A Voyager Without Magic

by Guy Antibes

  “You can’t do that to something you haven’t bought,” the man said in decent enough Vaarekian.

  Sam looked at the unaffected blade. If they used some chemical to color the blade, it had hardened the surface.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to buy it,” Sam said, knowing he was throwing himself to the wolves saying such a thing to a merchant in a foreign country, buying a cast-off heirloom in a shop filled with stolen goods.

  Now that he knew the merchant knew Vaarekian, Sam could do some bartering, and the man was up to the task. Sam talked about the worn hilt and wear on the blade, as well as the lack of jewels compared to the other weapons, while the merchant kept extolling the uniqueness of the sword.

  Sam quite enjoyed the process right to the end, where they settled on a price that Sam would have gladly paid in Baskin. He pulled out Norlankian coins, which included enough gold to equal a Toraltian Lion. The merchant placed on a balance, telling him he valued foreign coins by weight. After the process, the price was still steep, and Sam had yet to see the scabbards that the merchant would provide.

  The choice was an easy one. Sam didn’t want ornate sheaths with pollen gems to match the other jeweled swords, so he chose one out of a black leather he hadn’t seen before. After making sure it wasn’t pollen-made, Sam made his purchase and let the merchant hover over Banna for a while.

  Sam pulled out his purchase, admiring the lines and the gold, black, and silver wiring on the grip. He could wrap the hilt with a thin leather to protect the precious metals when he returned to the ship. He would use the same wrapping material the sailors used for the handles of their tools.

  The scabbard wasn’t new, either, but the leather was thick and in good condition. It was recently stained black, but Sam would have done the same with a worn leather scabbard, and he couldn’t stomach the gaudiness of the pollen gems on the other ones offered.

  He played around with the sword and nearly knocked a large urn over with his footwork in the confined space. After a glare from the merchant, Sam sheepishly sheathed his weapon and threaded the sheath onto his belt.

  Banna had found a few items of interest, and soon they were back on the street, with a well-behaved Emmy strutting in front of them on her leash.

  “You would make your father proud,” Desmon said.

  “Having a sword in Baskin wasn’t a good idea for a teenager,” Sam said. “So I left one behind. This is better, I think, at least until I put on more weight.”

  “You think it is too light?”

  “I do. I liked the lines of the harbormaster’s sword, and this is a variation, but I like the sleek lines of this sword better. In a battle, I’m afraid this would be too easily pushed aside. I like it better than the Carolankian dueling blade the captain lent to me.”

  “And when have you ever been in a battle?” Desmon asked.

  “You didn’t check my background far enough,” Sam said. “I fought in the Summer Revolt with armor and everything. I knew just enough swordsmanship to keep from being killed.”

  “This was on your tour with Harrison Dimple?”

  Sam nodded. “Our involvement wasn’t mentioned in many accounts.”

  “Perhaps any accounts. I’m sure Dimple didn’t mind that. He keeps the lowest of profiles,” Desmon said.

  Sam stopped in the street. Perhaps General Tarrant’s self-aggrandizing version of the rebellion was encouraged by Harrison. He had never thought of such a thing, but after months in Baskin, Sam could see where that would be to Harrison’s advantage.

  They entered the market where Desmon had found them. “Fancy something to eat?” the Wollian asked. “Street food is good in this market.”

  They stopped by a few stalls. Sam found plenty he liked, and soon they were back at the ship. Desmon joined them up the gangway and on to the deck.

  “Jordi asked me to remove some of the wards,” Banna said. “And I want to secure my purchases.”

  Sam pulled out his sword to examine it a little longer in a space open enough to practice a few forms. The more he swung, the better he liked the feel.

  “The merchant didn’t know what he had,” Desmon said. “That sword was made by a Lashakan clan. He would have charged you many times your price if he had known. Who knows how the sword made it into the shop since the Lashakans live on the other side of Wollia? They are fierce warriors and prize their weapons.”

  “Like the nomads?”

  Desmon shook his head. “Not like the nomads, at all. They live in the Lashaku Rift, which is like a small country. Their version of the Wollian civilization is more advanced than what you would see if you visited Wollim, our capital. Wollian swords that match the pattern on that sword are the copies, not the other way around. In Wollin, your sword would be known as a Lashak and highly prized as a decoration, but without the matching sheath—” Desmon shrugged. “It is worth less. The sheath that originally went with that sword would probably be covered by black gold, made by a process known only to one of the Lashakan clans. Somehow the sheath was separated from the sword, and that is likely how it ended up here. It is rare to see a sword by itself. They have a grim reputation. The rumor is that anyone not of Lashakan heritage eventually dies when using the sword.”

  Sam looked at the hilt. The lines of black alternating with silver and gold wire on the grip of the sword must have been made out of the black gold, since the black showed as much wear as the yellow gold.

  “The steel is what drew me. It looks like it will hold an edge longer than most swords,” Sam said. He put it back in its sheath, more anxious than ever to get the hilt wrapped in leather. “Who would have worn a sword like this?”

  “A Lashakan chief, I would imagine. The Lashakan clans stay to themselves and are rich compared to other Wollians. There are raids into the Rift, not only by marauders but by the Potentate’s soldiers. The clansmen invariably repel the attacks, but not without the cost of lives on both sides.”

  “You approve of my purchase?”

  Desmon grinned. “I do, indeed. If the sword wasn’t worth it, I wouldn’t have let you buy it. There were plenty of trashy swords in the merchant’s collection.”

  “Many were studded with pollen gems,” Sam said.

  Desmon nodded. “You made a good choice. Now, I have to get to work, or I will be left at Port Hassin.”

  Sam watched Desmon disappear down the hatch that led to the crew’s quarters. He sought out the tool crib situated close to the sailors’ mess. He found the end of a roll of thin black leather and a nearly empty pot of glue and took the materials to his cabin.

  The sword’s appeal hadn’t faded as Sam pulled out his wand and put it next to the sword. The wand never had a grip since it was faceted, so Sam decided to use the same leather to make the weapons look more like a pair. He worked until the bell began to clang, notifying all hands to vacate the ship. Sam gathered up his things and grabbed one of his Vaarekian novels before he scampered up the stairs to the deck and was one of the last to trudge back to the hotel. Sam waited with Emmy until Banna had reset some wards.

  “Do you like your new toy?” she asked as they walked off the dock.

  “I do. It will soon have a new grip,” Sam said, pulling out his sword enough to show her the partially-wound hilt.

  “The current one is much prettier. The black leather makes it look more like a guard’s sword,” she said.

  “I want to keep it nice for when I get older,” Sam said.

  “That is a mature attitude,” Banna said.

  “One among all my immature ones.” He smiled and patted Emmy.

  When they reached the hotel, Sam went to his hotel room to wash up before dinner. He put the sword on the chair and looked at it. He shook his head. Banna just didn’t know enough about swords. A knowledgeable person wouldn’t mistake the Lashak sword for a guard’s blade.

  He had a few minutes to finish the wrappings on his weapons. He left them in his room so the glue would dry. He found Banna sitting at a full table with
Captain Darter, which, oddly enough, elicited a feeling of relief.

  When Sam sat at a table for two, Commander Ilsur asked if he could sit for a minute. After a shock of fear shot through Sam, he nodded, not at all sure what the Commander wanted. Sam looked around for Desmon, but the Wollian sailor told him he was staying with the crew at a different establishment.

  “I wanted to ask if you wished to accompany me on a four-day tour to one of our forts. There has been a disturbance, and Desmon Sandal said you have a unique perspective on things.”

  The offer surprised Sam. “I’m only a teenager. Certainly, you have men with more experience than my few months with the Baskin Constabulary.”

  “Sandal said you have experience with pollen defenses. It appears that a theft has occurred at the Rakwall Armory, using wards. We don’t use them for such things in Wollia.”

  “The ward expert is Banna Plunk,” Sam said, “not me.”

  The commander looked back over his shoulder at Captain Darter’s table. “Yes, the Polistian woman. Vaarekians are the world’s ward experts, you know. She set the wards on the Norlankian ship?”

  Sam nodded.

  “I will invite her, as well. I can make assurances that you won’t be bothered on our excursion and during the entire time you are in port,” Ilsur said. “Sometimes an extended stay at Port Hassin has its disadvantages.”

  Sam understood the man’s words, but he didn’t know if the offer was given in all friendliness or a threat.

  “Do you mind if I have a meal with you? I understand you participated in the Toraltian revolt last summer.”

  Sam thought Desmon hadn’t wasted any time divulging Sam’s life story, as he knew it.

  “If you wish. Most of the journey wasn’t exciting.”

  Ilsur smiled. It seemed genuine, but with all the factions and the lying and dissembling, perhaps Wollians were highly-skilled liars. “I might be able to extract nuggets from the most mundane stories.”

  The man was a snoop. Of course, he could, Sam thought. A server brought two of the little scrolls with him, and Ilsur helped Sam with the menu selections.

  Ilsur asked for Sam to start at the beginning, so Sam described the beating he had received at the hand of his brother and his school rivals. To make the story consistent, Sam told Ilsur about his disability, and the man just nodded. He guessed that Desmon had revealed that, too.

  The food came, and Ilsur kept the story going with penetrating questions that were sufficient to bring even more details out than Sam had ever told Dickey Nail. He studiously avoided mentioning Banna Plunk’s contributions to Sam’s story. even the fact that Lennard Lager bought Emmy from her. When Sam finished with his boarding The Twisted Wind, they shared the dining room with a loving Wollian couple. Darter, Banna, and everyone else had left.

  “You’ve only confirmed what Sandal has told me. I will make a formal request for Banna Plunk and you to accompany me to Rakwall.”

  “I have a request,” Sam said. “I have a Great Sanchian Hound, and I’d like to take her on the trip. Oddly enough, Banna Plunk and I share the dog.”

  “There is a story to that?”

  “She was the one who sold her to Lennard Lager.”

  “Ah. Part of the thread of your untold story, eh?”

  Sam shrugged. He blushed, but he couldn’t stop that.

  “I will extend the invitation to Miss Plunk tonight.”

  “I’m not sure Captain Darter will permit her to leave. She protects the ship with her wards.”

  Ilsur sat back, pinching his lower lip. He leaned forward. “What if we granted Captain Darter possession of her ship while you were gone, and, perhaps, until the Vaarekian professor arrives and you sail away?”

  “I’m sure that will convince both Captain Darter and Miss Plunk,” Sam said. Not to mention the fact that it would allow most of the ship’s crew and passengers to stay out of trouble, he thought.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ~

  A n hour outside of Port Hassin, and civilization seemed to have disappeared. Sam, Banna, and Commander Ilsur sat in a carriage bouncing around on the rutted road. Sam envied the squad of mounted constables behind them, except for the dust thrown up by the carriage, and its four horses.

  Sam looked up at the ceiling of the carriage hearing Emmy’s tail thumping on the roof.

  The commander’s eyes drifted to Sam’s sword. “I see you have acquired a Wollian sword.”

  “Desmon told me it was a Lashak.”

  “It is.” Ilsur leaned forward. “May I look at it?”

  “As long as you don’t cut yourself or us,” Sam said, as the carriage jolted along.

  He undid the sheath and handed the weapon over to the commander. He pulled the blade out six inches or so and smiled.

  “You have a good eye. This truly is Lashakan-made. You can tell by the blue steel. It is a shame you don’t have a jeweled Lashakan sheath.” Ilsur looked at Sam’s and grinned. “This, I think is better for you,” the Wollian said. “The hide is from a barnak wolf,” He was looking closely at the black leather. “They have a unique pattern to their fur, and it gives the leather its distinctive grain. I would prefer this to a Lashakan sheath, since the black gold wears easily, and this could last as long as the rest of the sword. Good for you.”

  He handed the sword back to Sam, who didn’t bother to strap it back on. “Do a lot of people own a Lashak sword?”

  Ilsur smiled and shook his head. “Shiny is better for most people. He pulled his own sword to show its gleaming steel. Including me, I’ll admit, but I can appreciate unusually good craftsmanship, and if there aren’t too many nicks on the edge, I’d say you have an heirloom in your hands, except for the fact that people who use a Lashak generally fall ill and often die. It is in good condition.”

  “The edge is exceptionally clean,” Sam said. “Perhaps whoever originally owned it didn’t use it very often, and that’s why it fell into Wollian hands.”

  Ilsur frowned and said, “Lashakans are Wollians, Sam.”

  “Then out of the clan’s hands,” Sam said, correcting himself.

  “Good. I agree. Enjoy the sword.” Ilsur leaned back. “As for me, I think I will try to nap.”

  Sam had tired of the landscape of rolling hills dotted with copses made up of mostly wide-spreading trees with gnarled trunks and branches. They had eaten at a village that grew like a wart on the road and stopped for the night in a good-sized town. Sam noticed that at least half the citizens at both places were nomads. They certainly weren’t in Port Hassin anymore.

  At dinner, Banna asked, “What supports the town? There isn’t much agriculture that I could see from the road.”

  “Cattle, goats, sheep. By the potentate’s decree, agricultural pursuits are not allowed to be seen from the royal highway.”

  Sam blinked. “We’ve been traveling on a royal highway?”

  “There aren’t much worse than this one,” Ilsur said. “This far west, there is more grassland, and that has to support the livestock and the nomads.”

  “Do the ranchers and the nomads get along? Do the nomads steal the animals?” Banna asked. “They all look disreputable in their heavy cloaks.”

  Ilsur looked around the inn’s common room to see if anyone had heard Banna’s question. “Don’t say things like that in the open,” the commander hissed. “It isn’t appropriate. Nomads don’t do such things.”

  Sam wasn’t so sure about that, but he looked about the room, and he feared that any number of patrons could have heard Banna’s comments. For her part, Banna didn’t look at all affected.

  They finished their meal. Banna said she was tired from the carriage ride, and Sam didn’t blame her. With Emmy staying in the stables, looked over by the drivers, Sam stayed behind when a nomad musical group began setting up instruments.

  “You should listen. The nomads of the Western Plains make unique music. We are lucky a group is playing tonight,” Commander Ilsur said. “Miss Plunk might have enjoyed this.�
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  Sam wasn’t so sure he enjoyed the discordant wailing of the nomad instruments. Everything was in too high of a register for Sam to enjoy whatever melody the players used. After two of the songs, Sam thanked Ilsur for giving him the opportunity to broaden his cultural horizons. He couldn’t think of anything else to say as he made his way up to a bed waiting for him.

  As he passed Banna’s room, he noticed the door wasn’t closed. Sam knocked but didn’t hear a word. He poked his head in the room to find it empty. Had the nomads taken Banna?

  He ran downstairs and retrieved Commander Ilsur.

  “I haven’t done anything but look in the room,” Sam said.

  They lit the lamps as they examined Banna’s room. Her belongings remained, but she had left without the bag she usually carried with her. Sam peeked in and saw women’s possessions, little jars of whatever women put on their faces. He saw a brush, a small mirror, and her coin purse. He couldn’t see Banna leaving that kind of stuff behind.

  Sam got down on his hands and knees and found a little mat of pollen on the floor, and as he got closer to the door, little threads of multi-colored pollen were scattered. As he crawled out the door, the colored threads went to the left, rather than the right in the direction of the common room.

  “She went that way,” Sam said pointing to the left.

  “What do you see that I can’t?”

  Sam lent Ilsur his spectacles. “The threads are very thin,” Sam said, “so you’ll have to get close to the floor. I can’t touch them, or they will shrivel up.”

  “I’d like to see that, too,” the commander said.

  He grunted as he finally located the trail of pollen.

  “Barely see it is right, but you are correct. We should get my men and follow.”

  “Not until we have prepared to trail them,” Sam said. “I remember following sheep stealers last summer. We didn’t have enough supplies to catch up to them.”

  “Ah, I see what you mean. We will ask questions while my men get ready.”