by Stuart Hill
“Quite,” Tharaman agreed.
“I’ve a few scholarly types in mind,” said Grishmak. “But don’t let’s make it too easy for Their Vampiric Majesties. A bit of muscle might add weight to our argument. I’ll send along Grinfang Sky-howler; he’s well known for a few private tussles with their Royal Face-aches over the years. I’m sure he’ll give them the right message.”
“Not too heavy-handed, Grishmak,” said Oskan, worried that werewolf haste might spoil their overtures.
“No, no, of course not. Skyhowler can be subtlety itself, if need be.”
Thirrin nodded, keeping her misgivings about Wolf-folk diplomacy to herself. “Oskan will represent the human interest in the embassy,” she said.
Her Consort nodded in agreement. “I’d like to suggest one other.”
“Who?”
“Medea.”
The talk at the table died away.
“You want to take Medea on a diplomatic mission?”
“Yes.”
Thirrin sat back in her chair. “But why?”
“Because she has a fine brain and I want her to learn to use it,” he answered irritably as all the faces round the table showed undisguised amazement. “She is a Lindenshield, you know! She has a right to make a contribution to the war, even if it doesn’t involve wielding a battle-axe or decapitating as many Imperial soldiers as possible.”
“Well . . . yes, undoubtedly,” said Thirrin after a tense silence. “But are you sure she’s . . . ready for such a responsibility?”
Oskan knew what she really meant was: could Medea be trusted to behave in a way that wouldn’t endanger the entire mission? And the simple answer to that was: no, she couldn’t. He above all others knew his youngest daughter was unpredictable, cold, and at times downright odd. But he desperately hoped that by showing her trust and by displaying confidence in her abilities, he could guide her towards rejecting the temptation of the Dark.
The silence at the table was becoming uncomfortable as all eyes watched Oskan closely. “Look!” he said finally. “An embassy to Their Vampiric Majesties is ideal training for a novice diplomat. Nobody will expect subtlety. For goodness’ sake, Grishmak wants to send Skyhowler, a werewolf who’s been conducting what amounts to a private vendetta against the Vampires! At least Medea’s not likely to physically attack our hosts. Can you guarantee the same of your delegate, Grishmak?”
“Well, no . . . I suppose not.”
“There you are, then! At worst, Medea will make the Vampire King and Queen feel . . . unsettled. And I for one intend to do much more than that,” Oskan went on heatedly. “We need to trust her, Thirrin. We must trust her.”
His wife sat in thought for a few moments. Medea was her most difficult child. It was almost impossible to get to know a girl who hid herself away in a tower and who, even when she did join the family, sat in a deep and brooding silence that seemed to threaten storms. But Oskan was right, they needed to trust her.
“I agree,” she said at last. “Medea will join the embassy and begin to learn an adult’s role in life.”
A low murmur ran around the table, but no objection was raised openly, and she sighed, almost as though the taking of such a decision had been a relief. Here they were, at war again, and the pressures on Thirrin were manifold. If she didn’t get it right everything could collapse around their ears, and it would be her fault. She mustn’t allow the enormity of it all to overwhelm her. Sometimes she felt like the untried fourteen-year-old who’d first stood against the Polypontian Empire over twenty years before, but now she had more than just a kingdom to protect – her children depended on her too. Doubts, despair, and horror of that time washed over her and she gripped the arms of her huge oaken throne in a state of near panic.
But gradually, Thirrin became aware of a warm hand resting on hers, and she turned to find Oskan smiling at her. He was grateful to her for agreeing to take the risk with Medea and he felt a need to give something back. “Whatever our fate, Thirrin Lindenshield, all the world and its history will say that you were the bravest of the brave.”
“Truly?”
“Truly, my Warrior Queen,” he said, and kissed her hand.
Thirrin looked about her quickly, but no one seemed to have noticed anything. She and Oskan had withdrawn into their own private world, and everyone around them was literally suspended in time. Grishmak’s long, questing tongue was wrapped around a huge beef shinbone, frozen in the act of licking up a tasty droplet of gravy. Nearby, a chamberlain poured wine towards a waiting goblet, the rich red stream seemingly set solid, as if carved from blood-red glass.
Thirrin looked at Oskan; released from the presence of her allies her thoughts turned to Sharley. Unlike her strange daughter, Sharley had never been a mystery to her. She missed him dreadfully. The questions she’d been carrying with her were just begging to be asked. “Oskan, can you . . . see Sharley? Is he safe? Is he well?” Her voice rose with desperation.
“My Sight sees only into times and possibilities, not distances, I’m afraid,” her Consort sighed. “Believe me, I’ve tried. To the eaves of the Great Forest is as far as I can get. I’m sorry.”
Thirrin smiled sadly. “That’s all right. I knew you couldn’t see him really, otherwise you’d have said. But I had to ask.”
“Of course you did. But take comfort in this, Thirrin: if anything ever . . . happens to Sharley I’ll know immediately. I might not be able to see him, but if he enters the Spirit Realm I’ll be informed.”
“And he’s not there now?” she asked, her eyes brimming with tears as she gazed intently into his.
“No, he’s not. In fact, I don’t think he’ll be called for many years to come.” He held his hand up in warning. “Now, that’s not a prophecy – call it gut feeling if you will – but our little Sharley has one of the strongest holds on life I’ve ever seen. When he had polio and he stopped breathing before I could get to him, he lived without drawing air into his body for longer than any other being I’ve ever known.” He paused. “Thirrin, I truly believe the Goddess has a destiny planned for our youngest child that will see him held in higher esteem than the very greatest in all the land. Higher even than you, my love. And remember, the prophecy says he’ll return with a ‘blade of fire’ in his hand.”
She leaned across and kissed him. “Thank you,” she said simply.
“Now, I think it’s time we were getting back, before someone misses us. Shall we?” Oskan asked, gesturing towards the others.
“Yes, let’s,” she answered, and all of a sudden the noise and bustle of the Great Hall crowded in on them as they slipped back into time.
“So that’s settled, then,” Grishmak was saying in his usual booming tone. “The embassy sets out first thing tomorrow under Oskan’s command.”
“It does?” said Thirrin in confusion, then, catching a wink from Oskan she added, “Yes, it does.”
Cressida, in her usual place to the left of her mother at the high table, looked out over the hall. The talk was all of the war and the loss of the South Riding’s defence force, but the overall atmosphere was one of anger rather than despair. Everywhere, soldiers could be seen, heads together, going through the details that had been heard by all when the werewolf relay had come in. Cressida nodded to herself, satisfied that the army’s morale was still high. The soldiers were still filing in for their dinner and she caught sight of the twins laughing and joking with a werewolf officer. All of the uncertainty and disruption of the past few days had finally got to her and she felt a need to chat with someone nearer her age than her parents. She stood to catch her brothers’ attention, and beckoned them up to the places reserved for them near their parents. For a moment, they seemed rebellious, frowning and shaking their heads. They usually ate with their comrades down in the hall, but Cressida held their eyes meaningfully and eventually they gave up and made their way to the High Table.
“Good evening, Eodred. Good evening, Cerdic,” she said with sarcastic politeness when they arrived. “So nice t
o have your company, for once.”
They pointedly ignored her and waved to their parents down the table. “Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad,” they called as they sat down chatting with each other.
“Doesn’t your sister deserve a greeting of some sort too?” Cressida snapped at them.
“Not really, no,” Cerdic answered.
“Especially not if you’re going to spend the entire meal pointing out our faults and reminding us we’re nothing but oiks,” Eodred added. “There are limits to the respect and politeness even a Crown Princess can expect, particularly if she’s a moody cow.”
Cressida shot them both a sharp glance. This was quite a speech by her brothers’ standards, and deep down she was sorry that it was a dislike for her that had prompted it. “I’m . . . surprised you should both feel that way,” she said, and with an effort ignored the spluttering that erupted as both boys took a swig of small beer from their beakers. “Perhaps everyone’s been a little sharper than they should have been over the last few weeks. After all, we are at war with the Empire again.”
“No. The only one that’s been ‘sharp’ is you,” said Cerdic. “Me and Eddie have talked about it and we’ve decided it’s just the way you are.”
“Yeah. So we’ve decided to avoid you whenever we can from now on. Tonight’s the last time we’ll eat anywhere near you, and if you try to force us we’ll tell Mum and Dad. They think you’re a bossy cow too.”
“They do not!” she exploded.
“Yes, they do, or at least Dad does,” said Eodred. “You’ve always been the same. Sarcastic, bossy, moody—”
“Don’t forget superior, cold, and generally nasty,” Cerdic added. “One of my earliest memories is of you laying into us because you thought we were making too much noise. And what were we doing? Well, I’ll tell you. We were laughing. Yes, that’s right, laughing. Two little kids enjoying themselves. Terrible crime, eh? Nobody else was bothered, just Crown Princess Cressida, and don’t let anyone dare forget the title or they’ll get the sort of tongue-lashing we’ve put up with for as long as we can remember.”
“Yeah,” Eodred agreed. “I just hope Mum lives for ever. The thought of you as Queen gives me nightmares. When it does happen, I’m off into exile like Sharley.”
“Good idea. Perhaps we could join him in . . . where is it? . . . Venezzia. I miss the little snotling. At least he didn’t spend the whole time telling us how sodding noisy, stupid, impolite, and pathetic we are.”
Cressida was shocked. She’d only criticised her brothers when she thought it was necessary to correct bad behaviour. And everybody knew they were noisy and rowdy, and had to be kept under a firm hand. She was only doing her duty as she saw it. And yet her brothers had resented her good intentions to such an extent they must have been fermenting this outburst for the Goddess knew how long! There’d never been even a hint of anger on their part before. She thought they’d always just accepted her scolding as part of her duty as the Crown Princess. How wrong she was.
She looked at them now, taking in their deep frowns and blazing eyes, and wondered how they’d kept their anger so well hidden. If she really was to be Queen of the Icemark, she’d have to learn to read people more accurately from now on.
But in the meantime, there was the dignity of the Crown Princess to be maintained. She was determined that neither of them would know how hurt and confused she was by their outburst, so with enormous and cold disdain she stood and walked away, ignoring the comments that floated after her.
CHAPTER 12
The Horizon slid through the water, the wind filling her newly repaired sails till she seemed almost to be flying at the head of the flotilla of refugee ships. Maggiore Totus stood in the prow, his eyes watering from the wind of the ship’s speed and a smile playing around his lips. It had almost been worth being caught in the terrible storm, quite simply because it had saved him months of diplomatic work.
Now both he and Sharley had a standing invitation to visit Al-Khatib whenever it was convenient, and as one of the richest merchants of that hot and barren land, he had strong links with the Royal Palaces.
Once they’d arrived in Venezzia and paid their courtesy visit to the Doge, Maggie could begin to set the next part of his plans in progress. He smiled to himself; even a man of his advanced years loved the intrigue of secrecy. He’d told no one in the Icemark the real reason for his joining the refugees in exile, because he didn’t want to raise any false hopes, but the fact was that the Icemark was completely isolated and had made every possible alliance with the peoples and powers in the region. So the time had come to look far beyond their borders, to a land that hated the Polypontian Empire and was still militarily strong enough to make a difference in the coming war. Provided, of course, it could be persuaded to do so.
He’d had no idea if contact with the Desert People would be possible, and even if he did manage to open diplomatic talks there was no guarantee that anything could be achieved. But of one thing he was certain: with a son of the House of Lindenshield involved, uncertainty was inevitable. And the more Charlemagne grew in confidence the more Maggie realised how like his mother the Prince was. He was certain his potential was enormous. “We’ll see fireworks yet!” he said to the wind. “Fireworks that – who knows? – could set empires alight!”
For another week the Horizon led the fleet further into the warm waters of the south. The sea steadily lost the grey-green colouring of the cold north, and slowly the deep uncompromising blue of the Middle Ocean bloomed about them. The wind was still strong, filling the white sails to straining capacity so they seemed to blaze against the blue sky, and whipping the sea into white horses that raced the ships as they crashed on towards Venezzia.
Captain Lokri Sigurdson had recovered from the storm as well as his ship had, and stood now on the deck scanning the horizon ahead for signs of land. He calculated that they’d be in the lagoon of Venezzia before nightfall and he, for one, was looking forward to the end of a journey that had almost destroyed his vessel and had robbed him of eleven crew members. He’d take advantage of the Venezzian shipyards to finish the repairs, then he and what remained of his crew would have a well-deserved rest.
He watched now as Prince Charlemagne hauled himself up the ladder. The lad may have been a Royal but the Captain had to admit he’d certainly found his sea legs, even if one of them was gammy. He walked towards him now rolling and pitching like a gimbal, faithfully keeping himself upright no matter how the ship moved on the swell.
“Landfall soon, I’m told, Captain Sigurdson,” he said brightly.
“That’s true, Your Young Worshipfulness,” he answered. “I’d say another two hours or so, judging by the scent of the wind.”
Sharley sniffed deeply, but it smelled much the same to him as it had done since they’d begun their journey well over a month ago. “Great. It’ll be nice to stand on dry land again.” Then, fearing such a comment might be thought offensive by a sailor, he quickly added, “Not that the journey hasn’t been . . . an extraordinary experience. It’s just that it’ll be great to have something lying still under my feet.”
The Captain smiled. Personally, he found the idea of a static surface beneath his seaboots slightly unnatural. “Well, I don’t know that Venezzia’s exactly what you’d call ‘dry land’. It’s the only sort of city a sailor can feel really at home in. It’s half land and half sea – the streets are canals and the carriages are boats, of a sort. When I finally have to tie up at the dock of old age it’s the only place where I’ll be happy to wait for that greatest and most final of voyages.”
Sharley nodded. “Yes, Maggiore’s told me about the city’s unique character. I can hardly believe it. Odd . . . if you’d told me only a year ago that I’d have left home and be sailing across the Middle Ocean to a city that stands on the sea, I’d have laughed. And yet here I am.” He looked out over the swell in the direction of the land. “I wonder what I’ll know this time next year,” he finally said.
“Look!” Sigu
rdson shouted, breaking into Sharley’s thoughts. He pointed to the sky.
Sharley squinted into the brilliant blazing blue but saw nothing. “What am I looking for?”
“There! And there!” the Captain said, excitedly stabbing a finger at the sky. “Swallows. At this time of year they’re a-nesting in Venezzia and all over the Southern Continent, so they must be a-hunting to feed their young.”
“And?” Sharley asked, the old irritability creeping back.
“And so, Your Young Worshipfulness, they won’t have flown too far from their nests. Those swallows will be sleeping in Venezzia tonight, and so will we.”
For several hours Sharley stood eagerly in the prow of the Horizon watching for land. Then, at long last, the lookout high in the mizzenmast let out a yell and pointed ahead. Sharley could see nothing on the hazy line where sky met sea, but then a faint shadow began to coalesce, as if from nowhere, and gradually a coastline appeared.
An hour later the coastline had resolved itself from a hazy suggestion of land to a solid view of dry hillsides and dark green groves of trees that Maggie told him were olives. Then suddenly the sea wind dropped. The sails rattled thickly, emptied for a moment of their driving power, as the wind started to blow from the land, bringing with it an almost stifling heat and the scents of dust and a spicy smell that Sharley would later learn was wild thyme and olive trees.
Sharley gazed long and hard until his eyes ached, and eventually he began to see the first domes and spires of a beautiful city evolving from the faintest shading of the mists to unmistakeable silhouettes. He let out a whoop of joy, and soon all the lookouts were shouting, “Venezzia! Venezzia ho!”
Sharley watched spellbound as the deep shadows of the city slowly gave way to the colours of fine marbles, gilded domes and bronze cupolas. Every wall seemed to have decorative niches containing fine bronze statues of men, women and animals, all sculpted with breathtaking realism. And everywhere were water craft of every description: small boats scurrying between the many quaysides; larger ships unloading cargoes and ferrying passengers to the city; gilded barges that shot along purposefully, thrusting through the waters as banks of oars rose and dipped in rhythm; and scruffy-looking rowing boats holding one or two men, who cast nets over the water. There was even a black, crepe-draped funeral barque, festooned with keening mourners.