Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Ilysh could only stare mutely at her. Zurenne quickly intervened, hoping that Lysha’s silence would be taken for shyness, not wonder at the woman’s complexion, as dark as polished ebony beneath her gold and silver paint.

  ‘A great many people get coach sick,’ she said firmly, ‘even those who’ve spent half their lives travelling our roads. Now, my ladies, you are very welcome. Please join us for refreshments while your servants and ours see to your accommodations. The gatehouse apartments will be at your disposal.’

  Master Rauffe and his lackeys promptly stepped forward to take charge of unloading the carriages. Horse Master Thuse and his stable lads went to help the Attar coachmen unharness their beasts while Doratine disappeared into the kitchen, ready to send trays of tisanes and dishes of sweetmeats to the private family sitting room up in the baronial tower.

  Ilysh had pointed out how awkward it would be to sit in the audience chamber while the Aldabreshin swordsmen carried coffers of Khusro treasures through to be stowed in the iron-gated cellar beneath the muniment room.

  ‘Our thanks,’ Debis inclined her head gracefully, ‘but first we have a gift for you and your people.’

  ‘There is no need—’ Zurenne protested.

  Debis Khusro turned away, calling out sharply in the Aldabreshin tongue. Zurenne shot a searing look at the Archipelagan. Why had Kheda not warned her? Did the women expect some gift of equal worth in return?

  The second carriage’s door opened. A tall, raw-boned man, his head and jaw alike clean shaven, stepped down. He wore white cotton trews and tunic beneath an unmistakably Caladhrian sheepskin jerkin. He spoke in low, urgent tones to whoever was still inside the carriage. It belatedly occurred to Zurenne that Aldabreshi maidservants might be as apprehensive about this visit as their Caladhrian counterparts.

  The man in white cotton retreated, the first of the passengers stepped down from the carriage.

  ‘Saedrin save us!’

  Zurenne didn’t know who exclaimed first among Halferan’s household. Like everyone else, she stared open mouthed.

  The man looked around as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. Tears streamed down his gaunt face to be lost in his ragged beard. As he raised one bony hand to brush away the uncut hair blown across his face, his unbleached cotton cuff slipped down to reveal manacle scars on his wrist. Zurenne would recognise such marks anywhere after seeing Corrain’s galls.

  ‘My ladies of Halferan.’ Debis Khusro curtseyed low to Zurenne and Ilysh. ‘We return your own to you, as proof of our good faith.’

  Two more men were hesitantly negotiating the carriage’s step, both as roughly bearded and ragged-haired as Corrain, Kusint and Hosh had been on their return.

  ‘Three of them? Is that all?’ Zurenne didn’t intend to sound churlish. She couldn’t help speaking her first thoughts aloud.

  ‘We sincerely hope not.’ Debis earnestly addressed the entire household. ‘There are merely the first of your people whom we could secure.’

  ‘Oh, my boy! Oh, my boy!’

  Ankelli, one of the laundry’s older women, came rushing across the cobbles, her arms outstretched. The second man stared at her.

  Two men from the guard troop broke ranks. Kusint took half a pace forward. Zurenne caught his eye and shook her head as discreetly as she could. Retreating, Kusint stood motionless as the two guards walked towards the carriage; one of the younger boys and one of the few remaining who was surely long overdue for release to go fishing alongside old Fitrel.

  The lad broke into a run, not looking to embrace either of the former captives. He ran straight through the gatehouse, his steps echoing beneath the archway. Zurenne hoped he wouldn’t fall into the brook in his haste. She wondered how many of the villagers would follow him back, avid to see for themselves who had returned from the dead.

  The older man silently approached the last of the three. Wordlessly he grasped the lost man’s bony shoulders. The rescued slave hid his face in the old man’s chest, silently shaking.

  Ankelli sobbed incoherently as she wrapped her arms around her son so forcefully that he staggered backwards. Fortunately Mistress Rauffe and two other women had followed close behind. With inexorable kindness, they escorted the two of them away towards the sanctuary of the steward’s house.

  Quilar said something quietly in her own tongue. Zurenne saw Debis’s painted face tighten, though she couldn’t read either woman’s thoughts through their cosmetics. That was doubtless the purpose of such paint, she concluded.

  ‘We know we will never be able to return all your people to you,’ the Aldabreshin noblewoman said sombrely. ‘We know that your rites for the dead differ from our own but I believe that your custom is to cherish their burned remains in the place of their birth?’

  For the first time, Debis’s face betrayed uncertainty, glancing from Zurenne to Kheda. His unspoken answer must have reassured her. Debis gestured a second time to the tall clean-shaven man in white who was still standing with the first rescued Halferan, one reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  Between them, they lifted a long plain box out of the carriage. The dull red wood gleamed with an oily sheen in the flickering torchlight from the gatehouse.

  ‘We have brought you the bones of two of your dead.’ As Quilar stepped forward, no amount of face paint could hide her anxiety. ‘Together with written testimony from those who knew their names. If we cannot restore them to their kinsfolk, we can at least put their fate beyond doubt.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Zurenne bit her lip to compose herself. ‘Kusint, if you please, take that box to the shrine. Now, ladies, please join me in my sitting room while your household and mine see to your luggage and your rooms.’

  More than anything else, Zurenne wanted to get the Aldabreshin women into seclusion behind the baronial tower’s doors before the manor was besieged by demesne folk desperate for answers. She managed a welcoming smile before indicating the great hall’s steps.

  Debis, Patri and Quilar exchanged a few words with their thus-far silent attendants. The two younger wives’ bodyguards went to confer with the clean-shaven man in white while Debis’s keen-eyed swordsman fell into step with Kheda, a few paces behind the women as they headed across the cobbles.

  Zurenne offered Debis another meaninglessly amiable smile. She didn’t start any conversation though. She desperately wanted a few moments of silence to think how she would explain all of this to Corrain. Though if he wanted to speak to her this evening, he would just have to wait.

  She could only hope that this unknown wizard in Col would have the sense to scry first and see that she was occupied with the Aldabreshi women, and not mortally offend the Archipelagans by sending some magic into their midst.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Goose Hounds Tavern, Col

  31st of Aft-Winter

  CORRAIN SHIFTED AGAINST the end of the taproom’s counter, as though to ease a cramp, in reality to be certain that no one was close enough to overhear them.

  ‘All these mentors have shown an interest in Artifice? Most have been known to work some lesser aetheric enchantments?’

  After another long morning following the Soluran, he had spent the afternoon retracing his steps and falling into conversation to learn the names of the scholars whom the adept had been courting with meat and drink, all the while slipping his poisonous doubts about wizardry into their ears.

  Now Corrain had returned to The Goose Hounds to quiz Estry. So far he had established that those scholars whom the potboy knew of by reputation were all sworn to the study of Music, History and Rhetoric.

  Corrain frowned. ‘Are any of them friends with Mentor Garewin?’

  Estry shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you find out? For a silver penny?’ Corrain prompted.

  ‘I can try.’ More curiosity than greed lit the boy’s eyes. ‘Is the master adept truly going to mend your friend’s face?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Corrain said curtly.

  There’d be
en no evidence of any aetheric healing after Hosh’s first day sequestered with the mentors in the library. Compared to the terrifying power of elemental spells, Artifice seemed paltry magic.

  Over their evening meal of salt beef stew and peppery biscuits, Corrain had encouraged the lad to tell him what had transpired. Hosh had changed the subject every time, relating some snippet of Col’s history in such uncharacteristic words that Corrain had heard the clear echo of Mentor Garewin’s voice.

  As long as Hosh showed no inclination to tell him, Corrain had sworn to himself that he would restrain his curiosity. Thus far he had kept his word, though this morning, he had found himself wondering if he had some unseen aetheric healing to thank for the lad’s snoring not waking him five times in the night.

  Or was that a consequence of the pungent herbal tisane which Mentor Undil had given Hosh? Either way, Corrain was encouraged to see that the bitter concoction had stemmed the weeping crusting his reddened eye and nose.

  If there was some visible change when Hosh returned this evening, they could call on that wizard Olved, whose second peremptory summons was tucked in Corrain’s pocket along with his first note.

  Or perhaps he would wait till tomorrow, until he had some meaningful news for the Archmage. Corrain decided he would go with Hosh to the Red Library for the second bell of the morning. He would ask Garewin himself if he’d ever had dealings with those particular scholars. Perhaps the mentor would see some connection between them. At the moment, Corrain could no more understand the Soluran’s aims than a dog could grasp criss-crossing strategies on a white raven board.

  Then there was the other riddle he still had no answer for. ‘Any news of those Aldabreshin ships?’ Corrain asked Estry.

  ‘None as yet.’ The pot boy scowled and went off to collect empty tankards and plates.

  Corrain took another swallow of ale, listening to the carillon’s bells marking the last hour of the day with its individual tune. Hosh would soon be making his way back here. He reached for the plate of food which the tapster had served him, to tide him over until the dinner chime. It seemed that Col’s residents habitually ate a good deal later than Caladhrians, whatever the season.

  He speared a slice of succulent pink mutton with his belt-knife and laid it on top of butter-rich bread flecked with shreds of dried onion. He was beginning to wonder if anyone raised pigs on this side of the Gulf of Peorle but the local mutton cured with salt and Aldabreshin spices was most palatable and he assuredly preferred it to the endless local variations on smoked and pickled fish.

  Listening to the taproom chatter, he realised that those settled here for the evening were once again debating the wizardry underpinning Mandarkin’s tyrannical rulers. More than that, they were musing on their own vulnerability to magecraft. Who had set that hare running through the conversation? Corrain looked around for Estry but the potboy was still busy.

  ‘There’s no denying it. There’s nothing we could do, if some wizard took against us,’ a man with a drinker’s broken-veined nose declared.

  ‘Why would such a thing happen?’ a thin-faced woman demanded scornfully. ‘Wizards come here to use our libraries and talk the nights through to guttered candles with alchemists and natural philosophers and the other scholars.’

  ‘They spend their coin with a generous hand while they’re at it,’ her comfortably rounded companion added.

  ‘True enough but a hundred Aldabreshi come to Col from equinox to equinox, for any one mage from Hadrumal year round,’ a contemplative man with a merchant’s manner countered. ‘The Archipelagans turning against us would do as much harm to our trade as the corsairs ever did.’

  ‘Is it even true that the Archmage cleared the seas of those corsairs?’ a neatly-capped matron asked no one in particular. ‘I heard that Hadrumal’s Council rebuffed the Caladhrian parliament time and again. Wizards don’t involve themselves in warfare, isn’t that what they say?’

  Corrain curbed an urge to answer for Planir, chewing on this puzzle along with his meat. This Soluran was spreading disquiet about magecraft through the city and most particularly, among those university mentors most deeply engaged in studying Artifice. But as Corrain had good reason to know, Solura’s wizards and their aetheric adepts, of whom this man was undoubtedly one, worked hand in glove opposing Mandarkin’s brutal wizards and warriors.

  He was pleased to hear someone in the taproom was making that very point.

  ‘Ah, but,’ the ruddy-nosed man argued, ‘Solura’s wizards bow to their liege lords and those lords kneel to their king. Hadrumal’s wizards answer to no one!’

  ‘They answer to their Archmage.’ Though the woman who doubted wizardry had driven off the corsairs didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Who does Planir the Black answer to?’ The merchant’s question hung unanswered in the air.

  ‘Who’s to make him pay heed?’ A new voice spoke up. ‘If his kind are no longer welcome in Col? If that’s to be the price of doing business with the Aldabreshi? If we’re not to lose all their trade to Relshaz?’

  As Corrain looked up from his plate to try identifying that speaker, the ruddy-nosed drinker chuckled into his tankard.

  ‘Ask these Archipelagans if they want our city rid of wizards.’

  Along with everyone else in the tavern Corrain stared, open-mouthed, as three Aldabreshi entered and halted inside the door.

  Two were swordsmen, clad in chainmail so finely wrought, each link so small, that the armour draped like cloth. Steel breastplates inlaid with curving bronze designs protected their vitals. Both wore round helms with chainmail veils to protect neck and face. For the moment, those veils hung loose and their helmets’ sliding nasal bars were raised high on their foreheads to give them a clear view of the room. Both dark-eyed men surveyed the gathering with the calm gaze of untroubled killers.

  Corrain sincerely hoped they had no intention of starting a fight. The corsairs who’d enslaved him had been brutally formidable in battle yet even those proficient and prolific murderers never dared to take on any warlord’s chosen swordsmen. Corrain had seen such retainers practising their skills on the trading beaches where the corsairs had made landfall while he and Hosh were chained to their oar. Those deliberate displays made it clear that anyone hoping to rob a warlord’s ships would end up hacked into carrion to feed the crabs which scavenged the sands.

  So much for the two swordsmen. Was this third Archipelagan their master? Weren’t warlords supposed to be redoubtable warriors in their own right? While this man might be taller than most, he didn’t look as though he could lead a charge against anything more challenging than a dinner table. The diamonds and sapphires glittering on his rings almost disappeared amid his soft fingers while his broad smile added a third jowl to the rolls of fat blurring his clean-shaven jaw line. A gust of wind through the open door sweetened the taproom with the expensive scents perfuming his heavily brocaded azure silk robes .

  ‘Good day.’ He spoke in formal Tormalin, his voice more highly-pitched than Corrain had expected. ‘I bring you greetings from my master Jagai Kalu, who has long traded with your city and has always valued your honesty and rigorousness in bargaining.’

  His bland smile swept the room, encompassing everyone whether or not they deserved such compliments.

  ‘My lord has determined that the skies to come offer the most propitious omens for the Jagai domain’s continued trade with Col. Accordingly, we wish to retain men of this noble city to defend our interests—’

  The merchant was on his feet, his smile eager. ‘My lord, I would be willing—’

  ‘Ah, forgive me.’ Contrite, the plump Aldabreshin raised a beringed forefinger. ‘We look for men able to defend our interests with sword and shield.’

  He bowed again to the dumbfounded gathering.

  ‘Please spread this word to any who will find this of interest. Our ships are anchored at the Spice Wharf. Those with skill at arms wishing to test their mettle against my lord’s swordsmen are invited to p
resent themselves at the first chime of the day, tomorrow and each morning following until the last night of the Greater Moon.’

  He raised his forefinger once again. ‘Warriors will be tested to the first, trivial scratch, not to any wound that might prove mortal. My lord has no wish to stain his new venture with ill omens of spilled lifeblood.’

  With a final smile, he turned around with a dull rustle of heavy silk and left the tavern, his impassive swordsmen following.

  Corrain’s first impulse was to head out into the night, to hire a gig to go to the harbour and find out where the Spice Wharf might be. He could be first in the queue tomorrow. If the Archipelagans were looking for swordsmen, he could wield a blade with the best that Col could offer. Once he had proven himself, he could ask what this warlord Jagai Kalu wanted mainland men to defend. Why wasn’t this Archipelagan trusting in his own loyal warriors?

  All around him, the tavern’s customers exchanged their own exclamations and questions.

  ‘Does the Jagai warlord mean to build a permanent holding on Col’s wharves?’

  ‘To have his own men overwinter here, like the Archipelagans do in Relshaz?’

  ‘The Elected would never allow it!’

  Corrain raised his tankard for another swallow of ale and contemplated the slowly fading scars on his wrist. Strip off his shirt for a fight and he’d bare the whip marks on his back. Any Aldabreshin would know him for a former galley slave.

  Corrain’s heart pounded. Would the Archipelagans load him with chains and demand to know which warlord he had fled from? He knew full well how unforgiving the Aldabreshi were to absconding slaves.

  Those accursed corsairs would go hunting through the Nahik domain’s outlying islands through the winter seasons when storms made venturing onto the open seas too hazardous. Prowling the backwaters and remote islets with their clubs and whips, they dragged fugitives from any number of domains back to the galley where Corrain and Hosh had toiled side by side on their bench. Most had been barely half-alive and half of those had died before they’d returned to the corsair island, to be penned like dumb animals until Nahik Jarir sent his own galleys to carry off the tribute which secured the raiders their anchorage.