by Andre Norton
It was midmorning of the next day before the Wise Woman allowed us to gather again in Mereth’s bedchamber. Somewhat restored by her rest, Mereth appeared less haggard. She had already drawn a crude map to show us where lay the ruins beneath which she believed Elsenar had been trapped. She had also drafted letters for me to carry to certain Sulcar ship masters at Etsport, Estcarp’s chief port since the destruction of Gorm.
I was examining Mereth’s map when yet another of Lormt’s host of elderly males arrived at the door. Although his ruddy skin had lightened with age, as had his hair, he was evidently a Dalesman. Morfew hailed him as Irvil, the kinship scholar Ouen had named to us. It was a telling indication of the lack of proper organization at Lormt that Irvil had been totally unaware of Mereth’s presence within the citadel. He at once erupted in a spate of Dales speech which was far too rapid for me to comprehend more than a few scattered words.
Mereth seemed outwardly unaffected, but I noticed a tear spilled down her cheek. She scrubbed it away with her sleeve, and wrote a private greeting to her countryman on her slate.
After reading it, Irvil turned to me and said in Estcarpian, “I am told that you have urgent need to learn the speech of the Dales. I never thought to speak to an Alizonder . . . but Master Ouen requests that I talk with you.”
Irvil was easily old enough to be my sire’s sire, which meant he likely harbored ill feelings from the time of the war. I bowed to him, and touched my Line badge. “I would not impose upon you if the need were not urgent,” I said. “Both Alizon and Estcarp face a common threat which, if unchecked, would likely endanger your Dales. My proposed voyage to the Dales may assuage that threat. I thank you for your forbearance and assistance.” Irvil’s grim expression eased, as if my words had mollified him.
Mereth thrust her slate at him, and he read aloud, “‘We shall divide our time between instruction in both speech and trade, since Kasarian must master the rudiments of each.’ ”
Morfew smiled. “Pray do not entirely submerge your Alizonian accent, young man,” he advised me. “You must remember that the only Dales speech you would have learned as a pup would have come from your mother; until you escaped into Estcarp three years ago, you would have spoken chiefly Alizonian.”
Nolar rose and advanced toward me. “I claim an hour of your time to dye your hair. Shall we attempt the transformation this afternoon? I must consult with Master Pruett concerning the proportions for the herbal mixture. I will call for you when my preparations are complete.”
Duratan moved to accompany his mate. “It is just as well,” he remarked at the doorway, “that you can admit to an Alizonian father, since otherwise your pretense would be ruined every time you opened your mouth.”
“May you swiftly impart the knowledge that is required,” Ouen exhorted Mereth, Irvil, and me. “Pray inform me if I may provide any aid. All of Lormt’s facilities are at your disposal.”
Thus began a daunting week of constant application. Morning, noon, and evening, I listened, and wrote under Mereth’s and Irvil’s demanding tutelage. Bearing Morfew’s warning in mind, I did not attempt perfect mimicry of the sounds of the Dales speech. In truth, the tones were difficult to match, being softer and quite different to the ear from Alizonian.
As she had promised, Duratan’s mate marched me to her lair later that first afternoon. She had me sit upon a stool beside a stone basin in which she stirred an acrid fluid. After wetting my hair with water, she poured cup after cup of the odiferous rinse over my head—nor did she neglect to darken my eyebrows, using a soft brush dipped in the dye. Both of us were well-soaked by the time she pronounced me possibly presentable. She warned me that once-set, the dye would not fade for a long time. It would not do for the color to lapse during the sea voyage. I must confess that I started at the sight of my image reflected in a silver tray. For an unsettling instant, I thought I was beholding a stranger. No baron would have allowed such a dark-haired, disreputable ruffian into his living quarters as a guest . . . but Duratan’s mate smiled at me, and said I made a barely passable halfling.
Between our strenuous study meetings, Mereth composed additional letters to be given to her kinsmen and other traders in the Dales once I landed at Vennesport. We pored over maps together for hours while she supplied me with descriptions of the land I must traverse and the likely arrangements that must be made for me to secure supplies and hire suitable horses.
The First Whelping Moon commenced while we labored. Mereth termed it the Month of the Snow Bird, and indeed I had seldom seen heavier snows than those burdening the mountain fastnesses surrounding Lormt.
I was soon beset by Lormt’s chief provisioner, a bald, talkative Estcarpian named Wessell, who fell upon me like a yammering hound pup. He proved to be surprisingly efficient, however, in choosing and assembling the travel gear I required. He also presented me with a small box of lamantine wood, which he praised highly for preserving delicate foodstuffs during long journeys. We had seized a few such examples as Dales booty, but I had not before possessed a sample of that dark gray-brown close-grained wood. Mereth wrote that it was prized for making bottles which could keep water sweet for many days, as well as containers which would indefinitely keep fresh the best journeycakes—those baked with fruit or meat bits. No Dalesman knew, she added, where to find the trees from which the wood could be cut, but precious objects made of worked lamantine wood were rarely found in the Waste. My trader’s quest, guided by the old map, would be considered dangerous, but not so extraordinary as to arouse undue notice.
By the Third Day of the First Whelping Moon, I was ready to depart upon my first stage of travel—the thirty or more leagues from Lormt to Es City. One of Lormt’s younger scholars—still old enough to be my sire—agreed to accompany me as far as Es City. It was necessary to leave behind at Lormt all of my baronial trappings, including my signet ring. I felt perilously vulnerable with just the single belt dagger which the Lormt folk insisted was the customary defensive weapon for a traveling merchant. The notion of spending a moon or more—depending upon the weather—aboard a ship manned by Alizon’s deadly Sulcar foes with only one inadequate blade at my belt was maddening. I reminded myself that I was ostensibly a trader’s apprentice, and as such, I must comply with their practices.
Gathering up my heavy outer cloak, I entered Mereth’s bedchamber to collect Elsenar’s jewel. She was sitting up in the bed, and nodded approvingly as she surveyed me. She wrote on her slate for me to read, “Our joint efforts have succeeded. You truly present the semblance of an apprentice trader. Take with you now Elsenar’s legacy, together with my well-wishings for a fair journey.” She held out to me the glittering jewel, which I secured in the innermost pocket of my tunic. At that point, I did not care to wear the cursed object next to my skin. It was unsettling enough having to travel with it on my person. Would it again afflict my dreams as it had in Alizon? I thrust away the unwelcome thought.
“I thank you doubly, Lady,” I said, “for both your trust and your farewell. With the aid of your map, I shall find the ensorcelled ruins and restore this mighty stone to our Foresire.” I bowed to her, and my hand moved in habitual salute to the bare cloth of my tunic, where my Line badge should have been sewn.
Mereth almost smiled. “May the Flame guard you, Outlander,” she wrote, much to my puzzlement.
I bowed again, and hurried down the stairs toward the horses waiting in the windswept courtyard.
CHAPTER 28
Kasarian–account of his journey from Lormt to Vennesport (3rd Day, First Whelping Moon-23rd Day, Moon of the Dire Wolf)
I had often hunted in the mountains bordering upon Escore, so I had no difficulty adjusting to the gait of Lormt’s mountain-bred horses. They were smaller, less sturdy beasts than our prized Torgians, but well-suited for maintaining their footing on the snow-shrouded slopes.
My trail companion was Farris, a taciturn Estcarpian. In order to accustom myself to my assumed character, I asked Farris to address me exclusively by
the Dales name we had chosen for me: Kasyar. I had to learn to respond to it as if it were my name; my life might well depend upon such details. There was scant opportunity to converse while we were riding, but once we camped for the night, I attempted to engage Farris in speech. It appeared that he had been drawn to study at Lormt because of his single-minded devotion to an encompassing knowledge of herbs. Once he raised the topic, he became tediously loquacious. My own acquaintance with plants tended more toward the noxious and poisonous varieties, but fortunately, I struck upon one aspect we could profitably discuss—the range of herbs employed for enhancing and spicing bland foods. Gennard’s sire had been a master cook who had instructed him in the preparation of many pleasing dishes. I recalled sufficient details from Gennard’s remarks to prompt Farris’ discourse.
The deep snow and rough terrain frequently thwarted our progress. We did not descend to more level ground for over a chill, tiresome week. Gradually, as our unmarked path approached the north bank of the Es River, we encountered a clearer, more travel-worn trail. After a few day’s further advance, that trail broadened into a road of sorts, and late on the Thirteenth Day of the First Whelping Moon, we glimpsed our first sight of the massive gray-green wall encircling Es City.
Crouching upon the high ground at the city’s center, Es Castle glowered down at us, dwarfing even the great round towers set at intervals along the city wall. In my worst nightmares, I had never thought that I would one day behold the very fortress wherein Estcarp’s gray-clad crones gathered like spiders at the hub of their web of far-flung spells.
The next morning, as we rode through one of the narrow gates, I had to make a constant effort to preserve an outwardly untroubled aspect. It was daunting to penetrate into the heart of the territory of Alizon’s prime enemy, alone, without the backing of a properly equipped army. I sternly suppressed my apprehensions that at any moment, we might be confronted by one of the gray-robed Witches who could instantly discern my true identity.
Fortunately, once we passed inside the gate, Farris immediately turned away from the street leading to Es Castle, guiding his horse into the crowded lanes of a commercial quarter near the outer wall. He led the way into the busy courtyard of an inn whose sign bore a bright, if somewhat ill-drawn, painted image of a snow cat. After we dismounted, Farris explained that he planned to survey the city’s markets for herbs otherwise unavailable at Lormt, rest here overnight, then begin his journey back to the scholar’s citadel. He would first inquire of the innkeeper where I might seek the merchants Mereth had cited as possible sources of assistance to me.
I was deeply relieved to learn that one of the three Estcarpian merchants that Mereth had addressed in her letters was currently present in the city. Bidding Farris farewell, I followed the innkeeper’s directions to a nearby warehouse where I presented Mereth’s letter. My cordial reception provided clear evidence of the high regard in which Mereth was held by these trading folk. The merchant, who recalled her recent brief stay in Es City on her way to Lormt, expressed an active interest in handling any lamantine wood I might discover during my expedition to the Dales. He did ask why, as an apprentice, I was not accompanied on such a trip by my master, but I related the tale we had agreed upon at Lormt should anyone inquire: how my master had suffered a fall in the mountains as we had descended toward Es City, and had been forced to return to Lormt. Persuaded by the promising nature of the old map, he had entrusted me with the quest of the Dales. The merchant congratulated me upon my unusual opportunity, and dispatched one of his hirelings to engage a horse for the next stage of my journey, the four or so leagues to Etsport. He graciously invited me to stay the night in the guest quarters adjoining the warehouse.
I guarded my tongue carefully in all that I said, but I did not appear to arouse any suspicion. During the evening meal, the merchant told me that few trading ships dared the winter seas, but if fortune favored me, I might perhaps find in port a Sulcar captain named Brannun, who sailed no matter what the season.
Early the following morning, I set out for Etsport. A well-traveled road ran alongside the Es River, allowing for much faster passage, even despite the drifting snow. With my larger, rested horse, I covered the distance by nightfall.
I took care to skirt the environs of the local stronghold, Etsford Manor, ruled over by the misshapen former ax-wielder Koris of Gorm, now Lord Seneschal of Estcarp. We had heard in Alizon that, after being severely wounded, Koris had retired to this quiet holding. It was rumored that he and his mate, Loyse, whelp to the shipwreck-scavenging Lord of Verlaine, still provided counsel at times to Estcarp’s Witches. Not wanting to attract the attention of such dangerous enemies, I rode straight to the dockside at the river’s mouth.
I quickly located the trading house recommended to me by the merchant in Es City. His colleagues there willingly took charge of my horse, agreeing to attend to it until they dispatched their next shipment of goods to Es City. They informed me that the Sulcar shipmaster I sought was indeed in port readying his vessel for a voyage to the Dales. One of the apprentices showed me the way to a tavern favored by this Captain Brannun, and pointed out to me a giant fair-haired man quaffing ale at a table near the door. Once I distracted his attention from his ale mug by bellowing his name, I introduced myself.
He wiped the foam from his distinctively bristling Sulcar mustache, and measured me with a most insolent glance. “For a stripling, you raise a fair cry,” he said. “What matter is so pressing that you intrude upon my refreshment?”
In dealing with Sulcars, we Alizonders had long found it advisable to speak directly—it was pointless to employ subtlety with a Sulcar. I reached into my belt wallet and slapped two bars of silver on the rough wooden table in front of him. Before I had left Lormt, Mereth offered to pay for my passage to the Dales, but I had insisted upon using my own gold. Duratan had objected that I could scarcely present metal branded with Alizonian markings, but Ouen, somewhat to my surprise, had sent for a casket containing unmarked silver bars, from which he carefully weighed out a fair substitution for my gold.
Captain Brannun grinned and poked the bars with a sinewy forefinger. “I do believe your business is urgent,” he observed. “I take it you desire to arrange for passage on the Storm Seeker?”
“If you are sailing immediately for the Dales,” I confirmed. “My master requires me to undertake a trading voyage on his behalf while his broken bones mend at Lormt.”
Brannun clouted me vigorously on the shoulder. “Fortune smiles upon you, lad!” he exclaimed. “I have been loading goods those past six days and await only the proper winds to set sail for Vennesport. But do not sit there parched as a desert flower. Master Taverner—ale for my passenger! Ale for me! What stores are you shipping? I warn you, I have scant space left in my hold.”
“I hope to return with goods,” I replied, “but I travel with none. I carry only minimal baggage.”
“All the better,” Brannun roared cheerfully. “I feared for a moment that you might require hold space that I could not supply. Come, finish that ale and let me show you the Storm Seeker—the finest vessel a man could wish beneath his feet.” As he rose, he scooped from the bench beside him a huge tawny mound that I had mistaken for a bale of furs. Noticing my glance, Brannun laughed aloud. “I doubt you’ve seen the live beast that yielded me this cloak,” he declared. “’Twas a true lion—aye, one of those rare beasts from the lands far south of the Dales. When I was a young man—likely your age or less—he came upon me during a coasting voyage. We had put in to shore to replenish our fresh water. I was bending over, filling one of our casks at a stream, when this lion leaped upon me out of the brush. I can tell you, it was a glorious struggle! Had I not had my throwing ax at my belt, I might have suffered a substantial injury. As it was, I gained this splendid skin together with the design for my fighting helm, all at one stroke.” Flinging some Karstenian silver bits on the table to settle our account, he swept me toward the door.
I had never before boarded a sea
-going vessel. All of my limited sailing experience had been on river craft. Brannun displayed surprising agility for a man of his size as he leaped from the dock to the deck of a typically ungainly, but sturdy, broad-beamed Sulcar ship. Like those of all such vessels, its prow was carved in the grotesque form of a scaled serpent.
Brannun sniffed the breeze, and squinted at the low clouds. “The wind’s not yet brisk enough for us to set sail—possibly it will have freshened sufficiently by the morrow. Come aboard! You have a choice of quarters—the cabin beside the wine or the one by the spider silk—unless you’d care to camp on deck?”
I assured him that I preferred a space below decks. I had decided that it might be prudent for me to stay below as much of the time as possible, limiting my exposure to the Sulcars and thus reducing my chance of accidentally betraying my true identity. I confessed to Brannun that this was my first sea voyage, and expressed my concern that we might encounter storms. I thought for a moment he was about to choke.
“Storms—storms!” he sputtered. “Sail in winter, sail amid storms! Why do you think I named my ship Storm Seeker?” He waved his arms wildly. “Because it revels in storms—the higher the waves, the faster it runs before the wind.” He shook his head, incredulous at my ignorance. “You may stay less wet below decks,” he conceded reluctantly, then his eyes brightened. “Of course, during the truly major storms, all hands aboard must work the ship together. Your master will count you far more worthy for the experience, I’ve no doubt.”
On the Eighteenth Day of the First Whelping Moon, we sailed from Etsport. Three days later, the first storm descended upon us. I began to learn more about ships than I ever cared to know, both above and below decks. Brannun’s crewmen were a boisterous lot—typical Sulcars—but able seamen and, as we Alizonders had learned to our sore cost, formidable fighters. I was expected to lend a hand at any time I was on deck, so I stayed below whenever possible.