Fastened to the throw lines were figure eights of heavy hawsers, stacked fore and aft, these thick, hemp ropes to be dragged to the mole and wrapped around tie-off cleats to snug the modified catamaran to the dock.
Home at last.
Leaning his elbows on the rail, John turned his head. Raised his voice to get over the squeak of oars, the creak of the rudder, and the shouts of dock workers. "Golden!?" Though Golden seemed to be hovering about much of the time, he was never around when John wanted him.
"Here," came the faint reply from the back of the ship. Which figured. That was where the solemn young man did his exercises. Sit-ups one day. Jumping jacks the next.
Golden had also helped relieve the boredom of the slow passage home by singing, working magic, and by walking a tightrope strung between the base of the mast and the outrail -- no mean feat (as the sailors who tried it discovered.)
Waiting for Golden to make his way through the ship's rope piles and lashed down supply crates, John turned to watch the ship ease into its berth.
It was a glorious midday morning. From the moles came the sounds of any busy port: the creak of wooden cranes at work; the rumble of three-wheeled loading carts; the calls of bare-chested porters rolling barrels of beer, wine, and oil; the grunts of sweating stevedores as they labored up gangplanks with odd-sized cargo. Behind the prow, the ship's oars splashed quietly, rhythmically, Coluth giving the order to the starboard rowers to back oars, in this way pivoting the ship parallel to the quay.
White sea birds darted overhead, making piercing cries for no obvious reason but the joy of it. Above them all, the amber sky of Stil-de-grain.
The harbor air smelled ... fresh. (Though the fetid odors of Xanthin's commercial district no doubt clung to the offaled alleys higher up Xanthin Hill.)
Used to it by now, John remembered how shocked he was to find that the sea under Stil-de-grain's amber sky-band was a pale yellow-gold; that under Malachite's emerald sky, the sea turned green.
But it made sense.
Even in John's world, the color of lakes and oceans was a reflection of the sky -- blue sky, blue water -- gray sky, gray water. It was just that, on earth, you didn't have golden sky, to say nothing of skies of green and orange and -- though he'd only glimpsed it at the horizon -- the red sky of Cinnnabar.
In the main, all had gone well. Not that the trip had been unmarred by tragedy. Deep fishing over the rail on the way back, Whar had hooked into something big. New to fishing, he'd failed to let go of the tackle and in an instant, was pulled over the railing into the sea. Though the sailors frantically backed oars to hold position against the current, all available men scouting the sea where Whar had vanished, Whar could not be recovered.
While it seemed a strange thing to say about your own guard, John had not known Whar well. Except to recognize him as a brave and honorable man.
Some would say that men like Whar were cogs in the workings of the world. John, the historian, knew better, duty-driven men the engine of mankind.
The remembrance of Whar's loss excepted, it was a good day. Above all, John realized, because it felt good to feel good, John a superman compared to the human wreck who'd stumbled away from dark Mage territory. Was it instinct that led him through the blackness of that blighted woods until he'd found Platinia and Zwicia where he'd posted them? It must have been, for he had no memory of how the old woman and the frail young girl had managed to lift him to the back of the cart.
The cart so much lighter without the cannon, the women had gotten the exhausted ponies to pull it down the trail, out of the forest, and across the dimly lighted coastal plain where Coluth, Whar, and the sailors waited impatiently for his return.
The sailors had known he'd beaten the dark Mage, of course. (He learned this later when he'd come to himself, again.) Knew it because the evil wind the dark Mage had been sending out had stopped. (It was John's guess that the wind had been shut off when he'd blown shut Auro's light pit.)
The dim, smoke-blue light of the sky-band over Azare had not brightened with Auro's defeat, though, no doubt because the Mages of Realgar and Cinnabar were still keeping the pressure on by continuing to black out the band over Azare as best they could.
Fed, watered, and pampered, John had eventually come around.
Not that the sailors were doing nothing while John recuperated. Even before John had returned to the coast, Coluth had taken it upon himself to order modifications to the catamaran. With the unnatural wind shut off by the closing of Auro's light source, the solution to the problem of getting home -- which John fully agreed with when he was capable of agreeing with anything -- was to convert the cat to a rowing vessel.
Easier said than done.
As it turned out, none of the dust-dry wood from the dead band of Azare was fit to use for naval purposes. The solution? Convert the two-hulled Cat into a one-hulled rowing scull: one hull for the modified ship, the other to provide seasoned wood for the necessary changes, part of the wood from the scrapped hull used to build an outrigger device to stabilize the (too narrow) one-hulled replacement ship -- an "innovation" to make any Hawaiian proud. The rest of the surplus lumber had gone into oars and oar locks for motive power and to rig a heavy, aft rudder for steerage.
The final result was a modified version of the kind of seagoing vessel this world's sailors understood, one to be rowed-steered from the edge of one circular current in the sea, to the rim of the next counter-rotating spiral.
Upon John's return to the Azare coast, Coluth had released their last messenger bird to report on John's condition and say their return home would be delayed.
Some time later, a messenger bird had arrived from Malachite, saying that, with the defeat of the evil Mage, the Malachites had given up the war against Stil-de-grain. They'd only been fighting because Auro had demanded it of them, the men of Malachite more terrified of Auro's power than of Stil-de-grain's.
The bottom line was that, at one stroke, John had defeated evil and stopped the war. Twin kills which, if John could have remembered more about his contribution to morality and world peace, might have impressed him. As it was, all that he could think about was going home.
"Yes, John-Lyon?" Golden, dressed in a simple, exercise tunic, had arrived at the prow.
Now that Golden was there, what did John say to him? That John knew that the traitor who had stabbed him was on this boat and that Golden made the best suspect?
Since John had brought the fuse sack on board himself, there could be no denying that somebody on the boat had substituted a plain rope for the powder-impregnated fuse.
Someone. But who?
One of the common seamen? Coluth's men: Philelph, Petrac, Shiagint? Orig, the steersman?
Not possible. These men had been following Coluth's orders so long they would move only on their captain's command.
Coluth himself?
It made more sense that John had done the deed while sleepwalking, than to finger loyal, sensible Coluth.
Nor did Platinia figure to have made the switch. As long as John had known her, she'd never had an independent thought. Every order, every suggestion he'd given her had been instantly obeyed. If anything, she gave him too much help, Platinia seeming to be able to strengthen him spiritually by some means he didn't understand. When Platinia was at his side, he was a lion! Without Platinia beside him .... Enough said.
Zwicia?
For starters, the Weird couldn't get up and down the steps to the cramped hold, unaided. To say nothing of being rational enough to plan anything -- certainly not something as clever as substituting a plain rope for the bomb fuse. Anyway, the old girl could have no reason for wanting John dead. Nor -- reasoning that the same individual had committed both crimes against John's person -- could she have been the one who stabbed him in the first assassination attempt. Too old. Too slow. Too weak.
No. Zwicia did not make a credible suspect.
Leaving Golden.
Golden the gymnast.
Golden,
thrower of knives.
Rope walker.
Singer.
Illusionist.
Pretender to the throne of Malachite.
Golden, the multitalented. Someone worth watching -- in every sense of the word.
What John was considering was, that at this late date, did it really matter? After all, the first thing John was going to do upon landing on Xanthin Island was to make tracks for the mainland, for Hero Castle, and for home. Once back in the good old U. S., it wouldn't matter whether or not Golden wished John ill. All John really needed was to find a way to keep Golden off his back until John could "get out of town."
Thinking along these lines, John had an idea. "Golden, I know I've been keeping you busy. And that you didn't want to come with me on this trip."
Golden nodded. Saying yes, but at the same time revealing nothing about what he was thinking -- feeling. Golden-like.
"I also realize that you feel its your duty to hunt for the lost Mage-crystal of Malachite. Possibly hidden in the palace by King Yarro before his death," John said -- for emphasis pointing up the city's hill at the palace fort, its pennant-bedecked heights just visible behind the terraced, wood and plaster city.
"Yes, John-Lyon."
"That if you find the green Mage-crystal, you'll be able to parlay that into becoming the King of Malachite.
"Parlay ...?"
"Strengthen your hand in resuming your rightful place as king of Malachite. Replace your uncle, Lithoid. The usurper."
"Yes, John-Lyon."
"I assume you think you can do that without starting up the war between Malachite and Stil-de-grain?"
"Yes, John-Lyon. My being King of Malachite would be the best guarantee that the two bands would live in peace."
Was there an implied threat somewhere in Golden's response? Support my rise to power or else? If so, John decided to let it pass.
"Then that's just what you will do. Take time off to search for the green crystal.
"Really!?"
"I have said it. As much time as you need."
"Oh, thank you, great Mage!"
John was convinced he was hearing genuine elation from Golden. Was even more persuaded because Golden was so taciturn. John had been right. Giving Golden the run of the palace was the best way to neutralize any "Golden threat."
Beside him, John was aware that Golden was ... kneeling. On the splintered deck.
Actually kneeling before John.
Embarrassing ... but an affirmation of the wisdom of John's new "Golden" policy.
Though Golden was an accomplished actor, John couldn't believe the young man was faking gratitude.
Assassination problem solved!
Beside him at the rail, Golden had gotten to his feet again, the two of them a little chagrined by Golden's kneeling, both men turning away to watch the boat's final approach to the wharf.
It now struck John as strange that there didn't seem to be much of a reception committee awaiting him at dockside.
Just soldiers in green uniforms -- maybe a hundred of them. Too large a force to be keeping order on the quays, but not enough men to be a proper welcoming committee. Led by ... Forsk? ...... Trying to make out the squad heads behind the Head Second, John thought they looked familiar.
"Not much of a reception," John commented, nodding in the direction of the green-tuniced soldiers who'd been ordered to form a double line at the ship's disembarkation point. "Probably so little fuss because no one knew when we were due in port." John thought a moment, then continued. "Though I did think the merchantman we hailed yesterday would have spread the word that we were right behind them."
John paused again to consider this seeming lack of ceremonial adulation. "Once the word gets out that we're back, though, the palace staff will probably throw a gala for the heroes who've rid the world of evil. Maybe a surprise party in the ....."
* * * * *
As the Mage continued to speculate about his welcome, Golden's mind was ablaze! It had been a startling change, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin giving Golden permission to search the palace for the green Mage-gem of Malachite! Particularly since Golden had reason to believe that the Mage had been preventing him from searching for the crystal.
The unpredictability of Mages was well known, of course.
It was also unclear how John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had defeated his rival, the evil Auro. Unclear, it seemed, even to John-Lyon-Pfnaravin!
In the time it had taken the Mage to recover from his wounds, he had forgotten much. Or, perhaps, refused to remember.
Now, they had come home -- though Stil-de-grain could never be a Malachite's true home.
On the dock, shore-side stevedores were hauling on the ship ropes, bending their naked backs to snug the boat beside the quay, ready to snub down the heavy hawsers to docking cleats.
The pier was the same as before. Lined with carts. Piled with cargo boxes large and small. Stacked with kegs of wine. At every tie-up berth, a wooden loading gantry.
Sweating porters from adjoining ships were trundling off precious bales of Cinnabar silk and -- now that the war had stopped -- metals from Malachite. Golden saw crates of dried meat from Realgar as well as cows and small flocks of sheep herded up from holds.
Being onloaded, were barrels of Stil-de-grain wheat, barley, and rye, together with tight-woven sacks of flour.
The other, parallel piers were also thick with wide-bodied merchantmen. Behind them in the harbor, two, trim, Stil-de-grain cutters were on patrol.
Beyond the dock, civilians, gaudily dressed in gold-striped robes, milled up and down the road paralleling the harbor. Farther up the hill, Golden could see shoppers clogging the connecting alleys that led into Xanthin proper.
And finally, on the butte beyond Xanthin City -- mounted serenely in its own space -- was the triple-walled palace. From the prow of the boat where he stood with the Mage, Golden could see the top floor of the young king's residence, the fort's corner turrets flying the gold and white of Stil-de-grain.
Everything was the same, except ... brighter ... the return of full-light the greatest gift of John-Lyon-Pfnaravin's victory over evil.
Truly, the great Wizard's triumph had benefited ... all people in all bands!
Like Golden had long hoped, the Mage would now sponsor Golden as King of Malachite! There could be no other reading of the Mage's permission to search for the hiding place of Pfnaravin's Mage-crystal. Once Golden found the green gem of magic and returned it to the Mage, he and Pfnaravin would go home to Malachite together.
In triumph!
The greatest Mage of all bands and Golden as Malachite's legitimate king!
What would happen to John-Lyon-Pfnaravin's other Mageship? (For though he didn't wear it, John-Lyon still possessed the golden crystal of Stil-de-grain, Golden able to see the disk's outline in a secret pocket in the Mage's robe.)
Golden didn't know.
Perhaps John-Lyon-Pfnaravin would be Mage of both bands.
For now, the Mage's party could look forward to a triumphal return to Xanthin. .... Except that, there again, the Mage was right. It did not appear that preparations had been made for a proper appreciation. Golden would have thought that at least the young king -- though still a child -- would have been brought to the harbor to greet his "father" Coluth. In addition, Golden had expected a throng of cheering citizens at the dock, the city's grateful people crowding the harbor streets and quays to catch a glimpse of Stil-de-grain's benefactor.
Instead, there were only these few men-at-arms. Perhaps a hundred. Drawn up in a double line across the quay.
Golden squinted to see who was leading the soldiers. .....
No.
Not, as he had expected, the Army Head, Nator.
Also ... peculiar.
Looking more closely, Golden saw that the Head Second, Forsk, was commanding the troops.
In turn, Forsk's soldiers were divided into units of twenty five, each under the direct control of an under Head.
All was as
it should be ... except ....... there was something disturbing about the under Heads ........ Something ......
Wrong!
These under Heads were known to Golden!
Sassu! Iscu! Xevi! Renn!
Should Golden warn the Mage, standing so calmly, so careless beside him, the Mage resting his elbows on the ship rail!? Had John-Lyon-Pfnaravin failed to recognize the four!?
On the other hand, Mages had secret knowledge, special powers. That being the case, Golden did not wish to second guess that man of magic. Still .........
What to do?
With a hurried compromise in mind, Golden formed a plan! A plan that required him to wait a little longer. Wait. .... Wait .... until the very moment the ship's prow nudged the quay when Golden deliberately lurched into John-Lyon-Pfnaravin.
"What!?" cried the startled Mage.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Golden answered politely, as one addresses Mages. "Long at sea, my legs are not accustomed to the shock of land."
"Probably worn out from all that exercising," was the Mage's dry response.
At that, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin returned to his observation of docking procedure, the Mage saying something that Golden did not hear. Because Golden, as silently and as quickly as possible, had begun to back away from the ship's prow, headed for the back of the reconstructed boat.
Arriving amidship without incident, Golden was then able to slip out of sight behind a group of sailors who, at Coluth's order, were preparing to lift the landing plank from deck to pier.
Beyond these sailors, Golden scuttled aft as fast as possible without attracting attention.
Astern, and so out of immediate danger, Golden found he was shaking. For what he had just done -- on impulse more than as a result of reason -- was to steal John-Lyon's golden crystal!
It was an old thieve's trick. Bump into the mark to distract his thoughts while picking his pocket -- in this case, putting a clever hand into the Mage's inner, robe pocket to extract the Mage-gem, the disk of magic now residing in a tuck of tunic below Golden's belt.
All on board still engaged with the docking process, Golden climbed the aft railing to let himself over the side.
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