Scimitar Sun

by Chris A. Jackson

  “Well, he’s done it. Word is that he’s good at it, too. And you might want to be careful who you’re callin’ a rebel. Prince Mojani’s the new sultan of Marathia, and from the word of it, a far sight better man than his uncle ever was,” Rowland said, drizzling honey on a biscuit and taking a bite. “Anyway, a feller came up on a dhow not two weeks ago and said Feldrin’s run down five pirates in half as many months. He’s makin’ a name for himself down there.”

  “He’s also using my ship for the one purpose I swore they would never be used!” she said, clenching her teeth against the tirade that she knew would only make her angrier.

  “Seems to me, he’s doin’ what he does best,” Rowland countered, leaning back in his chair, ignoring the stern stare of his wife. “And I don’t remember you givin’ him any do’s or don’ts when you handed over Orin’s Pride.”

  “But a letter of marque? That’s not much better than licensed piracy!”

  “Captain Feldrin would never do that, Mistress!” Tim put in, surprising her with his outburst. “He’d never be a pirate.” Mouse nodded from upon the boy’s shoulder, and Cynthia knew he was right.

  “It’d be closer to piracy if Marathia were at war with anyone, Cyn, but they’re not.” Rowland stood and started collecting the dishes, but Marta swatted his hands and started clearing the table. “Sorry, dear. Old habits. Anyway, word is he’s huntin’ down the last of the old sultan’s cronies. A bunch of ‘em made off with about half his navy and a third of his treasury during the rebellion, and have been raisin’ all Nine Hells with the merchant shipping since.” He narrowed his eyes at her as he sat back down. “You okay, Cyn? Yer lookin’ a bit pale.”

  “Oh, I’m just upset, Row. Don’t worry.” She levered herself up, scowling as everyone else at the table also stood. Brolan moved to help her, but she shook off his hand impatiently. “I’m fine, really. I just need to work this off. I think I’ll walk down to the Starfish and say hello to Brulo. I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t.”

  “In your state? You’ll do nothin’ of the kind, Mistress!” Brolan insisted. “I’ll drive you down to town, quick as quick!”

  “Don’t worry about Feldrin, Mistress,” Marta said, returning to collect the last of the dishes, though Mouse lightened the tray of biscuits by one before she could take them away. “He’s just doing what he thinks is best.”

  “He’s just doing what he can to make me angry,” Cynthia countered, collecting Tim and heading for the door. “And he’s going to get himself killed doing it!”

  ≈

  Feldrin squinted up at the tower on the southern breakwater of Terokesh harbor, then at its twin to the north. The two grim sentinels commanded the harbor mouth and could rain death down upon any unwelcome ship foolish enough to enter. Today, however, the soldiers were waving and thrilling their victory cries down to him, pointing at the Marathian flag that flew from Orin’s Pride’s mainsail leech.

  “Some velcome,” Johansen said, waving up at the tower as they passed.

  “Not as much fer us as fer that,” Feldrin said, jerking a thumb back at the captured war galley that rowed along in their wake. “Mojani’s just happy to get one of his warships back. Let’s not be so foolish while we’re here that he thinks he can take the Pride as one, too.”

  When Feldrin first arrived in the kingdom, the new sultan had instantly made him an offer for Orin’s Pride, and had increased it at every subsequent opportunity. Although he accepted Feldrin’s repeated refusals to sell with gracious charm, his veiled threats that he could take the ship were unmistakable.

  “Oh, aye, Capt’n. Ve’ll have vatches posted day and night, be sure of that!”

  “Good. Now bring her around to the quay and set bow kedges. We’ll tie stern to.”

  This was also a safety measure; it limited access to the ship by land to one thin gangplank that could be protected by the two stern-mounted ballistae. Also, with the turret of the bow catapult turned around, the warehouses of the bustling waterfront were well within range of the deadly weapon. He had only used the fire catapult three times since he’d been operating under the prince’s letter of marque, but rumors of its defastating effect had spread.

  A royal contingent of armored hoplites trotted doubletime down the quay and took up precision formation at the point where their gangplank would touch, albeit a respectful distance from the edge. Behind the contingent came a silk-draped sedan chair, the eight heavily muscled bearers not even sweating in the noon-day heat. Feldrin cringed, wondering if protocol would allow him to send Horace to talk to the prince in his stead.

  “No way around it,” he said to himself as he rejected the deferral, checking the two heavy boarding axes at his belt as if preparing for battle. He turned to Johansen as the gangplank was secured. “Get the cargo off-loaded, and get Horace to do the haggling. It seems that I’m being summoned by His Majesty.”

  “Sure, Capt’n,” the man said with a salute.

  “And, Johansen, if all hell breaks loose while I’m gone,” he nodded over his shoulder at the row of buildings along the bustling waterfront, “burn it.”

  “Don’t you vorry, Capt’n. If they’re so stupid as to try to take us, they’ll learn a lesson they von’t ferget.” He waved his broad hand and grinned. “Have fun, sir!”

  “Bloody jokester!” Feldrin muttered as he strode across the plank to the quay, just as the drapes of the sedan chair whisked aside.

  “Good Captain Brelak.” The sultry contralto of the sultan’s sister, Princess Mieshala, sounded like the coos of a flock of mourning doves. Her silk-veiled and bejeweled figure, lounging among the cushions of the sedan chair, was a feast for the eyes of any man, let alone a man who had been at sea for a month. She slowly exited the chair and curtsied, her kohled eyes never leaving his. “It is so good to see you back in our fair Terokesh.”

  “Pleasure to see you, too, Princess Mieshala,” he said with a bow, careful to keep his voice neutral. He grinned inwardly at the thought of what Cynthia would have to say about the sultan’s sister: beautiful, rich and obviously put on display as a bargaining chip by her politically minded brother. She played the part well, however, always gracious and kind.

  And willing, he thought, taking her hand and touching the back of her fingers to his forehead in the formal deference.

  “My brother, Sultan Mojani, Ruler of all Marathia, invites you to a feast in your honor.” One bejeweled hand swept in an arc toward her sedan chair. “I am to convey you to our humble home.”

  Feldrin eyed her carefully, knowing this invitation was not one he would be allowed to decline. His gaze swept the fifty hoplites, each bearing a scimitar, javelin and bronze tower shield: the sultan’s elite. He wondered if he could re-board Orin’s Pride before they took or killed him, and how many would die if two ballistae bolts ripped through their ranks. He looked over his shoulder at the dozen or so grim sailors standing at the taffrail, ready to die at his command.

  “I’d be pleased to attend, Princess Mieshala,” he said with another bow.

  “Most excellent!” Her perfect smile beamed behind her gauzy silk veil. “Please come.”

  “Of course.” He followed her to the sedan chair. “Sorry fellas,” he said to the bearers as he mounted the step. To his surprise, they didn’t even grunt when they lifted the extra weight.

  Chapter Seven

  Playing with Fire

  Cynthia looked up at the lightkeeper’s tower with trepidation. For a change, the butterflies fluttering in her stomach had nothing to do with her pregnancy. Mouse’s nervous buzzing around her head and taps at her shoulder didn’t help. After catching up with friends yesterday, she had steeled herself to visit the lightkeeper today.

  “We’re right here if you need us, Mistress Cynthia,” Brolan said, as if sensing her anxiety. He leaned his lanky frame against the wagon, looking relaxed, while Tim looked on fretfully.

  “Thank you, Brolan. I don’t know how long I’ll be, though, so you may want to wait
at the Starfish. I can walk that far. It’s all downhill.”

  “We’re fine right here,” he said, grinning and clapping his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I may just teach young Tim here how to play Five-Card Mango, and there’s shade aplenty under the wagon.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Mistress?” Tim asked for perhaps the twentieth time. “I could wait on the stoop.”

  “I’ll be fine, Tim. Stay here with Brolan, but if I catch you hustling everyone back on Plume Island with the card games he teaches you, I’ll not be pleased!” Her grin made the comment a jest, but she saw immediately that he took it seriously.

  “No, Mistress! I would never—”

  “Relax, Tim. I’m joking. You two have fun.”

  She turned to the wide stone path and started the easy climb up to the lighthouse. Although the track was wide and well-worn, she took care with every step; she couldn’t see her feet beyond her belly. Mouse tittered on her shoulder; his anxiety was infectious.

  Cynthia had tried but failed to convince herself that her worry was really curiosity. What could the lightkeeper want from her, and why hadn’t he asked directly in his letter? Apparently, this was no trivial request. The second source of her concern was arcane; when last they met, she had not been a seamage. Would their conflicting fields of elemental magic now clash?

  “Fire is love and water sorrow,” she muttered, as she reached the stoop and raised a hand to knock, “and only one will live to see the—”

  The door flew open before her knuckles even touched the wood, startling her and frightening Mouse so badly that he dove down the neck of her shirt. A wave of heat washed over her, as if the door of a blast furnace had just opened.

  “Cynthia Flaxal!” the old lightkeeper crowed, glowing like the open door of a kiln. She could feel his magic, his fire. It pressed against her in a palpable wave, pushing her back an involuntary step.

  “My, my! You have come into your powers! Yes, I can see that you have!” He took a step back as well, though his seemed of his own volition. He motioned for her to enter. “Please, please, come in. Thank you so much for coming!”

  “How could I refuse?” she said, stepping up and into the ancient lighthouse. Moving forward felt like walking against a strong, hot wind. “After all you’ve done for me, the least I could do was pay a visit and see what was so important.”

  “Nonetheless, it was very kind of you to make the trip.”

  Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom as he closed the door behind her. She felt herself breaking into a sweat with the oppressive heat, and she knew it was more the pyromage’s proximity than the actual temperature of the room. “I daresay you understand now why I could not have made the trip to your home. And my apologies for the discomfort I know you must be feeling right now, so out of your element.”

  “Not so much discomfort, as just too warm.” She fanned her face, then felt a cool breeze at her neck and knew Mouse was fanning her with his wings. “I’ll be fine if I can just sit down. In my condition…”

  “Oh, my goodness me! You are with child!” He stared at her abdomen as if a sea drake might pop out at any second to devour him. “I didn’t know, I assure you! Why, I would never have imposed on you in such a state. The trip must have been torture!”

  “The trip wasn’t bad at all, Master Lightkeeper, but right now, I’m feeling a little faint.” The claim was no falsehood, for the heat was truly oppressive. Her blouse was already soaked through.

  “Of course, of course.” He motioned her up the steps. “Can you climb the stairs? I would offer you my hand, but I daresay you could not take it.”

  “No, no! I can make it on my own, thank you.” She blanched at the thought of touching the man. Her magic permeated her being, as did his, and the thought of their opposed energies connecting when their flesh met made her shudder. Instead, she gripped the stone wall and pulled herself along. By the time she reached the third landing and entered the lightkeeper’s study, she was breathing hard and sweat was rolling down her face.

  “Here, here! Sit! I’m sorry about this, really I am.” He ushered her to a chair, where she gratefully sat. Mouse buzzed around her face, fanning her, worry crunching his little face. The breeze helped, but she still felt as if she were sitting inside an oven.

  “Something to drink, perhaps?” she asked, loosening a couple of buttons on her blouse and fluttering the material to move some air. “Something cool?”

  “Hmm…something cool,” the old man said, as if the concept were alien to him. “I don’t know if I can…Ah! I’ve got it!” He rummaged through a stack of rustling parchment, which seemed to Cynthia an unlikely place to find a cool drink, but withdrew a single sheet and waved it at her. “This should do nicely!”

  “I don’t under—”

  “I never thought I’d have the chance to use this, but here we are! That just goes to show you: whatever’s worth doing, is worth doing backwards!”

  Now he really had her confused, but she refrained from interrupting as he went to his little pot-bellied stove and poured her a cup of steaming blackbrew. He put the cup on the low table before her, then drew an intricate symbol in the air just over the beverage. As he recited from the scroll in a low mumble, his finger left a trail of crimson fire. The paper burst into flames and Mouse yelped, diving behind Cynthia’s neck. In moments, the scroll had dissolved into fluttering bits of ash.

  “There you are!” he said triumphantly, taking a step back.

  Hesitantly, Cynthia reached out and grasped the cup. To her surprise and delight, the thick porcelain was ice cold, as was the beverage within. “Now that’s a handy trick!” she said as she pressed the cup’s moisture-beaded surface against her forehead. “Lovely. Thank you.”

  “The least I could do!” He poured a cup for himself, fortified it from a silver hip flask, and took a seat across from her. “I originally designed the spell to stabilize fulminating mercury, but that didn’t work out quite like I’d planned. Took a month to rebuild my laboratory! Ha! What a mess!”

  “That’s…very interesting,” she said, sipping the chilled blackbrew. It was bitter without cream to lighten it, but right then she would have welcomed a glass of rigging tar if it had been cold. Mouse came back out and sniffed the rim of the cup, muttered a quizzical string of chirps and resumed fanning her neck. “And the reason you asked me to come; you wrote that it was important, and that it had to do with magic. Elemental magic?”

  “That I did, that I did!” He sipped noisily and leaned back. “This really started a very long time ago, years before you came into your own powers, and I thought the matter was settled. Then you, my dear, broke the rules!”

  “Broke the rules? You mean by becoming a seamage so late?”

  “Quite, quite! Now he won’t shut up about it, and the convergence draws nigh, so I thought…Well, I see I’m not making much sense, am I? I suppose it would be much easier if I simply introduced you.”

  “Introduced me to—”

  “Edan!” he shouted, startling her. “Edan, come meet Mistress Flaxal!”

  The door to the study opened so quickly that it was obvious the young man with short orange-red hair had been standing right behind it. Cynthia deduced instantly that he was apprenticed to the lightkeeper; his scorched and burned clothing, as well as the tiny firesprite that hovered over his shoulder at the end of a golden chain, were dead giveaways. He bowed to the lightkeeper, while the firesprite tugged at the end of her chain and emitted a petulant chirp.

  Mouse’s wings suddenly stopped fluttering and he fell into Cynthia’s lap, almost landing in her cup of chilled blackbrew. The firesprite noticed him, and her flaming hair fluttered and flickered. She flew to the end of her chain and smiled, her tiny flaming eyebrows arching speculatively.

  “This is Edan, my long-time apprentice,” the lightkeeper said, waving the young man forward. “He had the misfortune to fail his rites of ascension some five years before you inexplicably managed y
ours. Edan, say hello to Mistress Cynthia Flaxal, Seamage of the Shattered Isles.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Edan said, his voice deeper than his boyish features had led her to expect. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “I’m…uh…” Her mind whirled ahead, finally comprehending the lightkeeper’s previous remarks. “I’m sure you have. Most of it probably utter fancy.” She turned to the lightkeeper and nodded in acknowledgement. “Edan wishes to become a pyromage, I assume?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am! More than anything!” Edan stepped forward, his hands clenched together in eagerness. With his advance, the firesprite fluttered to the length of the gold chain, coming within a foot of Cynthia’s knee, her eyes fixed on Mouse like two blazing rubies. Cynthia felt the innate heat of the tiny creature even through her dress.

  “Edan! Your manners!” The lightkeeper’s tone was harsh; obviously he was a stern master. “Sit down and keep Flicker away from our guest. We can’t have her catching the lady’s dress on fire.”

  “Thank you,” Cynthia said, in full agreement. Edan shortened the chain, earning a chirp of annoyance from the firesprite. Mouse managed to get his wings working again and fluttered aloft. Although he feared the firemage, he seemed enchanted by the other sprite and ventured closer, but Cynthia snatched him back. “And you want me to help in some way?”

  “Exactly,” the lightkeeper said, sipping his blackbrew and nodding toward Edan. “Edan is well into his sixteenth year, far older than I ever would have thought ascension was possible. You, however, succeeded at an even more advanced age. The convergence draws near, and Edan would like to attempt the ascension again.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand how my own…um…ascension occurred,” Cynthia confessed with a wrinkled brow, remembering that stormy night two years before: the storm, the moon, the lightning…the mer. “So I’m not sure how I can be of assistance. And what is the convergence you say is near?”

  “Why, the convergence of the sun and moon, of course!” The lightkeeper looked at her incredulously, as if she’d just asked him whether it was day or night outside. “With your own ascension to seamage, the crescent moon converged with the constellation of The Hilt, Odea’s favored stars. During a pyromage’s rites, the sun and moon converge to emulate this.” He fished a bronze pendant from under his tunic. It depicted a simple sunburst, rays radiating in all directions, but the face was covered with a perfectly black obsidian disc, so that the rays extended from darkness.