Conqueror's Moon

by Julian May

  The victorious Cathrans who were not on duty had taken over the great hall, where a roaring blaze at the center and replenished wall-cressets cheered and warmed the scene. Even if most of the food and drink on the trestle boards was cold, there was plenty of it.

  The smallish high table was already filled by Catclaw and Cloudfell and their roistering knights, celebrating the abbreviated combat. Conrig and Snudge sat down on stools by the fire that had been hastily vacated when the prince approached.

  Cloudfell’s armiger came running from the table with a crock of steaming spiced wine. “Your Grace! My lord urges you and your squire to come sit with us.”

  “Nay, lad, we’re fine right here. But search out Duke Tanaby and the earl marshal and bid them join us.”

  When the armiger dashed off, leaving the jug behind, Conrig spoke in a low voice to Snudge, who was filling both their cups. “As I understand it, your talent for hiding is based upon misdirecting observers rather than true invisibility. Furthermore, you once told me that the trick is impossible to manage if more than two or three persons are watching.”

  Snudge nodded.

  “Yet you overcame six gatehouse guards, by Maddick’s own admission. How?”

  “I lifted their helms and whacked them on the head with a sock full of coins. It works fine, even through a chain mail hood.”

  “And not a single man saw you?” Disbelief curled the prince’s lip.

  Sighing, Snudge unbuttoned his shirt, drew forth the bagged moonstone sigil and let its pale green glow shine for an instant behind his cupped hand. “I was quite invisible. As you doubtless suspect by now, Iscannon’s amulet, the one called Concealer, is fully empowered and bonded to me. The Tarnian shaman Red Ansel helped with the conjuring.”

  “God’s Teeth!” the prince hissed. “You told me you threw it in the sea!”

  “Ansel also cautioned me to use the sigil only under the most grave circumstances, lest my soul be endangered by the Beaconfolk. Your Grace, I debated long with myself before deciding not to tell you that Concealer was alive. You may recall that I beseeched you to trust me. Now, of course, you must know about the stone, since I presume you wish me to undertake another special mission: opening the Mallmouth Bridge gate.”

  Conrig took a deep pull of wine, trying to calm his anger, trying to be fair to the youth who had just enabled the first victory of his campaign against Didion. But his pride was sorely wounded, and he felt that his ability to control this all-important enterprise had been flouted by a lowborn boy. “Never presume to deny me such knowledge again!” His whisper was grating and his face dark with suppressed anger. “I am your liege lord, and it’s you who owe me trust!”

  Snudge lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I feared…”

  “You feared I would make frivolous use of your sigil! You played me false, Deveron Austrey. I did trust you, but you had no faith in me!”

  The boy said nothing, nor did he raise his eyes. He pushed the bagged moonstone into his shirt and fastened the buttons.

  “I forgive you,” Conrig said, in a voice that was still unsteady, wondering whether he spoke the truth. “Drink up. Here come Beorbrook and Vanguard, slowly pushing through the crowd. The duke already knows the truth about your talent. Now is the time for the earl marshal to know as well—and about the Concealer sigil. We four must decide how to effect the conquest of Holt Mallburn, now that we can no longer depend fully upon the assistance of Princess Ullanoth.”

  Snudge drained his cup and wiped his mouth with his cuff. He was confident again as he looked the prince in the eye. “Do you recall how you planned for me and the armigers to guard the Conjure-Princess during the battle for the city? I think you might use us to much better advantage in another way.” He explained what he wanted to do, and what he would need.

  “I can obtain a map of southern Didion for you easily enough,” the prince said, frowning. “As for a diagram of the Mallmouth Bridge machinery—such a thing must exist in the Cathra University library at Greenley. I’ll have Stergos bespeak them, get a description, and sketch it for you… But you must find a way to open the bridge by yourself, Snudge, as you did here today at Castle Redfern. I refuse to let you reveal your wild talent to a mob of boys! They’d never be able to keep the secret. It would put paid to your future usefulness to me as an intelligencer.”

  “I won’t need all of the armiger cohort, Your Grace, but I will require help. The bridge defenses are bound to be much more complex and difficult to overcome than those of this small castle. Concealer is capable of rendering invisible persons who stand close to me. I could take just three squires—”

  Conrig broke in. “But must you tell them of your arcane abilities? The boys have no notion of the way sigil magic operates, that it can only serve the talented. Can’t you say that the Concealer stone never lost its power when you took it from Iscannon?”

  “I could do that,” Snudge agreed, “and caution them to tell no one about it.” And perhaps they would obey.

  “If Vra-Doman or another Brother of Zeth should learn of your using the sigil, they would realize the truth. So would Ullanoth. And I think your life would not be worth a mouse turd if the Conjure-Princess should discover that you have the talent and own a Concealer.”

  “She can’t windwatch me, so she’ll only learn of my talent and possession of the stone if someone tells her. I can swear my fellow squires to secrecy, in your name. Then I’ll conveniently ‘lose’ the sigil during the battle. If the Brethren hear rumors of it later, their tender consciences will not oblige them to report the matter to Abbas Noachil. As for my alleged wild talent”—the boy shrugged— “how can it be proved, and why would loyal adepts wish to expose me?”

  “Hmmm,” said Conrig. “This could work. Let’s put it to the duke and the earl marshal, to make certain we haven’t overlooked some crucial flaw in the plan.”

  “They probably won’t like it,” Snudge predicted. “Laying such a great burden upon the shoulders of mere squires won’t sit well with older warriors.”

  “Then let them come up with an alternative,” said the prince, with a dismissive flip of his hand.

  The Didionite wizard Fring Bulegosset, principal talent accompanying the armada of Honigalus of Didion, swept into the Crown Prince’s day-cabin on the Casabarela Regnant with a supercilious nod.

  “Your Royal Highness, how can I serve you?”

  Honigalus and Fleet Captain Galbus Peel were seated at a table where charts and navigational instruments were laid out. The morning sun shone brightly outside the stern windows of the great barque. Three hours earlier, the fleet had emerged from the fog that had shielded it while it sailed out of Didion Bay.

  Unfortunately, the fair wind that had speeded the fleet’s passage on the previous day immediately dropped to a light breeze once the ships reached the open sea and turned south.

  “Fring, I want you to bespeak King Beynor of Moss,” said the prince, “and try to get him to pump up the damned wind for us. You can see how we’ve lost way in the last few hours. While he’s at it, ask him to shift the wind direction from west to northeasterly, and bring back the fog so the enemy can’t scry us. We’re already nearly abreast of the Cathran shore. You can take a seat over there in the aft corner, by the windows, while you work.”

  “Well, I’ll do the best I can, Your Highness,” the wizard said tetchily, “but the young Conjure-King was uncommonly brusque when I last bespoke him, requesting his estimate on our time of arrival in the Dolphin Channel. One is tempted to think that our request for changes in the winds may be straining his abilities.”

  Fring seated himself, drew the hood of his black robe over his face with a dramatic gesture, and silently began the magical communication. He was a well-fleshed, pasty-faced man in his fourth decade of life, with a small tight mouth and beady blue eyes as pale as watered milk. His windwatching talent was the most powerful in Didion, equalled only by the towering arrogance of his manner. Even though the naval officers an
d men were on iron rations (and fair-minded Honigalus himself shared their fare for the sake of morale), special delicacies of food had been quietly brought aboard the flagship to keep this all-important wizard in good humor; he had also insisted upon traveling with his personal cook-slave.

  Captain Peel said to the prince, “Do you think Fring could be right about Beynor not being able to pull his oar strongly enough, performing weather magic?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe these extraordinary feats are harder on a boy than on a grown man. There does seem to have been something strange about his behavior the last few times we’ve bespoken him. He’s been evasive about the nature of the widespread landside fog, for one thing, not seeming to know whether or not it’s natural or produced by Cathran adepts to hide troop movements. Still, my brother Somarus’s scouts haven’t found any evidence of forces assembling around Great Pass, and no Cathran infiltrators have been seen or captured by the outposts above Castlemont.”

  “This clear blue sky is unexpected.” The captain was offhand, but Honigalus understood his implication immediately.

  “And we know what it must mean! I doubt Beynor would admit that the Wolf’s Breath has ceased of its own accord, and we certainly won’t point it out to him while we still have a use for his magical services. But if the volcanos have gone quiet at last, there’ll be no need to pay the young knave the outrageous tribute he squeezed out of my father. We won’t deny him completely, lest he retaliate. But appropriate renegotiations will be called for.”

  Peel chuckled. “It’s only just. I wouldn’t be surprised if Beynor already knew the eruptions were nearly over when he pledged to stop them with sorcery.”

  “We can’t trust him an inch, Galbus. But we don’t dare antagonize him yet. We’ll need fair winds in the Dolphin Channel to take on the Cathran fleet—and our allies in Stippen and Foraile must be able to join us without delay once we round the Vigilant Isles.”

  “This time of year, we’re likely to get fair winds down there even without resorting to magic. Let me show you.” The stalwart Peel began to demonstrate tactical technicalities on a channel chart, using tiny model ships, and the two men remained completely absorbed until the wizard rose from his seat, threw back his hood, and approached. His countenance was baleful.

  “I’ve spoken to King Beynor,” he announced, interrupting the captain’s lecture without apology. “It seems His Majesty is temporarily indisposed, due to magical overexertion on our behalf. He tells me he’ll perhaps be recovered later, when we can expect the wind to rise. Restoring the seafog, unfortunately, is not possible at this time. He gave me a complicated explanation involving arctic air masses and other meteorological twaddle that I’ll spare you.”

  Honigalus uttered a disappointed curse. “There goes any hope of postponing the Cathrans spotting us.”

  “If we sail well away from the coast,” Fring said, “we’ll be out of their range. Only Mossland wizards, Tarnian shamans, and a handful of other adepts can windwatch or search beyond twenty leagues or so, even with combined talents.” He paused and looked away modestly. “I, of course, am able to scry nearly thirty leagues, over open water.”

  “Which is why we are so fortunate to have you with us,” Honigalus said tactfully.

  “Don’t worry, Highness,” Peel said, flicking an indifferent glance at the wizard. “Even if the Cathrans do scry us, our strategy can accommodate it.”

  “But,” intoned Fring, almost with malicious glee, “can it also accommodate a squadron of twenty Tarnian frigates racing to Cathra’s aid? King Beynor assures me it is on its way. The ships left Tarnholme yesterday morning, driven by strong natural winds. We’re actually racing them to Cala.”

  “Bloody hell!” groaned Honigalus. “How long before the Wave-Harriers make Intrepid Headland and Cala Bay?”

  “Perhaps as little as four days, given the expertise of their crews,” Fring said. “The Conjure-King may be able to delay them—but only at the cost of giving less impetus to our own fleet.”

  Galbus Peel was rummaging in a drawer of the chart table. He found more model ships and began deploying them in Tarn’s Goodfortune Bay with a mordant smile. “Our upcoming sea-war looks more and more interesting. Any other bad news, wizard?”

  “If you require some,” Fring replied loftily, “I can always have my colleagues intensify their windscrutiny of the shore. Perhaps we’ll detect a group of Cathran adepts scrying us from Skellhaven.”

  Honigalus said, “Do what must be done. And bespeak our spies in Cala City again. I must know whether Prince Conrig is still in the palace attending the dying king. Tell them to exert their talents to the utmost and find out for me.”

  Fring sniffed. “If King Beynor has thus far failed to discover Conrig’s whereabouts, I doubt whether our people on the scene in Cala will have much better luck. I’ll urge them to do their best, but I can’t promise success.” He gave a curt bob of his head and left the day-room.

  “Prickly bastard,” the Fleet Captain observed. “But he seems to know his job.”

  “Just as you do, my friend.” Honigalus went to the expanse of windows at the ship’s stern and looked out at the Didionite navy surrounding his flagship. The vessels had raised every scrap of canvas in hopes of utilizing the paltry breeze. “With Tarnian mercenaries augmenting their fleet, the Cathrans will have far the advantage of numbers until our allies from Stippen and Foraile arrive.”

  “But not a tactical advantage,” Peel said comfortably. “Our men o‘ war are bigger, faster, and better armed, and we’ve forgotten more about naval tactics than those poxy southerners ever knew. With or without the aid of our Continental friends, we’ll whip the cods off the lubbers.”

  For the first time in many days his body was free from pain, and the terrifying dreams had finally ceased. Let the Didionites wait until tomorrow for their high wind. He had other business to accomplish—out on the Darkling Sands.

  The Conjure-King ordered his skiff to be prepared, then had himself driven down to the harbor in a two-wheeled pony carriage. Most of the fishing fleet was away, but six large sealers from Thurock had come up from the south and were unloading bales of raw furs and casks of oil at the commercial dock. A single fast schooner of the Fennycreek Company was taking on a cargo of amber, walrus ivory, and medicinal herbs, risking one last profitable run to the Continental markets before winter closed in. Beynor had the coach stop at their warehouse store, where the manager presented him with three small, lumpy leather sacks. He scrawled his signature on a receipt and ordered the carriage driver to proceed to the royal boathouse.

  The day was brilliantly sunny and crisp with a smart offshore breeze, ideal for his day-trip. Alighting at his private dock, he greeted Opor, the grizzled old retainer in charge of small craft who had first taught him to sail when he was a tiny lad. “Is everything ready?”

  “Aft’noon, Majesty. Got your oilskins stowed aboard. You’ll need ‘em out in the channel. It’s chilly. Sand-gliders, too—but you take care if you go for a stroll on the flats today. Tide’s dead low now, but she’ll come in three foot over normal.”

  “Thanks, Opor.”

  “Sail’s still under cover. Didn’t figure you’d need it.”

  “That’s fine.” The king hopped aboard the skiff and stowed the three sacks while Opor cast him off. A few minutes later the boat was moving down the Darkling River, impelled by the regal talent, while Beynor sat at the tiller and gazed over the sparkling expanses of black sand.

  He deliberately emptied his mind and tried to relax, keeping as close as he could to the southern shore, which was bereft of human habitation above the isolated village of Gonim. Area creeks draining the Little Fen made a maze of confusing channels accessible only to shallow-draft watercraft, such as his own skiff.

  He steered up one of those creeks, past desolate marshy islets where recent hard frosts had rendered the rice-grass and bulrushes lifeless and brown and driven away most of the birds. It was cold, even with the windproof oilski
ns, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to wait too long at the lake.

  Two leagues inland, he reached the first of the Forbidden Lakes, linked dark mirrors of water having a reputation so sinister that not even the most intrepid fowlers and herb-hunters ever came there. Only Beynor came, and then only when he needed to converse face-to-face with the Darkling Sands Salka.

  He liked to think that this particular band of monsters were his friends. They were much less sophisticated—and less contemptuous of humanity—than the Salka of the Great Fens or the Dawntide Isles. When Beynor was twelve, just entering manhood, two of the frightful creatures from the Forbidden Lakes had inexplicably rescued him from death on the tideflats. In the years that followed he’d visited their scattered settlements along the chain of lakes, bringing gifts and soliciting counsel on magical matters.

  The Salka were the ones who had first recognized his tremendous talent and suggested that he might be able to master the Seven Stones of Rothbannon, even though his parents had failed so disastrously. The Salka had shown him how to convince Lady Zimroth (and ultimately, the entire Glaumerie Guild) that he was worthy to be trusted with the sigils. They’d guided him through his first encounter with the Lights when he’d activated Subtle Armor, the least of the minor stones. They’d advised him on the safe use of Shapechanger, Concealer, and Fortress. But when it came to the three Great Stones, the Darkling Salka had turned reticent. They provided only reluctant advice about Weathermaker—and would say nothing at all about Destroyer or the Unknown Potency. Whether their silence was prompted by fear, or by an unwillingness to permit a human to control high sorcery that should have belonged to their own race, Beynor did not know.