Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 03] - The Ancient Legacy(V1.0)

by Mitchell Graham

  "How much do these cannons of yours weigh, Cap­tain?" asked LaCora.

  "Weigh? Why, I don't think I've ever been asked that question before. I'm sure they weigh quite a lot; hundreds of pounds, probably. We generally just refer to them by the weight of the balls they fire. A twenty-four pounder would fire a twenty-four-pound ball, and so on. If you see what I mean."

  "I'm sure your navigator knows how much each one of your cannons weigh, don't you Mr. Lane?" asked the governor.

  "The exact figure seems to have escaped my memory."

  Edrington shot Mathew a look of pure astonishment. "I suggest you concentrate, then, Mr. Lane. Now, gentlemen, I think it would be appropriate to discuss the additional compensation since we will be dealing with two ships. Let me make some quick calculations."

  "How are these cannons mounted?" LaCora asked Mathew. "Are they fixed to the decking or movable?"

  Mathew didn't answer. Instead he got slowly to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Kennard and La-Cora did the same. Only the governor remained seated. Edrington completely missed what was happening.

  "Two against one, boy," LaCora said, his tone suddenly dangerous. "And there's a whole crew outside the door. You'd never make it."

  Mathew said nothing.

  Phillipe Edrington finally looked up. "Make it... make what? I say, what's going on here? This is most ir­regular. We've come to conduct business and to help you with your problem."

  The governor leaned back in his seat and smiled. "But you are going to help us with our problem, Captain."

  "Then we need to discuss the compensation."

  "Fair enough," Holt said. "What about your life for the cannons?"

  8

  Elgaria

  Mathew stood there trying to decide what to do. He was fairly certain he could take the two men in front of him. Three was another matter. And then what? Fight his way to the boat and then try to row back to the ship by himself? He couldn't count on Edrington at all. If it came to a fight the man would be worthless, if not an outright hindrance. To compound matters, he had no idea if the gig's crew was still alive or dead. From past experience in dealing with the Vargothans, he had no expectation of re­ceiving any mercy from them.

  Better to go down fighting than be hung from a yardarm, he decided.

  When LaCora drew his weapon, Mathew did the same. Kennard followed suit.

  "Mr. Lane," Phillipe Edrington said, "put up your weapon at once, sir."

  Mathew ignored him and kept his eyes on LaCora and Kennard.

  "Your excellency, I appeal to you," Edrington said. "Tell your men—"

  Phillipe Edrington's words trailed away. He glanced down to see the hilt of a dagger sticking out of his chest. Confusion clouded his features, and he looked at Mathew as a red stain appeared on his shirt and slowly began to spread.

  Edrington took a step forward and opened his mouth to

  say something, but the words were forever lost. His eyes rolled back in his head and the captain of the Daedalus collapsed to the deck.

  Mathew swung his blade around, leveling the point at the governor's throat. Kennard and LaCora both started forward but stopped when Holt raised his hand.

  "Gentlemen, I believe we are dealing with a sensible man here. You are a sensible man, aren't you, Mr. Lane?" "What is it you want, Vargothan?" "Only to talk and perhaps conclude the business arrangement your late captain was discussing." "I don't do business with murderers." "Pity," Holt said, winching as the pressure at his throat increased. "Then I suggest you go ahead and kill me. You might even get lucky and kill all three of us, but do you re­ally care so little about your fellow crewmen? They've al­ready been taken prisoner, and unless I give the order, we will begin hanging them one by one. Cooperate and you can buy their lives."

  "I told you earlier, I'm not a sentimental man." "That's a problem, then ... for both of us." A drop of blood slowly ran down the side of the gover­nor's neck. No one in the cabin spoke. The silence was bro­ken only by the slap of water against the hull of the ship. "State your terms," Mathew said. "First, I would be grateful if you would remove your weapon from my throat. I give you my word that no one will move against you. Second, we would like to employ you to act as our navigator. I was quite serious when I said we wanted to rid ourselves of Delain."

  "Your word ... as a gentleman! Forgive me, but peo­ple in your employ seem to have a limited future."

  Holt glanced at the clock. "You have three minutes, Mr. Lane. Believe me, I would rather not harm your crew-mates. We have few enough competent sailors among us as is."

  "Why do you need me?"

  "I just told you, we require the services of a capable navigator. The waters off this coast are treacherous. The fact is, we are an army contingent, not a naval one. I've al­ready lost two ships and I can't afford to lose any more." "And... ?"

  "And I wrote to King Seth requesting more ships so that I could deal with Delain properly. His majesty wrote back expressing his confidence in my abilities, and wish­ing me all good fortune. So you can see, it would be to our mutual benefit if we strike a bargain with each other."

  "Like the last captain of this vessel did?"

  "An unfortunate excess of zeal on the part of my offi­cers," Holt said, glancing at Kennard.

  "What do I get out of it?"

  "Your life, to begin with, and the lives of your fellow crew members; and the Daedalus as your own ship, if you like—minus her cannons, naturally."

  "Naturally."

  "All you need to do is guide us to the inlet where De-lain is hiding. You'll help install the cannons on the Mait-land and Captain LaCora's Revenge. After that you can go where you like. I might even arrange a place with us if you wish."

  "And the Daedalus is just supposed to haul down its col­ors, let you board her, and carry off her cannons? Somehow I think that's not going to happen, your excellency."

  "It might if her second officer told her to."

  "I see."

  Mathew was confident that Elton Fikes would order any approaching craft blown out of the water. He was also certain that his boat crew would all be murdered just as Phillipe Edrington had been, unless he found a way out of the predicaments The Vargothans wanted their cannons; that much was clear. Whether Felize had cannons, of Var-goth had them, or everyone had them, made no difference to him, but the lives of his men did.

  Mathew slowly lowered his weapon. As soon as he did, the governor slid his chair backward and brought a hand up to his throat. He felt the wound with his fingertips, then removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and pressed it against his neck.

  "Put your weapons away," he told LaCora and Kennard. The governor nodded to LaCora, who promptly left the cabin.

  "That was a wise decision, Mr. Lane. I'm sure your men will be properly grateful. What I'd like you to do now is to signal your ship and tell them that all is well. You will also tell them that we will be sending two barges across to begin off-loading the cannons."

  Mathew leaned back against the bulkhead and folded his arms across his chest. "And they're supposed to be­lieve that?"

  "The signal will be sent under the name of the late Captain Edrington," the governor said, glancing at Edrington's body. "You will also invite your first officer to join us here on the Maitland for dinner." <

  The expression on Mathew's face immediately changed, and Holt held up his hand. "I promise that no harm will come to him . .. provided he cooperates. If he doesn't, he can remain our guest until the transfer is completed." "What happens to the Daedalus after that?" "As I said, it goes free. Our original plan was to lure Delain into the open by dangling a merchant vessel under his nose. Your ship will be that vessel. . . minus her teeth, of course. Once we have him, you and your people can go. Rob blind men for all I care, just do it someplace else. Do we have a deal?" Holt asked, holding out his hand.

  MAthew was silent for several seconds before he reached out and took the governor's hand. "Deal."

&nbs
p; "Good. It seems you have sense as well as courage. You've made the right decision."

  "Apparently, running a government is more complex than I thought."

  "More than you know, Lane. Whatever you may have heard about the Vargothans, we know what we are. We're mercenaries, pure and simple. Not a bunch of slip-tongued merchants trying to be something we aren't. There's a winner and loser in every transaction. Play your cards right and you'll come out ahead."

  "As long as I get the ship and what we've collected so far."

  "We've made a bargain and we'll stick to it. See that you do, too. Whatever financial arrangements you make with your crew is your business. I'm looking to you to keep them in line. They are your responsibility. Do I make myself clear?"

  "As crystal. You realize that it's going to take several days to get the guns across and set them up? On top of that, your men will have to be trained... unless you want to risk blowing yourselves out of the water in the process."

  The look on the governor's face was enough to tell Mathew the Vargothans had no idea what they were deal­ing with, at least where the cannons were concerned.

  "Then we'd better be about it, hadn't we, Mr. Lane?"

  Mathew laughed once to himself and walked toward Captain Kennard, who had been watching him with a look of unconcealed contempt throughout the conversation. When their eyes met, he stopped.

  "Was there something you wanted to say, Captain?" he asked.

  Kennard's hand tightened on the hilt of his blade, and for a second it appeared that he was going to react, but he moved aside and let Mathew pass.

  "Pity," Mathew said. "It might have been interesting to see what happens when someone doesn't have their back turned."

  Kennard's face colored but he did nothing.

  On deck, Mathew saw the boat crew standing by the mainmast, guarded by a group of five Vargothans armed with crossbows. LaCora stopped at the entry port where he was preparing to disembark.

  "How long do you think it will take to fit out the Re-venge?" he asked. "That depends." "On what?"

  Mathew looked across the bay at the other ship. "On what sort of preparations you've made to receive the can­nons. To begin with, you'll have to reinforce your decking. The recoil from a twenty-four-pound gun will tear the planks apart the first time you fire it. Each cannon weighs over eight hundred pounds. I'd also have your carpenter install a series of gun ports, unless you plan on shooting holes in the side of your ship."

  LaCora stared at Mathew for a moment then started to chuckle. "We have a lot to learn. These cannon are new to us. All I know about them is what I've heard and seen. Personally, I think there's no honor in it. If you're going to kill a man, it's better to see his face and look him in the eyes."

  Mathew didn't respond.

  "You moved quickly in there, navigator. Tell me, what's a wolf doing among these sheep?" "Foraging."

  LaCora smiled and slapped him on the back. "I'll see that preparations get underway at once. You can come across tomorrow and let us know what we're doing wrong." He gestured to the guards, dismissing them, then climbed over the side rail and down into his boat.

  Mathew waited until he was gone and walked over to his men. Captain Kennard also came on deck. He and Mathew locked eyes for a moment before he went back down the companionway again.

  "Is everyone all right?" Mathew asked.

  "As good as can be expected, Mr. Lane," Brown told

  him. "They fixed Caukins here a proper bump on the head, but he'll live."

  Mathew glanced at Caukins, a tough-looking seaman with a ponytail and a deeply lined face. The man nodded in agreement and gave him a smile that was missing sev­eral teeth.

  "Can you tell us what's going on?" Brown asked. "The captain is dead. That man who came on deck a moment ago stabbed him when he wasn't looking. It seems the Vargothans would like us to turn over our can­nons to them and then use our ship to lure King Delain into a trap. After that we'll be free to go."

  Shock and outrage appeared on the faces of his men. Caukins was all for rushing the quarterdeck and killing as many of the Vargothans as they could. The others felt the same way. Brown, however, proved the most levelheaded of the group.

  "What do you think we should do, Mr. Lane?" "Right now the important thing is to stay alive and bide our time. There are five of us and about two hundred of them. Not encouraging odds, I'm afraid. The good news is they need our services ... at least for the time being." "How so?" a sailor named Jervis asked. "Several reasons," Mathew said. "First, they want the cannons, but they don't know how to use them, or even how to set them up, for that matter. They would like us to teach them how to do both. Second, the Vargothans think they know where Delain is hiding and they seem to have a shortage of navigators to get them there. They would like me to lead their ships up the coast to Half Moon Bay. Last, our new friends want me to send a signal to Mr. Fikes and ask him to join us here so they can take the Daedalus with no loss of life or damage to their vessels."

  Jervis spat on the deck. "Well, they can go straight to hell, the murdering bastards. We ain't never going to do that, are we, lads?"

  Murmurs of assent and indignation came from all

  around.

  "Hold it down, you lot," Brown said. "We need to hear

  from Mr. Lane."

  "This is what we're going to do . . ."

  9

  Henderson

  Teanna d'Elso sat in a small outdoor cafe at one of the tables with colored umbrellas. Odd music played in the background, coming from two small boxes on either side of an awning made of the same material as the um­brellas. The music was not unpleasant, she decided, only different from what she was used to. The cafe's name, written in the archaic old tongue, was difficult to pro­nounce. At least, she assumed it was the cafe's name; it might have been the name of its owner, for all she knew.

  She was the only person there, and indeed in the town.

  Directly across from her was, she assumed, a theatre, given the two hundred seats arranged on either side of a center aisle. She had actually counted them one day. And yet, oddly, there was no stage. The only thing in the audi­torium other than seats was a large white wall at the front.

  She glanced at the other tables and a smile touched the corners of her mouth. She was sitting at the same table where she and Mathew Lewin had sat the first time they met.

  In recent months Teanna had spent more time in Hen­derson, which was the town's name. She knew that wor­ried her father, but it couldn't be helped. Apart from meeting the Guardian, she had other pressing reasons for being there.

  Their first meeting happened when she was standing in front of a dress shop looking at the clothing the manikins wore. A reflection in the glass caught her eye and she whirled around to see a man. His sudden appearance frightened her so badly she nearly used her ring in self-defense, but there was something about the calm way he was watching her that made her pause.

  The Guardian was a middle-aged man. His hair was brown with gray sprinkled throughout and he was slightly overweight. His clothes were archaic, their style recogniz­able as the kind her ancestors had worn. She had seen enough examples in the shop windows.

  "Where did you come from?" Teanna had asked. "Here."

  "You frightened me. I never heard you approaching." The Guardian didn't reply. "Do you live here?" "I did."

  Teanna frowned. "Have you been here long? I've never seen you when I visited." "Oh ... quite a long time."

  It was a frustrating conversation because he seemed to be talking in circles, and patience was not one of her virtues. Initially, she thought that he was deliberately trying to provoke her, but it soon became obvious the only thing he would respond to were questions. He of­fered nothing on his own. It also became apparent that he wasn't alive.

  The Guardian looked like a person. He could walk and talk and answer questions, but light passed through his body when the angle was just right. During their first meeting, Teanna had learned that he was an image
created by the Ancients' machine. That was four months ago.

  Now, gazing out across the square, she sipped her glass of wine. The wine had a fruit taste she couldn't quite iden­tify and warmed when it went down. It had taken only a thought on her part to create both glass and bottle.

  On the opposite side of the square a large clock sat atop a brass lamp post. The time read two-fifteen. Far above, stars twinkled in the sky, except they weren't stars at all. She knew that now. She also knew it wasn't a sky, but a dome of some kind. She'd discovered that fact on her first visit to Henderson almost four years ago. At night the dome would grow dark, and when it was supposed to be daytime, it grew bright. It was the strangest place she had ever been in—totally empty, for not a soul lived there.

  The Ancients were all gone. Once they had brought their machine online—a term the Guardian used—the thousands of men and women who once populated the town simply abandoned it. Plates and glasses could still be seen on the tables of their homes. In the three thousand years since the last person had left for the surface, nothing had changed in Henderson.

  "Guardian," Teanna said.

  After the barest of pauses a section of light appeared in the street near her and took on a liquid quality. Bright spots like fireflies began to move within the liquid. It was fascinating to watch them solidify into the form of a man.

  "How may I help you?" the Guardian asked.

  "You have a strange accent. What country are you from?"

  He told her, and Teanna searched her memory, but the name was one she had never heard before.

  "You've never said how you got here," she said.

  "I have been here since the beginning."

  "But you weren't here before the machine. Nothing was here then. You told me so yourself."

  "That's true. The engineers who built this complex of­ten had the need to access online information, so they cre­ated me."

  "Online? You used that term before. I don't understand it. Do you mean you would tell them what they needed to know?"

  "In a manner of speaking, Teanna."