“But, sir, their appearance…?”
“They choose to give the appearance of poor folk. Their work is arduous and does not require their best clothes, does it?”
“No, sir.”
Launette scanned the paths leading to the floor of the fault on both sides. They were used only by those without money and it was little more than a goat track and dangerous, as evinced by the skeletons that littered the rock-strewn base.
“Join me, Captain.” They rode together down the grassy knoll.
On the rim of the fault stood a collection of buildings constructed of wood and dry-stone wall. Hartwood beams were wedged between huge boulders, their arms suspended over the edge. Pulleys and blocks, linked by tough rope, snaked towards a pair of windlasses propelled by donkeys.
A short squat man of indeterminate age and a pot belly stepped out from behind a boulder and leaned on the haft of a spear. Launette recognised him.
“You wish to cross, traveller?” Ren-kan Sig queried. His face was lopsided, and had been so since birth. He owned a beaked nose which all his progeny inherited.
Launette and Omagma halted their horses, gazed down at the head of the crossing family.
“Aye,” Launette said, “that we do – and will you give my caravan a fair deal?”
“Caravan?”
Omagma pointed to the crest of the knoll. One moment, it was bare, then slowly the caravan topped the rise and gradually descended towards them. In the van rode horsemen carrying Launette’s family banner, and behind them lurched the richly caparisoned wagon that held princess Yordine Ukasur, Launette’s sister.
Ren-kan Sig’s face lit up, the askew features contorting. “A veritable caravan, indeed, sir!” He cackled, revealing yellow teeth. “Yes, I can offer you a good rate, my lord!”
Launette reckoned that only holding the spear prevented Ren-kan from rubbing his hands together in glee. “Very well. Settle with my treasurer, Vort Hoy. He will join us shortly. Have you decent quarters to accommodate our ladies while the crossing is under way?”
“Yes, sir. The very best, my lord!”
Ren-kan exaggerated. The dwelling he indicated with pride was a wooden hut, supplied with four beds, a table and six chairs. A serving counter suspended between two barrels was stocked with sealed bottles and flagons. A stove was lit; on top, a heavy metal pot bubbled. Fumes filled the cramped quarters with a woody miasma; it barely concealed the stink of grease, stale food and rank body odour.
Omagma escorted the women inside.
Yordine Ukasur entered and stopped at the threshold, only the wrinkling of her curved prominent nose betraying her distaste for the place. Indeed, she carried herself with great poise and Launette had to admit she didn’t look as if she had lived forty-one summers. He was eight years older and sometimes felt it. Her long black hair swept up off her neck to reveal a deep brown complexion; smooth, unblemished, and attractive, her beauty inherited from their mother, Princess Kemner, may she rest in peace. She wore a jewelled plastron bodice that emphasised her curves, gored skirt and jewelled sandals.
She turned her tall frame and offered a smile with her wide generous mouth. “Brother,” she said in a reedy voice, “you do me great honour.” She was ever sarcastic; still, he preferred that to her sharp shrill tone when angered; her tongue could wound as deep as any knife.
He bowed, raised an eyebrow. “It will suffice until we have conveyed your wagon to the other side?”
Her deep brown eyes sparkled and her narrow shoulders shrugged. “It will have to.” She gestured to her handmaids. “Clean a space for me to rest.”
Two maids silently slipped past to do her bidding.
“Join me later, Brother. We have to discuss the wedding arrangements.”
“There is time. I do not foresee the nuptials taking place for at least two months.”
“So long?”
He nodded. “There is much to arrange. I will rejoin you as soon as I’m satisfied that the crossing is in good hands.” He pivoted on his boot heel and strode over to the edge of the fault.
From here, he had a good view of the contraption. A broad square platform of wooden planks swayed under the high gantry. If any rope frayed and snapped, the fall would be fatal. Already, Ren-kan Sig and his young son Tig had loaded the first wagon – Ukasur’s – onto the platform. All the contents had been taken out, set aside on the ground for later transport. Ropes strained, wood moaned under the weight, and gradually the donkeys trod their tedious circular path, lowering the pulley rope. Hig, another of Ren-kan’s sons, rode with the carriage, wielding a thick wooden pole, which he used to gently ease the platform away from the cliff face during its descent.
Omagma detailed his lieutenant Matred Boudela to supervise the unloading. Matred was a stocky man of limited height and intellect with a short temper and didn’t suffer fools gladly. His eyes were close together and he rarely spoke, save to give orders or reprimands. Still, he got the work done. And Launette believed they needed men like Matred.
To convey the entire caravan from one side of the fault to the other would take at least two days, he estimated. That included not only the descent and the ascent at the other side, but also the trek across the fault floor, which at this point was about half a launmark. Already, about half of his men were erecting tents and building camp fires for cooking and to ward off the chill of the encroaching night. The other half were helping with the wagons.
Launette walked on.
At the big entrance flap of the quartermaster’s tent, Omagma sat next to the treasurer Vort Hoy. Beside them stood the money chest. Leaning on a flimsy table, Vort counted out the fee for the caravan to cross the fault. “Half now, the rest when we are safely across.”
Ren-kan scooped up the money, licking his lips. “Yes, that will be suitable.”
“It will be. But if there are any damages or deaths, the final sum will suffer a deduction.”
“Just so, sir,” said Ren-kan, nodding. “But nothing will go wrong. My family has served as crossing agents since before the calendar came into being.”
Launette glanced away, amused. Many torches had been lit already, some in crevices in the rocky niches of the cliff face. The crossing family would work all through the night; fortunately, there were plenty of them.
Night would fall swiftly. He made his way back to the hut. He didn’t relish discussing the wedding arrangements with Ukasur. He would much rather help his men and the crossing family. At least that way he would ensure the Ren-kans earned their pay.
***
Second Dloin of Fornious
The royal palace, Old City, Lornwater
Nostor Vata was shown into the presence of the king and queen. Saurosen sensed his heart clench at sight of her. He’d known her most of his adult life and yet she seemed unchanged, despite her fifty years. She possessed the smooth complexion of an adolescent with the tall shapely body to match: her deep ochre gown was worn with one shoulder and breast left bare. Gold bands and bangles adorned her arms and wrists. A curved knife hung at her belt. Her blue-grey eyes now pierced him as she crossed the floor soundlessly in rope-soled sandals. “You sent for me, sire.” Her voice was like surf sifting over sand. A narrow vertical crease marred her forehead above the bridge of her nose. She touched this briefly, and then shook her head and her long black hair glistened.
“Sister Vata,” Saurosen said, “you’re a wise woman. You see things we cannot. Please advise me on the rebellion.”
Nostor Vata bowed acknowledgement of his praise. She closed her eyes and raised a finger to her forehead. Saurosen cringed as she gently massaged the crease; engorged lips appeared on either side of the slit and it opened slightly, a deep red within, then something glinted like the eye of a raven. The third eye. Her exposed nipple hardened, and her complexion took on a ruddy hue. “Sire, there are other hands who hold the strings.”
“Strings?” queried Jikkos, stepping forward.
“The rebels, highness,” she breathed thro
atily, “they are mere puppets.”
Saurosen growled, “Whose hands hold their strings?”
“Proof is hard to obtain, sire.” She gasped, her finger caressing the moist lips of her third eye. “However, I see a suspect… It is Baron Laan.”
“Baron Laan?” echoed Jikkos.
“Captain Aurelan Crossis!” the door sentry announced. The doors opened and Aurelan Crossis entered, accompanied by Sergeant Bayuan Aco.
Nostor Vata hastily draped the hem of her gown over her face.
Queen Jikkos swung round, snapped, “What is the meaning of this intrusion? You have not been summoned!”
Aurelan bowed, saluted, his eyes avoiding Nostor Vata. “Your majesty, the king wanted my report on the defences. He said it was urgent.” He eyed the king. “Sire?”
Turning away from Nostor Vata, Saurosen said, “Very well, Aurelan, report to me, but make it brief. I have pressing business with my Sardan.”
“Yes, sire.” Aurelan reported that the walls were secure and no breaches had been made. “I believe they will hold. Intelligence reports suggest that there are too many factions of rebels, they are not capable of a concerted attack.”
“Is that it?”
“All of the escape tunnels have caved in, as you feared, sire. I have put a detail to work on them and they should be cleared again in two days.”
“You have been thorough, Captain,” said the queen. “Now leave us.”
As Aurelan bowed and then turned with his sergeant, the queen added, “Be vigilant, Captain. Your reward will be substantial when the rebellion has been crushed.”
Bowing again, Aurelan answered between gritted teeth, “I will do my duty, my queen.”
Saurosen peered at Jikki. “His eyes, did you notice, my dear?”
“Yes, he seemed to be restraining a deep-seated anger.”
“He bears watching, that one,” opined Nostor Vata as she let fall the material from her face. The third eye was now a mere slit in her forehead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DEFLECTED
“The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where the gods tremble, while they gaze,
He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
With one eye in endless night.”
- The Lay of Lorgen
Manderranmeron Fault
Between them, Omagma and his lieutenant Matred Boudela coordinated the unloading of the twenty wagons of provisions and the ten carts of gifts. Manhandling one vehicle at a time onto the platform took skill and patience.
The horses and oxen were reluctant to go and had to be blind-folded before they would step on the swaying platform. Once, an ox rubbed its head against the ropes and tore away the blind-fold; it immediately panicked and backed away from the precipitous edge. The platform sloped and a soldier unbalanced, fell under its hoofs. He screamed, which added to the pandemonium, and then the unfortunate man tumbled off and fell to his doom amidst the rocks. Bravely, young Ren-kan Tig replaced the blindfold and the ox quietened immediately.
All through the day, the Ren-kan family and Lord-General Launette’s men worked to get the twenty-eight wagons and ten carts and all their contents to the bottom of the fault.
By dusk, all the vehicles were collected at the far side of the fault, ready to be hauled up.
***
Second Dloinma of Fornious
Darkness descended. “Dismantle the tents!” Launette ordered. He signed to Vort Hoy. “You will go down last, with me – and the money chest.”
“Yes, my lord.” Vort Hoy didn’t seem too comfortable about that idea, though. His anxiety grew as the platform was gradually lowered, the ropes straining, the wood creaking. Hig, the other Ren-kan boy, poled against the fault wall, to keep them clear. Shadows danced on the rock face, cast by the torches in sconces all the way down.
They were about half-way to the bottom when Launette sensed something wrong. Nothing in particular, but the hairs at the nape of his neck rose. He raised his eye-patch and scanned the opposite side with this eye, which possessed a nictitating membrane. He blinked rapidly, and the image ahead on the ridge cleared, became more defined, even in the darkness. Beyond the far rim, soldiers were busy setting up camp again, building new fires, but the light from them didn’t reach the edge, didn’t disclose the man kneeling, partly concealed by a boulder.
It was the slightest movement that drew his attention. No normal eye would have detected it. Matred Boudela knelt and stretched a longbow, arrow nocked.
Launette’s eye perceived the arrow take flight towards him.
His fore-arm raised, and the vambrace deflected the arrow. Vort Hoy let out a strangled yelp; a second arrow pierced the treasurer’s thigh. A third followed, and this hit Ren-kan Hig. The lad dropped the pole, stumbled backwards, fell against the rock-face and slid down between platform and cliff. The platform lurched with the displacement of weight, and slammed against the fault wall. A fourth arrow hit the treasurer in the arm. And another barely missed Launette’s face, slicing one of the supporting ropes.
Now, the platform tilted and a corner crashed into the rock-face. Wood splintered.
Launette held onto a supporting rope, stamped his foot on the money chest which started to pitch to the lip of the platform.
Soldiers below had heard and several ran to base of the cliff, called up, “Lord-General, are you all right!”
Their presence clearly dissuaded Matred, who had vanished.
Launette replaced his eye-patch, shouted, “Aye, I’ll be fine. Keep lowering! Bring me the butcher!”
Their surgeon was lowered from the other side. He hurried across the fault floor to the comatose treasurer.
The surgeon studied Vort’s wound – flesh had taken on a dull ochre colour with red flecks – and shook his head. “Anjis newt poisoning. He will be dead by morning…”
“Thank you, surgeon. Make him comfortable.” Launette turned to the men who clustered round. “Take me up!” he commanded, crossing the fault floor.
When he got to the top of the varteron side of the fault, he was met by Omagma.
“My lord, Ren-kan will pay dearly for this!”
“It wasn’t a fault on the crossing family’s part, Captain. Indeed, they’ve lost their boy, Hig.” He strode over to his tent, which had recently been erected. “Bring your lieutenant to me.”
Within his tent, he sat at a chair behind a table; a single lantern glowed, light flickering. He snatched a goblet, poured wine, and swallowed. By the hoary gods, that had been close! If one of those poisoned arrow tips had found its mark. Calmly, he raised his eye-patch, peered into the shadowy far corner of the tent.
“Come out, Sister Hara. I know you prefer the shadows, but enlighten me as to why you are here.” Aniri had recruited her as a concubine for him, but he preferred using her Sardan gifts more than her body. She was an accomplished mind-reacher, too.
In an instant, she divested herself of her fur-trimmed purple robe and stood naked before him. “You desire answers, my lord.” She slowly moved her long-fingered hands between her thighs, concealing the bush of dark curls. “Enter me to find them.”
Her arcane offer was tempting. She was tall with pronounced hips and full breasts, her long black hair falling to her waist. Her skin was mottled brown pigments and white, her nose long and straight, while her mauve eyes with flecks of yellow transfixed him. A distinctive crease in her forehead sent shivers down his spine.
Snaking in and out between her ankles purred her black cat, its golden eyes unwaveringly on him. She had told him more than once that the feline possessed her as much as she possessed it; he didn’t know what to make of that.
“I will find my answers in my own way, Sardan. Tell me, why did you not foresee this attempt on my life?”
“There are many future events, my lord, and none are written on parchment, only in vague mist. I did not foresee your death. Therefore, I had no concern for your safety at this crossing.”
“Very wel
l. You may put your robe on. I will avail myself of your generous offer at a later time, be assured. I imply no disrespect in declining now.”
“No affront is taken, my lord. You will indeed avail yourself of me at some time; that is foretold.”
“I look forward to it. Now, leave me, while I drink my wine and contemplate what I shall do next to obtain my answers.”
Sister Hara bowed briefly, draped herself in her robe and, like a ghost, flitted from the tent.
He had drunk two goblets before Omagma returned. “Lord-General,” said Omagma at the tent entrance, “I am here with Lieutenant Matred.”
“Enter!”
Omagma’s face showed concern. “Do you wish to talk now, sir? It has been a long day and you have been subject to quite an ordeal. Can it not wait till the morn?”
Matred sweated at Captain Omagma’s side.
“No, it cannot wait.” Launette stood. “Hold Matred’s hands at his side, Captain!”
Used to obeying orders, no matter how obscure, Omagma did as he was commanded.
Matred struggled in vain.
“Lord-General?” Omagma queried.
Launette walked round the table, grasped Matred’s right hand, which was clenched. “Release this arm, please, Captain.”
He then raised Matred’s right hand, prised the fingers apart. An arrow-head dropped to the earthy floor; a small cut bled in his palm.
“You’ve heard about the treasurer?” he asked the captain.
“Aye. He won’t live to see another sunrise.”
“Your lieutenant here attempted to assassinate me with an arrow or two. Luckily, he missed.” He pointed to the dropped arrowhead. “He even hoped to make another attempt in here.”
Matred stared wide-eyed. “How could you know? I deny it!”
Tapping his eye-patch, Launette said, “I can see in the dark, if I have to, Matred. More’s the pity for you!” He peeled back the patch and his eye glared, sending a faint purple glow upon Matred’s features.
In vain, Matred tried to recoil, but Omagma held him fast. “This is witchcraft!”
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