Conqueror's Moon

by Julian May

“The task can be achieved,” Snudge insisted, “and by us. Four tarnblaze bombshells exploded within the counterweight water-chamber will crack it badly and damage the pump mechanism so that neither one can be fixed for days—even weeks. We accomplish that task first, then jam open the two portcullises of the bridge gate. They are raised and lowered with ordinary chains and windlasses located on the upper floor of the tower.”

  “Sounds easy as pie,” Mero said in a scathing tone, licking honey off his big fingers. “We’ll just marshal up a thousand spunkies and order ‘em to drink the blood of every foeman inside the bridge tower.”

  “No,” Snudge said equably. “My plan is quite different, and it doesn’t include magical mayhem.”

  “But there will be some sort of magic at work, I presume!”

  “There will,” Snudge agreed.

  “Then tell us what kind!” Mero demanded, jumping to his feet with hands clenched. “And what about Princess Ullanoth? Is she going to help us with sorcery?”

  Snudge shook his head. “You’ll hear details of the plan when I’m ready to tell them. Do you intend to dispute my leadership, even after promising Prince Conrig you’d follow without question? Or does the thought of magic frighten you?”

  The big armiger’s face went dark with fury. “Are you calling me a coward—” He broke off, his jaw dropping, as a high-pitched, wavering screech came from outside the inn. “Futter me! What the hell was that?”

  Belamil dashed to the open doorway. “Nothing outside but fog. Our guiding spunkies seem to be gone.”

  “The murdering wee wankers are probably killing someone,” Mero growled. “We could be next!”

  Snudge said, “The Small Lights aren’t dangerous to human beings in daytime. Even at night, when they’re strongest, it takes large numbers of them to overcome a grown man or woman. Of course a small child, in thick fog…” He trailed off uncomfortably.

  “Perhaps the noise was just a fox taking a hare,” Saunder said, clearly believing nothing of the sort.

  “I think it’s time for us to press on,” Snudge decided. “Pack up. And collect some wood we can use for torches. I have a pot of pitch we can dip them in later.”

  He folded the parchment and put it into his belt-pouch, then went outside to call the missing spunkies back from whatever mischief they had been up to.

  Even with the mare named Mist moving at a snail’s pace, Ullanoth arrived at the great hill-park surrounding Holt Mallburn palace in early afternoon. Its wrought-iron gates were locked, but she rode boldly up to the sentinels on duty and addressed them in cracked, querulous tones.

  “How does one get an audience with King Achardus?”

  The armed men regarded her with amused scorn. “These darksome days, one doesn’t,” said the sergeant. “I’m surprised you don’t know that, Gammer.”

  “I’ve come a distance,” she admitted, “all the way from Highcliff hoping to appeal our baron’s unjust sentencing to death of my grandson. Poor Nallo never burnt those hayricks! They only blamed him because he’s not quite right in the head. I realize my appearance is not prepossessing, messire, but I’m not without means. I hoped His Majesty would accept a nice token from me and look kindly on my petition for clemency.”

  The sergeant’s eyes shone with greed. “You could give the petition and the token to me. I’ll take it in straightaway.”

  “Then His Majesty is in residence?”

  “Where else would he be?” The man was getting impatient. “Well?”

  She feigned concerned thought. “Oh, dear! I’d set my heart on seeing the king myself. If you could but arrange it, messire, there’d be a lovely token for you, too.”

  “King Achardus doesn’t see the commonalty. Give over your petition and coin, woman, and stop wasting my time.”

  “I must go back to the inn and fetch them,” she said. “Expect my return in an hour or so.”

  She dug her heels into the mare’s ribs and cantered away into the fog before the guards could restrain her. “Or better yet,” she murmured to herself, “expect me when you least expect me!”

  The princess turned into a narrow alley between tall, shuttered shops, a place she had scouted out before approaching the Royal Park. She dismounted and removed the fardel she had lashed to the saddle.

  “Now you must go back where you belong, Mist,” she informed the dapple grey, and commanded the moonstone named Beastbidder to find the mare’s rightful home and compel her to return there.

  “Small Lights?” she called on the wind. “Shanakin?”

  A swarm of golden sparks with a single blue-white one among them winked into view. Yes, lady?

  “I require you now to travel with this mare to her home and keep her safe from human villains.”

  We would rather suck the juices from the beast, lady. And the villains, too.

  “Do as I say! All of you leave me now. I intend to rest for some hours. Await my summons outside the main gatehouse of Holt Mallburn Palace at midnight.”

  The mare pricked up her ears as though listening. A moment later she trotted off downhill, in the direction of the city center. The spunkies had vanished.

  Ullanoth replaced Beastbidder and readied Interpenetrator. It would make short work of the iron fence around the park—to say nothing of the palace walls.

  Yes, she would rest—but not before using the enhanced viewing powers of Subtle Loophole to study everyone who interested her. Too much time had passed without her being able to scrutinze the play-actors in her great drama and make certain that all was well.

  She intended to oversee Achardus in his palace, her wicked little brother Beynor, King Olmigon of Cathra, the fleet of Tarnian mercenaries, the distant Southern Continent where the corsairs of Foraile and Stippen were gathering, Crown Prince Honigalus and his armada, and Conrig and his invasion force.

  It would be an uncomfortable session that might lay her low for hours, but performing the difficult oversight within Holt Mallburn itself would be deliciously satisfying. Before undertaking the work she’d savor fine food and drink from the royal kitchen and buttery, take a much-needed bath, and wash her hair. Snooping about hidden by Concealer, she’d surely be able to find suitable fresh garments for herself in the wardrobe of one of the Didionite princesses. It would never do to welcome Conrig wearing the rags of Witch Walanoth. Later, when the ordeal of scrying was over, she’d take her repose in one of the palace’s elegant guest rooms.

  How ironic it was that she should come so harmlessly into the innermost stronghold of Didion! Invisible, able to pass through the thickest wall or the most secure door, she could kill Achardus Mallburn as easily as a rabbit, opening the veins of the giant monarch’s throat with his own purloined dagger. But she would not. Such a gross deed was not fitting for a future Conjure-Queen, nor did she have any personal animosity towards Didion’s king. Vengeance belonged to Conrig Wincantor. All Ullanoth intended to do was make that vengeance possible, with the help of her friends.

  Subtle Loophole showed Achardus Mallburn, his Privy Council, Archwizard Ilingus, and Queen Siry Boarsden wrangling over penalties to be imposed on the treacherous timberlords of Firedrake Water, who had refused to send troops to join Prince Somarus’s defense force at Great Pass. How boring! But it was interesting that the tall queen favored the most drastic punishment of the rebels, and the men seemed inclined to let her have her way. The royal women of Didion were far from being mere political pawns or broodstock…

  Beynor lay unconscious in his bed, tended by Zimroth, Master Ridcanndal, and the Royal Physician, who had been granted permission to penetrate the spells of couverture generated by his two Fortress sigils. Her brother was in a sorry state after using his Weathermaker to conjure a strong fair wind to speed the Didionite armada and a strong foul one to delay the Tarnians. The doctor opined that the Conjure-King might not recover for two days. Good! Beynor’s antics would not distract her during the battle for Holt Mallburn…

  The sigil showed King Olmigon of Cathra looki
ng like a man at death’s door, but nonetheless giving crackling orders to his anxious windvoices. He was attempting to regroup the divided Cathran navy into a single force, and complained bitterly about the alchymists’ inability to maintain reliable communication with ships on the high seas. Vra-Sulkorig blamed malignant magic. King Olmigon himself voiced suspicions that his admirals were determined to fight the Didionites in their own fashion, without being distracted by royal meddling…

  The Tarnian frigates were shortening sail and putting out sea-anchors to counter the savage tempest now assaulting them off the Stormy Isles. Viewing them with concern, Ullanoth hoped she would not have to use her own Weather-maker to help them reach Cathra in time…

  The Continental ships were gathered in the Stippenese port of Nis-Gata, their crews carousing ashore and their captains showing no immediate intention of putting out to sea. Strange…

  Crown Prince Honigalus and Fleet Admiral Galbus Peel were playing chess and chewing hard ship’s biscuit aboard the south-charging Casabarela Regnant. Peel was winning the game, but the prince didn’t seem to mind. During the brief time of her oversight, neither man discussed the upcoming sea battle, except to say that it might take place on the morrow if Beynor’s driving gale remained constant…

  Last of all (as she thought), she focused the sigil on Conrig. Her breath quickened and her heart leapt when she saw him again. She wondered how she could ever have forgotten his face. His uncovered wheat-colored hair sparkled with droplets of moisture as he conferred with the leading nobles of the invasion force in the ward of Redfern Castle. His cheeks were flushed, his lips bore a confident smile, and his dark eyes blazed with confidence as he reviewed tactical assignments. She felt a deep warmth stirring within herself and recalled how good it had been when they were together.

  Yes, she told herself. If I have it in me to love any man, I will love Conrig Wincantor. Together we’ll conquer and rule this island. And if anyone can help him to aspire beyond the Sovereignty of High Blenholme and equal Bazekoy’s glory, I am that person!

  But what was the prince telling the Cathrans now?

  She was first disbelieving, then shocked to hear Conrig say—and the other leaders agree—that the opening of the Mallmouth Bridge gate by a certain band of armiger infiltrators was more crucial to the success of their attack than her own role admitting the army to Holt Mallburn itself…

  Trembling with anger, as well as with the worsening pain and weakness caused by use of the Great Stone, she aimed Subtle Loophole at the mysteriously important boys and found them riding toward the Coast Highway, guided through thick fog by spunkies. The four youths were under the age of twenty, all of them squires who had been at Castle Vanguard during Conrig’s council of war. They were disguised as Didionite knights and spoke not a word to one another.

  Why on earth had the prince entrusted these ordinary lads with such a vital mission? How could they possibly hope to open a fortified bridge guarded by dozens of armed men? Had Conrig made some foolish miscalculation?

  Ullanoth forced herself to scry the quartet more closely. A burly older boy with a truculent air, having a fringe of brick-red hair straggling out from beneath his chain mail hood. A stocky, well-muscled youth who was singing bawdy ballads in a fine tenor voice to lighten the tedium of the ride through limbo. A tall clever-looking boy who sometimes sang along with his companion. And the youngest of the party, slender and broad-shouldered, with comely but forgettable facial features—

  Forgettable save for his eyes, which the uncanny clarity of Subtle Loophole revealed were a vibrant blue… and afire with the unmistakable gleam of a powerful wild talent.

  “What do you mean—the Continentals refuse to rendezvous with us off the Vigilantes?” Honigalus smashed his fist down on the chessboard, sending the pieces scattering in all directions.

  Fring the wizard blinked at this unusual display of agitation from the normally phlegmatic prince. He stood with folded arms thrust up the sleeves of his black gown and assumed an irksome expression of long-suffering. “Royal Highness, I don’t presume to analyze wind-messages from our allies. I only report them. May I continue?“

  Regaining his self-control, Honigalus sighed. “Proceed.”

  “A conference of corsair captains has unanimously agreed to delay joining with our fleet until after we have successfully engaged the Cathrans for the first time. Until then, their fifteen frigates and thirteen corvettes will remain in Nis-Gata, a port some seventy leagues south of the Vigilant Isles. They intend to send out a squadron of fast cutters, forming a windvoice relay, to observe and report upon the battle.”

  “Putting me to the test, the slimy bungholers! Making absolutely certain Didion has the upper hand before finally committing themselves.”

  “Apparently, Highness.”

  “So much for Beynor of Moss and his precious Treaty of Alliance. Damn— if only the pirates of Andradh had agreed to join us! The Harriers are not nearly so lily-livered as their neighbors to the east.” Honigalus turned to Fleet Captain Peel, who had remained seated at the chart table on the opposite side of she chessboard, keeping his expression unreadable. “What do you think of this development, Galbus?”

  “The Continentals are a wily lot. It’ll do us no good to attempt to pressure them. All we can do is acquit ourselves valorously against the foe, and pray that the Continentals never learn that Cathra is expecting reinforcements from Tarn.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  For most of their journey along the Coast Highway, the four armigers met no one. Even the usual wandering packs of curs that infested the approaches to large cities were absent, perhaps having been trapped and eaten by the famished countryfolk. The fog was as thick as ever, smelling of the sea, which was now closely adjacent to the road. Mercifully, the cold drizzle had stopped. As they neared the great river they were aware of occasional walled manor houses on their left, with gate-flanking firebaskets shining dimly through the greyness. Finally, when the sky overhead ahead began to darken, they heard the faint slow tolling of a great bell marking the fifth hour after noontide.

  “The city must be very close,” Belamil said.

  At that moment the spunkies began to squeak and grow dim. The boys hastily drew aside as a fine coach, escorted by eight armed linkmen trailing sparks from their firebrands, came up from behind them and thundered past.

  “I was beginning to wonder if any Didionites were left alive in this infernal fog,” Saundar muttered.

  “I’ll wager the coach is hurrying to get through the bridge gate before it closes for the night,” Belamil said. “We should waste no time ourselves.”

  “Let’s stop here and get our own torches ready,” Snudge said. He dismounted and extracted the pitch pot from one of his saddlebags. “Take care of it, lads, while I go down to the shore and reconnoiter. Maybe the mist is thinner over the water and I can catch sight of our goal.”

  He withdrew, moving cautiously until he heard waves dashing on rocks, then sent his windsight due north across the estuary, like a gull skimming the surface of the sea. No human eye could see much of anything, but his talent scried the shadowy silhouettes of docks and buildings along the immense quay, which curved for nearly three leagues along the opposite shore. Sighting along its frontage, moving toward the river, he perceived at last the outline of the Mallmouth Bridge.

  It was enormous, longer than any span he’d ever seen before. Even obscured by mist, the fortified tower seemed the size of a small castle keep. The leaf of the bascule was still down.

  But how long would it stay that way?

  “Small Lights!” he called. “Are you with me?”

  The luminous swarm winked into existence. Some of us are, human. Most of our number have already gathered inside the city to await the great feast promised to us by the lady. The bridge you seek is very near. With torches, you should not require our assistance to find it. Give us leave to join Shanakin and our fellows.

  For a feast!

  Our reward!<
br />
  “Go. But remember to harm none of my people!”

  We obey Shanakin and the lady, not you. Fight your fight and be damned, human.

  Snudge felt his gorge rise, wondering again whether Prince Conrig knew how Ullanoth intended to secure his victory, and whether he cared.

  He ran back to the others, vaulted into his saddle, and accepted a torch from Saundar. “Only a league left to go now,” he said. “I could see the bridge lights across the water. Spur your horses to a gallop!”

  In the end, it was almost laughably easy to pass through. The small guardpost on the southern shore was manned by hollow-eyed troops whose sergeant studied their forged papers with apathy, then ran a dirty hand along the sleek damp flank of Mero’s horse. The big armiger had taken the leadership role, since he bore the barony’s pennon. He was the only one of the group without a torch.

  “Looks like Castle Redfern’s hardly feeling the famine at all, from the looks of your mounts,” the Didionite observed, not bothering to conceal his envy. “Better keep a sharp eye out for gangs of starving desperados once you get inside the city, messires. They’ll cut you down in a trice just to get their teeth into this juicy horseflesh.”

  Mero lifted the banner in salute. “Thank you, sergeant. We’ll stay alert. Come along, men!”

  They trotted across the bascule and into the fortified tower. Snudge counted at least twenty-five armed warriors inside the well-lit structure, but no one there possessed talent. He noted with his windsight the passages leading to the counterweight vault and the upper storey where the portcullis machinery was. As in most well-designed gatehouses, the roof of the area between the iron grates was perforated with scores of murder-holes. Anyone trapped between the two lowered portcullises risked being arrow-shot or pelted with deadly missiles.

  But that didn’t worry Snudge. The real cause for concern was his windsight of the vault, where engineers were obviously preparing to man the pumps and lift the bascule for the night.