick’s subdued flinch, she gentled her touch with the wrapping. ‘They say he’s not slept in two days beyond catnaps, and Ath show him mercy, just look at his hands! He’s Athera’s own Masterbard, and criminal indeed, to dare risk his gift to common labour!’

  Which was near enough to outright accusation. Already miserable, caught vulnerably naked before a benefactor he had not wanted and unable to turn away for the lacerations still open to the air, the burly exile could do nothing else but tip his chin to the wall and shut his eyes.

  Jinesse smoothed a wrinkle in the linen, ashamed. ‘I’m sorry.’ She tucked the bandage into itself and spread her hands loose in her lap. ‘Arithon insisted you weren’t at fault, but the setback has gone very hard. Those ships that you burned were the dream of his heart, and now he scarcely speaks for disappointment.’

  ‘Is he not, then, the felon he is named?’ Tharrick swallowed. ‘Do you think him innocent of all charges?’

  The ticking in the mattress whispered as Jinesse sat down. Steam from the pot by her ankle sieved a backdrop like gauze against a profile as thin-skinned and fair. Tendrils of blond hair wisped out of the coiled braid at her nape, atremble in the breeze as she darted a glance at the prince sprawled asleep in her chair. ‘I don’t know.’

  Tharrick propped himself on one elbow.

  ‘How can I tell?’ Jinesse admitted, her divided opinion a palpable weight upon shoulders too frail for harsh judgment. ‘Arithon once charged me to measure him by his behaviour. The villagers here respect him. They might not know him for the Master of Shadow, but they don’t give their trust lightly. Arithon never cheated anyone. Nor has he sheltered behind lies. Except for the music he draws from his heart, no one has seen him work spellcraft.’

  She trailed off, her lip pinched between small, tight teeth.

  Flat on his back with cracked ribs, and never in his life more helpless, Tharrick was swept by a sharp, sudden urge to protect her. She seemed so slender and torn, alone in this house with no trusted mate to share the rearing of her twins, nor this moment’s pained indecision.

  Arithon, perhaps, was perceptive enough to take advantage. Moved to a queer stab of jealousy, Tharrick said, ‘The sorcery that burned Alestron’s armoury killed seven men. I was there.’

  The light brushed without sparkle over plain wooden hairpins as Jinesse quickly shook her head. ‘I don’t say he’s blameless, of that or any other accusation laid against him. He’s never made excuses or tried to deny his past actions. His silence is so strict on the subject, if I dared, I would challenge him in frustration.’

  ‘What do you think?’ pressed Tharrick.

  The widow bent, wrung out another dressing, and scooped up a dollop of herb paste. ‘I think this village need not become involved. The Shadow Master took pains to set no roots here. Quite the contrary. He wishes himself at sea to the point where he’s desperate. If he were some dread sorcerer or a minion of evil, I’m doubting he’d need to drive himself to the edge for the sake of a half-built brace of ships.’

  The shadow of a gull flicked past the window. Chilled by its passage, Tharrick said, ‘What if he wishes such ships to disrupt the trade of honest men?’

  ‘Piracy?’ Jinesse looked up, her cupped hands filled with remedies, to stare at Tharrick in shock. ‘Is that what you believe? If it’s true, there’s no thread of evidence. These brigantines weren’t planned for armament. I held the impression they were Arithon’s hope to outrun the bloodshed loosed upon him by the armies from the north.’

  The bandaging resumed in stiff silence. Arithon slept on, pliant as a scarecrow, his head tipped aslant and his blistered palms slack against the soiled thighs of his breeches. Jinesse proceeded on her own to mix the tisane from valerian and poppy to dull her invalid’s pain and let him sleep. Warmed and eased by her ministrations, Tharrick watched through half-closed eyelids as she hooked the basket of soiled linens on one arm and collected the herb jar and pot from the side table. As comfort returned and he slipped into drugged reverie, he noticed she took extreme care not to disturb the other sleeper as she passed.

  Before he dozed off, Tharrick pondered this reserve, in his quiet way relieved. If she were corrupted by the Shadow Master, or sheltered him in collusion, she acted without ties to the heart.

  In time, the wounded guardsman drifted into dreams. When he roused, much later, and Jinesse brought him bread and gruel, the chair was vacant and Arithon long gone.

  The days passed, the schedule of the widow’s attentions interspersed between drug-soaked sleep and hours spun into muddled awareness. Impressions not hazed by possets and fever stood out like cut crystal: of the twins’ boisterous contention over which last fetched water from the well; of a killdeer crying in the deeps of the night; of storm rains pattering the beachhead, and once, Arithon’s voice in a whipcrack inflection berating the Mad Prophet for shoddy penmanship on the charts.

  ‘I don’t care blazes if an iyat has warped all your quill pens! If you’re too fat and slack to chalk out a simple bane-ward, then buy a tin talisman for the purpose! Either way, your copies had better be up to my standards.’

  ‘To Sithaer with all that!’ Dakar plunged on in scathing hatred. ‘Alestron’s joined forces with Lysaer to kill you. I saw the duke swear alliance in a dream …’

  Another night, held restless and awake by the throb of the leg wound that had festered, Tharrick overheard the end of another discussion, Arithon’s diction muted by concern. ‘Well yes, the coffers are low. The outlay to the forges at Perdith was never planned. I’ve got enough silver left to keep the workers on, period. No more funds for wood. None for new canvas. If the hull that’s least damaged gets launched at all, she’ll have to leave Merior under tow. The point’s likely moot. Ath knows there’s no coin to charter a vessel to drag her.’

  A chair scraped on brick as Jinesse arose to set water on the hob for tea. Some other stranger with a sailor’s broad drawl murmured commiseration, then finished off in dry warning. ‘The rumour’s true enough. Alestron’s troops of mercenaries are mustering. War galleys refitted to put to sea. You’d better pray Ath sends in storms black enough to close the harbours, because if the season holds fair, the sands of Scimlade Tip could soon grow too hot to hold you.’

  Then Dakar cut in, carping, ‘If you had a firkin of sense, man, you’d give up the yard. Take what silver you have left and sail out on the tide in your sloop.’

  Arithon replied in a timbre to raise sudden chills. ‘I have no intention of letting my efforts get scuttled in Merior’s harbour. That means you’re not only going to stay sober, you’ll stir off your backside and help. I want a lane scrying daily at noon, and each time you fail me, by my oath to Asandir, I’ll see you starve without dinner.’

  The back-and-forth volley of argument extended long into the night. When Jinesse entered late, her pale face lit by the flutter of a hand-carried candle, Tharrick struggled up from his pillow. ‘Why doesn’t the Shadow Master take better care? I can eavesdrop on all of his plans.’

  ‘If you ask him yourself, he would tell you straight out that he hasn’t got anything to hide.’ Jinesse set her light on the nightstand, bent over, and laid a tentative palm on his brow. ‘Your fever’s abated. How goes the pain? The posset should be stopped, if you can bear it. Poppy’s unsafe, over time. Arithon won’t have you grow addicted.’

  ‘Why ever should he care?’ Tharrick cried, and flopped back, his large hands bunched in the sheets the way a castaway might cling to a reef. ‘What am I to him but an enemy?’

  His dread had recurred more than once in his nightmares, that a sorcerer might cosset an assassin back to health for some lingering, spell-turned revenge.

  Jinesse tugged the linen free of Tharrick’s fists and smoothed the ruched bedclothes across his chest. She looked tired. The dry lines of crow’s-feet around her eyes were made harsh in the upslanting glow of the candle as she gave a tight shake of her head. ‘The prince means you no harm. He’s said, if you wanted, he would a
rrange for a cart to bear you to take sanctuary in the hostel with Ath’s adepts. The moment you’re well enough to travel, you can leave.’

  Tharrick dragged in a hissed breath and said in bleak pain through locked teeth, ‘When I go, I shall walk, and not be asking that bastard for his royal charity.’

  A timid, pretty smile bowed the widow’s mouth. ‘Ask mine, then. You’re welcome here. By my word, his coin never paid for your soup.’

  Tharrick sank back into sheets that smelled faintly of lavender, his cheeks stained to colour by embarrassment. ‘You know I have no prospects.’

  Against habit, the widow’s smile broadened. ‘My dear man, forgive me. But you’re going to have to be back up and walking before that becomes anybody’s worry.’

  Denied cause for outrage, reft of every justification for his enmity against the Shadow Master, Tharrick exerted his last, stubborn pride to arise from his bed and recover. From his faltering first steps across the widow’s cottage, his progress seemed inextricably paired with the patching of the damaged brigantine his act of revenge had holed through.

  A fit man, conditioned to a life of hard training, he pressed his healing strength with impatience. Reclad in castoffs from Jinesse’s drowned husband, Tharrick limped through the fish market. His path skirted mud between bait casks and standing puddles left from the showers that swept off the wintry, slate sea. The snatches of talk he overheard among the women who salted down fish for the barrels made uneasy contrast with the nighttime discussions over the widow’s kitchen trestle. Here, the strident squabbles as the gulls snatched after offal seemed the only stressed note. Engrossed in homey gossip, Merior’s villagers appeared utterly oblivious to the armed divisions bound south to storm their peninsula.

  Tharrick maintained a stiff silence, set apart by his awareness of the destruction Duke Bransian’s style of war could unleash. The fishwives’ inimical, freezing quiet disbarred him from conversation. Already an outsider, his assault upon Arithon’s shipyard made him outcast. Disapproval shuttered the villagers’ dour faces and pressured him to move on. Tharrick felt just as uneasy in their company, uninformed as they were of Dakar’s noon scryings, which showed an outbreak of clan livestock raids intended to hamper Alestron’s crack mercenaries in their passage down the coast.