by Angus Wells
He found himself studying the crowds warily, his gaze moving from face to face, traveling to high windows and rooftops, into the mouths of alleys. In a place like this ambush would be easy—bowmen along that overhanging balcony, or swordsmen there, hidden in that alleyway. Beneath his cloak, he clutched his swordhilt, aware that Bracht and Katya did the same. Only Menelian appeared entirely at ease, and Calandryll assumed he had set some defensive glamour about them.
Whether by that or chance, they came safely to the harbor and passed through the barricades. Quindar ek’Nyle was not about, but along the wall of the dry dock a squad of soldiers under the command of a serask stood watching the Vanu folk at work, their dragon-hide armor as dully red as old blood in the dying light. The serask saluted at sight of Menelian, his men springing to attention with a great clattering of pikes. The Vanu archers standing with them called greetings and Tekkan appeared to investigate the noise.
His canescent hair was sweat-plastered to his head and despite the chill his shirt clung stickily to his broad chest. Sawdust and patches of tar decorated his leathern breeks, but on sight of the visitors his weather-beaten features creased in a wide smile.
“Less work than I’d feared,” he said without preamble, “and with ek’Nyle’s aid, we’ve done it faster than I dared hope—we can sail on the dawn tide.”
“Not earlier?” Menelian asked.
Tekkan shook his head, the movement dusting his shoulders with wood chips. “The race goes against us now.” He gestured at the river’s mouth, where waves foamed angrily against the stream of the Yst, ocean and river contesting. “And my folk are weary. I’d give them a night’s good rest ere they take up the oars again.”
“Wind’ll be favorable at dawn, too,” the serask offered. “By night it’s off the sea; dawn’ll bring it round, and once you clear the anchorage you can set your sail.”
It was on Calandryll’s lips to ask the sorcerer if word might not come down from Nhur-jabal by then, but with soldiery to hear, he thought better of it. Likely not, he decided, not until they were gone. He was reassured by Menelian’s smile: it showed no hint of worry.
“How early?” Tekkan asked of the serask, and the man sniffed and said, “Before the sun’s above yonder cliff,” his chin jutting in the direction of the eastern rim. “Tide shifts around the second hour, but the wind won’t get up before the next watch.”
“And the boom?” Tekkan eyed the massive chain slung across the harbor mouth apprehensively.
“Instructions are given,” Menelian assured him. “The boom will be lowered whatever hour you sail.”
“By your leave?” The serasak looked to the sorcerer, who gestured for him to continue. “Fog’ll be thick as a dog’s fleas at that hour and there’re rocks like a dragon’s teeth out there. Best you take a pilot to see you clear.”
Menelian nodded and asked, “You know of one? A reliable man?”
“Kalim ek-Barre’d be my choice,” the serask returned. “If you can persuade him to stir that early.”
“Where may I find him?”
The serask pointed toward a row of taverns. “In one o’ those. Most likely the Tyrant’s Head.”
“I’ll seek him out,” the sorcerer declared, as if the pilot’s agreement was not in any doubt. “My thanks for your advice.”
The serask shrugged, smiling, and Menelian turned to Tekkan. “Leave that to me—you’ll have your pilot.”
“Then we chase the morning,” the boatmaster declared firmly and turned his pale eyes to Katya. “I’d ask you be here by the third hour.”
His daughter nodded, replying in their own language, and Tekkan chuckled, reverting to the common tongue so that the others might understand. “My thanks, but no—I’ll find a place on board. Still wiser, though, that you three remain with our friend Menelian.”
The sorcerer murmured agreement and gestured at the warboat. “I’ll see them safely delivered at the appointed hour,” he promised. “You’ll not dine with us?”
Again, Tekkan refused and Menelian bowed compliance. “I’d speak with the vexillan,” he said. “Then, if there’s no need of us here, I suggest we return.”
It was agreed, and after securing directions from the serask as to ek’Nyle’s whereabouts, they went to find the officer.
He was inspecting the arbalests on the farther mole, his manner less peremptory but still aloof as he spoke with Menelian, the glance he gave them cursory, save as it lingered on Katya. Calandryll studied Bracht’s reaction and was pleased to see the free-sword’s dark face set immobile, his only reaction a tightening of the lips. Menelian was smiling as he turned away, beckoning them to follow and speaking only when they were out of earshot.
“No word has come from Nhur-jabal yet,” he told them, “and therefore won’t before you depart. On that score, at least, we may rest easy. So, let us make arrangements with the pilot.”
They went to the Tyrant’s Head where, as the serask had guessed, Kalim ek’Barre sat drinking. He was a short, thickset man, his eyes small beneath hirsute brows, his voice roughened by the pipe he puffed between swigs of ale. Menelian’s presence overcame his reservations and he agreed to meet them at the appointed hour and bring them safe to the egress of Cape Vishat’yi in return for two varre.
“Excellent,” Menelian declared as they left. “All goes well and I suggest we repair now to my home, to feast your going and drink a toast to your success.”
He almost offered Katya his arm as they quit the harbor, but thought better of it, contenting himself with an elegant bow as he ushered her through the barricade, leading them back through the mazed tiers of the city to his home.
There, he gave instructions that a lavish meal be prepared and breakfast readied early. Calandryll expressed a desire to bathe, and after a moment’s hesitation, Bracht did the same, though his ablutions were far swifter and Calandryll emerged to find the Kern seated possessively at Katya’s side before the hearth in the central chamber, Menelian facing them. Their conversation was of the Arcanum and Menelian was saying, “. . . no easy journey. If he goes in search of Tharn’s tomb he’ll likely not find it in any known land.” He looked up as Calandryll entered, his expression grave. “You can guess of what we speak—I was agreeing that Rhythamun’s palace might yield some clue. If not”—he frowned, his eyes troubled—“then I urge you to seek the help of some other mage.”
That eventuality had not occurred to Calandryll. “There are few enough of your talent in Lysse,” he said, the excitement that had arisen with impending departure dulling somewhat.
“Then seek help where you may,” the wizard replied. “Call on the Younger Gods if men fail you. Ahrd sent a byah to you once . . .”
“If we must,” allowed Bracht, “but for now we’ve the stone for our compass, and that points to Aldarin.”
“Aye.” Menelian smiled. “And you’ve done well enough so far.”
Calandryll felt the chagrin that had dulled his spirit earlier returning. “You say that leading Rhythamun to the Arcanum is well done?” he asked.
“I say you did what no others could,” the sorcerer returned stoutly, his violet eyes intent on Calandryll’s, in them a reminder of the secret they shared, the words, though addressed to all, intended for him alone. “And more, I say that the gods go with you. That their power stands at your shoulder. That power will not let you down.”
Calandryll shrugged. Bracht raised a goblet in toast. “We’ve come this far,” he said firmly, “and I say this is no time to lose spirit. Drink to success! Drink, Calandryll, and put off that grim look.”
It was hard to feel disconsolate in the face of the Kern’s optimism and Calandryll raised his goblet, drinking deep. He saw Menelian watching him and nodded, trusting the wizard understood.
“Aye,” he said, “we’ll quest to the ends of the world. And beyond if we must.”
THEY came like wraiths to the harbor, wrapped in cloaks against the damp bite of night and fog, the subtle nimbus of Menelian’s pro
tective glamour the only light in that stygian gloom until the dull glow of braziers showed where soldiers stood their watch, bored and miserable, the arrival of the little party a welcome interruption of the tedium. Moisture spat and sizzled on coals as the sorcerer’s authority passed them unquestioned through the barricade, the cobbles beyond slippery underfoot. Quindar ek’Nyle emerged from the gloom, muffled in his fur-lined cape, droplets glinting on his helmet’s plume, reflecting the flames of the torches held aloft by his escort like tiny crimson stars. He greeted them in a voice thickened by recently quit sleep and without further ado brought them to the wharf, where Tekkan waited, conversing with the pilot.
Kalim ek’Barre stood swathed in a sheepskin jerkin, looking, Calandryll thought, like some great ape, such as were rumored to inhabit the interior of Gash. His head and arms were bare, the fog’s’ bedewing like oil on his swollen muscles, dripping from his dense brows so that he seemed almost to weep. The skiff in which he would return from his task dipped on the tide behind the bobbing warboat, tethered on an umbilical rope.
“Soonest gone, soonest I may return,” was his only greeting, and with it, he strode the plank to the warboat’s stern.
Quindar ek’Nyle’s farewell was little warmer, though he lingered as he bowed over Katya’s hand, and to Calandryll said, “I trust you’ll broach the matter of Lysse’s navy on your return.”
“Indeed I shall. And my thanks for your assistance.”
Calandryll remembered that he played the part of a noble, affecting a languid tone, grateful when the vexillan excused himself, marching off with his men into the brume to order the lowering of the harbor’s boom.
“Farewell, then,” said Menelian. “Were the affairs of Kandahar in more secure order I’d accompany you. As it is, you go with my prayers—I’ll make offering to Burash that he grant you safe passage.”
“Our thanks for all you’ve done,” Calandryll replied, taking the sorcerer’s hand in a firm grip. “In turn I’ll pray no harm comes you for the aid you’ve given us.”
“How should it?” Menelian’s gravity disappeared as he smiled. “When word arrives from Nhur-jabal Quindar will fume, but there’s nothing he can do to me. After all, have I not dispensed my duty? I was asked to examine you and discern whether or not you threatened Kandahar—that I did, and you do not. Burash knows you do not! May all the gods go with you, my friends.”
“And with you,” Calandryll said, hearing ek’Barre call grumblingly from the warboat.
“Best we depart,” suggested Tekkan, bowing solemnly. “My thanks, mage.”
Calandryll moved with him toward the plank. Bracht ducked his head in Menelian’s direction, murmuring his good-byes, but not moving until the sorcerer released Katya’s hand and the warrior woman came to his side.
Their last sight of Menelian was his shrouded figure, black within the greyness, standing with arm upraised until the fog hid him.
“Man your oars, boatmaster,” ek’Barre commanded, “for we’ll need the sweeps until we clear this anchorage.”
Tekkan relayed the order and the Vanu folk began to sing, their lilting voices setting the stroke as the black ship drifted clear of the wharf and turned the dragonhead of her prow toward the boom. Calandryll, Bracht, and Katya made their way to the foredeck, peering into the gloom, suddenly aware that they were entirely in the pilot’s hands. The advent of dawn brought a fractional lightening of the sky, but still the fog hung thick, reducing vision so that save for the sway of the boards beneath their feet and the steady slap of oars in water there was no sense of motion. They might, for all they could tell, be riding stationary, only ek’Barre’s knowledge of the harbor and its environs to guide them out.
From ahead came the creaking of winches and the groan of timbers. A shout in the language of Kandahar announced the boom was lowered and ek’Barre swung the tiller over. Dimly, Calandryll saw shapes pass by to either side, the rhythm of the warboat shifting subtly as they left the calm water of the harborage and began the passage out from the protection of the enclosing cliffs. The fog stirred here, roiled by an increasing breeze as they drew nearer the chasm’s mouth, but still it was too thick to see even to the stern. The watchfires along the cliffs were invisible and the walls themselves, though he felt their presence as a looming weight just beyond the perimeter of his vision.
“As well we have a pilot,” Katya murmured. “Unguided, we might well have foundered.”
Her observation was confirmed by an abrupt quickening of the wind. It tattered the obscuring grey curtain, admitting sufficient burgeoning light that momentary glimpses of the headland they navigated were revealed, the level of the turned tide exposing jagged rocks.
“As well you found a remedy for my seasickness,” Bracht responded, clutching at a stay as the warboat heeled hard over.
Calandryll in turn found a handhold, seeing in dreamlike snatches that they emerged from the cleft holding Vishat’yi into the main channel of the Yst, tide and wind both strengthening, the oarsmen working harder to hold their course. The fog was banked out here, hanging in great clouds at some points, riven in others by the draft. Rock walls loomed close to starboard, what little sky was visible above them brightening further with the approach of dawn. From ahead he heard the sullen thunder of the open sea, magnified by the channel, as if some great beast lurked there, awaiting their arrival.
Then, ghostly, he thought he saw a shape off the port bow, a second close by. He was uncertain—in such poor light, with the fog still coiling and clouding in smoky billows, it was difficult to be sure. He turned to his companions, gesturing.
“Do my eyes play tricks? Or does something lie ahead?”
Katya and Bracht looked to where he pointed. The Kern, whose sight was perhaps the keenest, shook his head. “I see nothing.” Then, as the wind rolled back the curtaining mist a moment: “No—wait! Is that a boat?”
“Best alert the pilot,” Katya said, and sprang from the foredeck to the central aisle, striding surefooted to the stern.
“Fishermen?” Calandryll wondered as the brume shifted again, obscuring the shapes. “Or do the rebels come? Does Sathoman attack Vishat’yi?”
“That was no warboat,” Bracht grunted.
The wind contrived to skirl then, twisting back on itself so that the fog performed an ethereal dance and cleared awhile, and with its parting Calandryll saw more clearly that a pair of lean, low cutters rode the tide to port.
“There’s more,” Bracht snapped.
Calandryll followed the freesword’s outflung arm, seeing three similar craft to starboard. “Nor are they fishing boats,” he muttered.
“Does Sathoman mount a raid?” asked Bracht. “Look to sneak in?”
“With dawn approaching and the tide against them?” Calandryll shook his head. “It seems, rather, that they wait.”
Bracht braced himself against the warboat’s pitching, right hand fastening on the hilt of his falchion.
“Neither corsair vessels. Whose then? And do they wait for us?”
Calandryll felt apprehension grow as he gauged the numbers each boat might carry. Their masts were lowered and they rode close to the waterline, rakish, the dim light rendering assessment difficult. It seemed to him that they mounted six, perhaps eight, oars to a side, with more men clustered between the thwarts.
“I think there’s no other craft abroad.”
Bracht’s voice was grim; Calandryll loosened his sword.
“The pilot says likely they’re returning fisherfolk.”
Both men spun round as Katya rejoined them. Bracht grunted, “Ahrd knows, I’m no mariner, but I doubt such craft belong to fish catchers.”
From the stern, Tekkan called an order: the warboat slowed.
“No!” Calandryll shouted, suddenly aware that he could see the stern. “Faster! Run them down!”
Katya stared at the cutters. Then echoed Calandryll’s warning in her own language. The oarsmen faltered, their stroke confused by the countermanding shouts. Th
ere was a flurry of desperate activity as the Vanu archers sought their bows, wrapped in oilskins against the penetrating damp. Had they been ready the cutters would have stood little chance: the warboat rode higher, her bulk easily capable of ramming and sinking any one of the smaller vessels, while her archers might have picked off the crews before they drew close.
But fog and time were against them: the cutters were close now and no longer held station but drove forward, converging like a wolf pack as the warboat wallowed, indecisive.
“They attack!” Bracht yelled. “Ahrd curse them!”
Calandryll saw men all wrapped in concealing grey, cloth shrouding their faces so that only the eyes showed, crowding the boats. He risked a glance stern-ward, in time to see Kalim ek’Barre draw a cudgel from beneath his sheepskin and swing the club at Tekkan’s head. The boatmaster staggered, still holding his tiller with one hand, the other raised against the second blow. He fell at that, slumping to the deck, the Vanu boat heeling over as his weight turned the rudder.
Then the cutters were alongside and the grey-clad figures were swarming over the sweeps with simian agility, surprise and weight of numbers in their favor. Calandryll realized the straightsword was in his hand; heard Bracht shout, “Back to back! Hold them off!”
The Kern’s falchion flickered like a serpent’s tongue toward the hooded head the showed above the forecastle and the attacker gasped, grey painted with red as he fell down between the warboat and a cutter. Calandryll slashed at another, driving him back; saw Katya carve a bloody swath across a chest. He feinted as three masked shapes came close, turning his blade to hack viciously against an arm, and felt the steel meet mail beneath the concealing sleeve. He kicked at the man and swung the straightsword round, over another’s belly. This one wore no armor beneath his tunic and Calandryll experienced a savage satisfaction as the man screamed, his cry rising shrill above the clamor.