A Voyager Without Magic

by Guy Antibes

  “Can I take Emmy with me?”

  Desmon nodded. “Everyone will be impressed by her. She can be your protection if needed.”

  Sam noticed that Desmon didn’t volunteer any real information. What was it about Wollia that sealed everyone’s lips. Even Banna had claimed she had passed through once, spending two days locked in her room before departing on the ship. She said that she had been given the same advice he had, and she would follow it on this trip.

  His mind swirled with trepidation as the ship approached a concrete dock. Evidently, the tides weren’t as much an issue in Port Hassin as they had been in Carolank. They passed empty ships anchored in the bay from other locales, judging by their odd designs.

  A pilot had boarded The Twisted Wind and manned the wheel that steered the ship. Sailors created huge cushions of pollen that were lowered to protect the ship from the sharp edges of the concrete.

  Sam leaned over the edge and knew who had made some of the cushions from the pollen colors. He had a whole file of samples from the crew that Banna had helped him with. Sam didn’t want to touch the pollen for fear it would disintegrate too quickly.

  In a way, he was sad the Carolank to Wollia leg was finished. He thought he would be bored, but everyone had kept him busy enough to fill the time with things to do during the long stretches of ideal weather.

  The ship lurched, signaling the end of the interlude. Sailors began to go every which way, while Banna and Emmy joined Sam. It was obvious she didn’t like the prospect of spending so much time ashore.

  “I can’t wait to leave this place,” she said with a scowl.

  “Emmy will like walking on solid ground. I am looking forward to seeing how awful Port Hassin is. Everyone tells me that something bad happens at some time during long stays,” Sam said. “I’m going to visit the constabulary first. I hope Port Hassin’s constables have to abide by a single law.”

  Banna made an unpleasant face. “We won’t be here long enough to do anything productive, or short enough to allow us to merely tolerate the place.”

  Sam shrugged.

  Captain Darter and the officers joined them once the ship had been secured. “We await your wards before we can leave the ship.”

  Banna produced documents that explained where the wards were to be placed and what effects they would have on any intruders. She had been busy installing lots of wards in the cargo holds.

  Jordi looked his list over. “I can stow cargo in the forward hold?”

  Banna looked at the man with a withering glare. “Of course, you fool, just follow what the document says.”

  Today, her prickly demeanor bordered on mean, Sam thought. He was glad that she had never talked to him in that same derisive tone.

  Banna left them to finish the last of her wards, and the rest filed off the ship together as instructed by the port authorities.

  “You will come with us,” a man who must have been an officer said. He spoke with an accent a bit different than the one Desmon affected.

  Wollians dressed totally different than the people on Holding had. It was a combination of tight and billowy clothes. The guard’s helmets were obviously pollen-made, and the helmets and armored vests looked like the scales of a fish. The officers’ clothing had some gilded parts. Sam noticed they all had thin swords in the same pattern as Harbormaster Penstock’s weapon.

  “We are going to a hotel where we will spend our nights until we leave. The rooms are nice, but assume you will be spied upon, so watch what you do and what you say,” Jordi Hawker said out of the corner of his mouth. “The rooms are provided by Wollia, but the port fees are high enough that the captain has said many times that we pay for the rooms one way or another.”

  “Quiet!” one of the guards said to Jordi.

  The purser stopped talking as they made their way across a broad, sunny plaza to a six-story building with an onion dome that looked like it was made out of silver and attached to a pale-purple facade. They stepped inside into a cooler foyer. Feathery fans powered by belts running into the building circulated the air.

  Sam thought the place looked fashionable for a jail. The guards treated them not much better than the guards had treated Dickey and him in Baskin.

  “We will be outside until you have gone to your rooms,” the officer said. He left them grouped around the front counter.

  “Are we restricted to our rooms?” Sam asked Captain Darter.

  She shook her head. “Part of this is for show. Once you have checked in, a guard will search your luggage, and you are free to leave the hotel. Wollia has its quirks.”

  So did Carolank and their elevated desks and Baskin with nobles speaking Vaarekian. Eventually, they were checked in. Sam sat in a cushy chair in his room, waiting for a knock on the door.

  It finally came, so Sam jumped up to let the guard in. Desmon Sandal stood at the doorway smiling.

  “Are you going to ask me in?”

  Sam smiled back. “Would you come in? I’m waiting for a guard to go through my belongings.”

  “Where is your dog?”

  “Emmy is with Banna.”

  Desmon nodded and sat on the other chair in the room. Sam thought it strange that he would enter the room and then not have anything to say.

  “You did come here for a reason?”

  Desmon looked around and nodded again. “I want to be here when the guard arrives.”

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “I have my reasons. I will tell you once I talk to the man.”

  Sam resumed sitting in his chair. Desmon looked out the window, not saying a word until another knock. He rose a bit more slowly than the first time and opened the door.

  The guard looked down at a page on a clipboard. “Smith?”

  “Sam Smith,” Sam said.

  The man nodded and stopped when he saw Desmon. He spoke to Sam’s friend in the Wollian language. At least that’s what Sam guessed it was. Their conversation ran on for a bit. Sam felt a bit uncomfortable, as the guard kept looking in Sam’s direction.

  Finally, the guard flipped through Sam’s things and wrote on the page.

  “Thank you,” he said in Vaarekian.

  “You are welcome. I can go now?” Sam asked.

  The guard shook his head. “You are to wait here. Someone will be here to fetch you.”

  Sam looked at Desmon. “Am I going to a real jail?”

  Desmon shook his head. “Not at all. You will be escorted to what passes for a constabulary station in Port Hassin for a guided tour.” He grinned. “It wouldn’t be polite to get you invited when all the others were present,” Desmon said. “I will accompany you. Most Wollians can speak Toraltian or Vaarekian, which is the language most of Polistia speaks, but the Constabulary Commander doesn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Desmon smiled. “You are in my country, and I know quite a bit about my homeland.”

  He didn’t say what he knew, but Sam was definitely in a place where he knew none of the rules. From what Captain Darter had said, Sam would have rather hunkered down in his room, but it looked like that wasn’t going to happen.

  Another officer came to the door. This one spoke Toraltian. “Sam Smith?”

  Sam nodded. “If you would accompany me with any badges, tokens, or letters of recommendation, Commander Ilsur would like to visit with you.” The officer nodded to Desmon. “You may bring your interpreter with you.”

  Sam shuffled through the notebooks he had brought, finding the one containing his documentation. He transferred his papers to a blank notebook and grabbed a pencil. He strapped on the case to his wand, donned his spectacles before following Desmon and the officer after locking the door to his room. From what Jordi said, he doubted the lock would deter anyone.

  Since he didn’t know the room numbers of his friends, Sam couldn’t tell anyone that he was taking a tour, if that what it was. With all the Wollian factions, he could be walking into some kind of trap, but since he was totally unfamiliar with
Port Hassin, trying to escape was futile.

  They walked out into the hot sunshine. Sam was surprised at how cool the hotel was. Desmon chatted to the officer in Wollian, so Sam couldn’t understand a word of what was said.

  When they reached a larger square, the officer walked to the right. Sam could see they approached a pale-yellow building with a golden dome and uniformed men entering and exiting.

  “This is the constabulary headquarters for the region, including Port Hassin,” the officer said. “Commander Ilsur leads us to excellence.”

  It sounded like a slogan to Sam, so he didn’t respond and followed both men into the building. The officer led them right along a wing decorated a bit more ornately. Officers passed them as Sam was led to the end office. He opened the door to an anteroom with four desks. Two women and two men looked over paperwork, it seemed. Sam was very familiar with reports during his time at the constabulary.

  The officer bowed to the closed door before knocking. That certainly was a different custom, thought Sam. He walked right in before Sam could detect any kind of response. Commander Ilsur looked up with heavy-lidded eyes mimicking the thick drooping mustache on his face. He said something to the officer.

  “Please state your name for the Commander,” the officer said.

  “Sam Smith from Toraltia.”

  “Sam Smith” he pointed to chairs and said something in Wollian. Sam felt like he had in Baskin having nobles speaking court language to him before he had learned it.

  “You may sit,” Desmon said to Sam, taking a chair for himself.

  The officer bowed to the commander and left the room, closing the door. Ilsur watched the officer go before leaning forward, knitting his fingers together.

  “Do you find Port Hassin different?” he said in heavily accented Toraltian.

  “Yes,” Sam said, trying not to be surprised by the commander’s use of Sam’s native tongue.

  The commander chuckled and leaned back. “We have our own ways. Sandal says you are a snoop. May I see your papers?”

  Sam passed them over to the commander, putting his constabulary token on top. Ilsur looked at Desmon, pursing his lips before he examined the token closely, and then setting it aside to scan the papers.

  “A king of Toraltia wouldn’t issue these papers to a young man unless he had done something very good, or had done something very bad, or had very good connections. What is it in your case?”

  Sam thought for a bit. “From the king’s perspective, all three. The very bad got me exiled.” He didn’t want to say what the bad was, so he said, “The good was very good, and I had a connection to get an audience with the king.”

  He sat back, wondering if that would be enough to suit the interrogator.

  The man looked at the paperwork again and then at Desmon, who nodded at the commander. Sam wondered why the commander sought out Desmon for permission or confirmation. Wollia was definitely a perplexing place.

  “You may be wondering why you are here,” Commander Ilsur said. “Desmon Sandal recommended that it would be advantageous if we could show you how our constabulary works.”

  Sam looked at Desmon who raised his eyebrows and smiled. He didn’t know how to react to the commander’s offer.

  “Advantageous?” Sam said. “I’m not an apprentice-constable anymore.”

  “It isn’t what you have done, but what you will do,” Desmon said. “You solved a major crime in Toraltia and the murder in Carolank—”

  “But Commander Eshing would have solved it if I wasn’t there.”

  “His letter says otherwise,” Ilsur said.

  Sam was in way over his head, so he sighed. “I guess I can learn how you do things.” It looked like Sam wasn’t going to be able to heed Jordi’s warning.

  Commander Ilsur grinned. “Very good. Very, very good. I will assign a captain to show you two around. Don’t speak to me in Toraltian from now on. Do you understand? I am more fluent in Vaarekian.”

  Sam nodded. It looked like everyone played their own game. What game did Desmon play? Whatever it was, Sam didn’t know the rules, at all.

  Ilsur went to the door and called to one of his aides outside, speaking in Wollian. Not long after, a tall Wollian entered. He was older than the commander, with silvery wings in his dark hair. Ilsur spoke in Wollian.

  The new man bowed to Desmon, putting his hand over his heart. Desmon returned the same bow. They both spoke in Wollian until Desmon turned to Sam.

  “This is Captain Penduur. He will be our guide. Penduur doesn’t speak Toraltian or Vaarekian so I will be called upon to translate.”

  The officer that escorted Sam and Desmon to the constabulary said that most people spoke either language. That meant this was just another game played on Sam, but he bowed and let them treat him like the pawn he obviously was.

  They walked through the square and stopped at a street vendor for a sweet drink and a slice of a fruit Sam had never seen before. Desmon didn’t ask many questions, and Sam just listened to the description of different buildings that Desmon gave him.

  Captain Penduur stopped at a black gate. The four-story building on the other side had small windows. Sam recognized it for what Desmon said it was, a prison. They walked inside. Were they going to incarcerate him? Desmon looked unaffected by their destination.

  After an exchange between Desmon and Penduur, Sam finally learned something he needed to know from Desmon. “This is a political prison. The conditions inside are not awful.”

  Sam didn’t know what ‘awful’ meant, but the tiny windows didn’t look like the cells were happy places.

  “We are going to meet a few of the inmates, and then have a conversation with the warden.”

  “Why?” Sam said.

  Desmon looked at the Captain, who walked ahead of them. “Because it will be good for you to go along with what we are doing.”

  The pieces clicked together. Sam truly was a pawn that Desmon was using to make contact with a political criminal, and Sam could do nothing about it. He felt very used by all this. He struggled to keep from getting angry, and finally rationalized that if he observed what went on, he might learn something from all this subterfuge.

  The first prisoner wasn’t Wollian. Sam and Desmon were ushered into the man’s cell. Captain Penduur had obviously found other things to do. The room was clean with a bed, two chairs, and a table. Bookshelves lined one wall, and a rug covered a tile floor.

  “This is Henro Lunter,” Desmon said in barely recognizable Vaarekian. “Tell me his story in Toraltian.”

  Who was the translator here? Sam thought.

  “Your name, young man?”

  “Sam Smith.”

  “Sam, listen closely and tell Sandal exactly what I tell you.”

  Desmon took Sam’s notebook and prepared himself to write at the table.

  “Eight months ago, as far as I can determine, I arrived from Bliksa, the capital of Ristaria, and came directly to Wollin.”

  Sam repeated Lunter’s sentence.

  “I had an old Wollian acquaintance who was kind enough to provide room and board as I did some research into the history of Wollian textiles. I am a weaver in Bliksa. My research takes me from place to place. This was my first visit to Wollia, since all my other trips were in Polistia.

  My research in Wollin brought me into contact with a group called the Mandrim. They are one of the many factions that abound in Wollia, but they are one of the more interesting groups. The Mandrim have lately assumed an international interest. Most of them are nomads.”

  “How did you contact them?” Desmon asked.

  “There is a handshake that I’ll show the boy.” Lunter extended his hand to Sam, fingertips up. “Touch my hand.”

  Sam put his hand up against Lunter’s. The prisoner lowered his middle finger. “You do the same, and then we let our hands slide away from each other.”

  It sounded a bit silly to Sam, but Lunter and Desmon practiced the hand sign together.

  “Wh
y are you here?” Desmon asked.

  “The Mandrim set me up. I am to be tried for murder, but the evidence is contradictory, thank all that breathe. Another four months, and I can return to Bliksa, never to return to Wollia, I am told. I’m afraid I have nothing else to give you.”

  Sam had questions to ask, but Desmon finished writing notes and stood up. “This is enough for now. Thank you for your candor.”

  Sam translated, and Desmon walked out of the cell. Sam looked to his right and left at the two guards flanking the doorway. One of them locked the door while the other fetched Captain Penduur.

  They waited for a long time before the captain trudged up the stairs. Penduur and Desmon talked for a bit. The guard who accompanied Captain Penduur led them up to the top of the prison and the second inmate.

  This time a woman came to the door of the cell. Her face brightened. “Desmon!” she said before launching into rapidly spoken Wollian.

  “I am escorting this Toraltian guest,” Desmon said in Sam’s language.

  Sam nearly sighed in relief that he wouldn’t have to translate. This time Captain Penduur joined them in the woman’s room. It was nearly identical to the last prisoner’s cell.

  “You are from Baskin?”

  “My last stop was in Toraltia,” Sam said. “I am originally from Cherryton, a town between Baskin and the mountains.”

  The woman smiled and nodded her head. It didn’t look like she was very interested in what Sam had to say.

  “What are you in prison for?” Sam said. “I hope it isn’t an offense to ask.”

  “Not for me, but there might be others who are offended.”

  “There is always someone to offend in Wollia,” Desmon said.

  Sam caught Captain Penduur nodding his head in agreement. He pursed his lips, perhaps reproving himself for the slip. Desmon probably knew the man spoke Toraltian, anyway.

  “I spoke out of turn to a visiting vizier,” she said.

  “What is a vizier?”