by Angus Wells
For some time they traveled in silence, contemplating the events of the night and the information they had won, their thoughts accompanied by the clatter of shod hooves on flagstones and the steady creaking of the coach. Then, as they crossed a bridge spanning the Alda, Katya said gently, “I am sorry for your father’s death.”
Calandryll shrugged: he had thought not of that, but of Daven Tyras and the likelihood of overtaking the man, the likelihood of even finding him. Her well-meant words served as a reminder, but still he found it difficult to assess his feelings. It was as though, like Nadama, Bylath had become a shadowy figure from his past, sufficiently obscured by time that his demise held no real impact. The pursuit of Rhythamun outweighed, it seemed, such personal loss; or he was hardened even sterner than he had thought.
He did not know how to respond, so he said, “Tobias is a dangerous enemy. If he posts my likeness across Lysse . . .”
“Darth failed to recognize you,” she returned.
“He was drunk.” Calandryll turned from her compassionate gaze to the window, where Bracht paced the carriage, teeth flashing in a smile of pure enjoyment. “Someone more sober might.”
“How, if we travel by sea?” she demanded.
He turned from studying the joyful Kern to face her again, directing a thumb toward the horseman. “I doubt Bracht will relinquish his stallion now they’ve found one another once more. And if Daven Tyras came from Gannshold and is returned there . . .” He frowned, shaking his head. “No, I suspect we must travel overland.”
“Then we must travel carefully,” she murmured, her own eyes shifting to observe the Kern, pausing a moment before she added in a deliberately casual tone, “Who is Rytha?”
“One of Varent’s women,” Calandryll replied, unthinking; more concerned with the dangers imposed by his proscription than Bracht’s amorous adventures. “Bracht”—he caught himself, suddenly embarrassed— “knew her. When Rhythamun first brought us to Aldarin.”
“How well?” Katya demanded.
Calandryll shrugged awkwardly. “We were not here long.”
“Long enough, I think.” The interior of the coach was shadowy enough he could not read her expression, but her voice was edged. “Is she pretty?”
Helplessly, he said, “I suppose so. I barely remember her. Nor, I think, does Bracht.”
“But she remembers him.”
“Would you not?” He wondered at her irritation, thinking that such jealousy as he heard in her voice might well jeopardize their alliance, just as the Kern’s possessive protection did. He was surprised to hear her answer come soft with doubt, as if he had caught her in some transgression, confused by her own responses.
“Aye. I would and always shall. But I had not thought . . .” She hesitated, shaking her head, moonlight dancing briefly silver on her long hair as they crossed a plaza where no buildings intervened to obscure the crescent. “But I have never . . . In Vanu it is different . . . We . . .”
Her voice trailed off and Calandryll saw that she was both confused and embarrassed. It came to him that he still knew little enough of her homeland or the ways of its people. Nor had he seen this warrior woman so unsure of herself: it was as though, in the gaps between those uncertain words, she showed a part of herself previously hidden, a part more vulnerable than he had ever thought. Earnestly, he said, “Bracht loves you. There is no doubting that; and since he first set eyes on you, he’s not looked at another.”
“He’s had little chance,” she returned, but just before they left the plaza and plunged again into shadows Calandryll saw her smile and heard reassurance in her voice. He smiled back and said, “It would make no difference—he pledged his word, and you’ve mine that he does not renege on that. Nor, where you are concerned, does he want to.”
He saw her smile grow wider as she turned to look from the window, the lanterns strung along the road they followed revealing a fondness in her grey eyes as she studied the laughing rider. Bracht caught her glance and waved: Calandryll was pleased to see her wave back.
Soon after, the coach entered the Harbor Quarter and deposited them outside the Seagull. The clepsydra set above the long counter that spanned one wall of the tavern showed the hour a fraction past midnight as they entered. Tekkan sat with some dozen of his crew at the far end of the low-ceilinged tavern, his weather-beaten face lighting with relief as he saw them shoving through the crowd toward him. He cleared a space on the bench, sending one of his men sufficiently fluent in the Lyssian tongue to order ale and demanded they tell him everything.
His face darkened and he muttered an oath as Katya and Calandryll related their account of Rhythamun’s magical appearance. Swiftly, they advised him of Daven Tyras and their belief that the sorcerer must have stolen the horse trader’s body in which to continue his search for Tharn.
“But surely this means he’s lost to us,” he argued. “What can we do, save go back to Vanu and seek the aid of our holy men?”
“No.” Calandryll shook his head emphatically. “If Daven Tyras came from Gannshold, then likely he returns there.”
“And Darth said he spoke in the accents of Cuan na’For,” added Bracht, “so mayhap he’s of the clans, or a half-blood.”
“How does that help?” Tekkan shrugged.
“Think you the Mad God rests in Lysse?” asked Calandryll, and when the boatmaster shaped a negative: “Or in any of the lands where the Younger Gods hold sway? Were that so, they would surely league to thwart Rhythamun—no, Tharn must surely lie beyond all the lands men know.”
“Beyond the Borrhun-maj?” Tekkan ran fingers through his beard, nervously. “Then we’ve lost him.”
“He’s gained a start, but all Cuan na’For, all the Jesseryn Plain, lie betwixt here and the Borrhun-maj,” Bracht said. “And in Cuan na’For I yet have friends.” He grinned a moment, thoughtfully. “Enemies, too, but that’s another matter. If this Daven Tyras seeks to cross my homeland, then likely I can discover where he goes.”
Tekkan saw the direction of their thinking and began to argue anew. “You’d pursue a man you know only by some drunkard’s description? A warlock who may take another’s body at will? This is madness!” He pounded fist to tabletop. “I say we sail for Vanu, to consult the holy men.”
“The taking is not so easy,” Katya said, using the common tongue that Bracht and Calandryll might understand. “There’s scant chance he’ll take another while that of Daven Tyras serves him well enough. Why should he, when he believes us likely trapped in Tezin-dar?”
“Why then quit that of Varent den Tarl?” demanded Tekkan.
“Because Varent den Tarl was a noble of this city,” Calandryll said patiently, “a counsellor to the Domm, Daric. Such a man could not readily leave Aldarin to wander the world,”
“While a horse trader is expected to travel,” said Bracht.
“And if we sail for Vanu we likely shall lose him,” said Katya.
Tekkan frowned, gesturing at the Vanu folk. “And these? Shall I leave my vessel here in Aldarin harbor?”
Calandryll looked to Bracht, to Katya, and in their eyes saw confirmation of that same decision he had, unwittingly, reached. Katya laid hand to her father’s arm, speaking softly.
“You shall not accompany us where we go. Better that you return to Vanu and tell the holy men what we do. Mayhap they shall contrive some design to aid us, but now we three must travel overland.”
“On horseback,” said Bracht with unfeigned enthusiasm.
Tekkan studied them one by one, seeing determination writ vivid on their faces. His own darkened and he sighed, head falling awhile, then lifting, resignation in his pale eyes.
“I’d lief dissuade you,” he said slowly, “but I see I cannot. Hard though it be, I can find no argument. So it shall be as you say—you overland and I back to Vanu.”
“Remember this.” Katya touched her chest, where the talisman hung suspended. “While I wear the stone, the holy men shall always know where I am, and can perhap
s find some way to reach me through its agency.”
“Aye, there’s that.” Tekkan nodded sadly. “Shall you leave now?”
“On the morrow,” Bracht answered. “We’ve two mounts to buy yet.”
“Two?”
They told him of Bracht’s stallion. Calandryll thought of mentioning his proscription, but decided against such increment of the man’s worries; neither did his daughter nor Bracht see fit to raise the matter.
“So be it then,” Tekkan agreed with obvious reluctance, and fixed Bracht and Calandryll with a stern eye. “Heed me now—I place Katya in your charge. Does aught untoward occur, you shall answer to me,”
Calandryll bowed his head, understanding the man’s meaning and acknowledging the charge. Bracht’s comprehension was slower; he said, “You’ve already my word no harm shall come to her while I live.”
“I do not speak of sword-harm,” Tekkan replied, “save from that sword all men wear.”
Beside him, Katya blushed. The Kern frowned, as if startled by the outspoken warning. Calandryll saw his tanned face darken, the blue eyes narrowing dangerously. He took affront, Calandryll realized, tensing in anticipation of violent reaction, prepared to intervene. But then Bracht straightened on the bench, returning Tekkan stare for stare, his face no less grave than the boatmaster’s.
“When first we sailed for Gessyth,” he declared in formal tones, “I pledged your daughter and you that I should abide by those strictures she laid upon me—that I should hold tight rein on what I feel for her, and not address that matter until the Arcanum be destroyed and she home safe in Vanu. I do not forget my word!”
So fierce did that last sentence come that Tekkan started back, his own lined features suffused now with the blood that rushed to his cheeks. He ducked his head in apology, expression softening as he said, “Forgive me, Bracht ni Errhyn. Fatherly concern renders my tongue clumsy.”
Bracht gestured his acceptance, speaking gentler: “Think you I’d lay hand on her, save she said me aye, Tekkan?”
“No.” The older man shook his head, regaining his composure as he studied the freesword’s face. “I do not.”
“Then the matter’s settled,” Bracht said, “and I suggest we drink this ale and find our beds, for we’ve animals to purchase and likely hard riding ahead if we’re to snare our quarry.”
“Aye.” Tekkan raised his mug to each in turn. “To success and a safe homecoming.”
They drained the ale and quit the tavern, the Vanu folk dispersing to their individual lodgings with instructions to meet Tekkan at the warboat on the next day’s second tide while the four started back for their own hostelry. Father and daughter walked ahead, engaged in earnest conversation, Calandryll falling into step alongside Bracht. Cloud rafted the sky now, laying streamers across the moon, the led stallion snorting vapor into the chilly night. Bracht slowed deliberately, letting Katya and Tekkan move a little distance apart, and turned an inquisitive face to Calandryll.
“I had thought to answer questions regarding Rytha,” he murmured.
“You need not worry.” Calandryll chuckled softly. “Katya asked me about your . . . relationship . . . and I told her you had known Rytha, but now have eyes only for her.”
“Which, Ahrd knows is true enough.” The Kern studied the cloak-swathed figure before them appreciatively. “My thanks for your diplomacy, my friend.”
“We shall likely need more than diplomacy in the days to come,” Calandryll responded. “Rhythamun’s far enough ahead of us, and my outlawry may present us with problems.”
“Aye, ten thousand varre’s enough to uncloud any man’s sight”—Bracht grinned—“but mayhap we can disguise you somewhat.”
“Save by such magicks as Rhythamun used to bring me out of Secca I cannot see how,” Calandryll muttered. “And if we’re to hold his trail we must surely pass through the northern cities.”
“I’d not use magic,” said Bracht. “The less of that I encounter, the better. No, we’ll find simpler means.”
“How?” Calandryll demanded, but the Kern merely chuckled and refused to elaborate further.
THE morning dawned bright, the sun a brilliant disc shining from a steely sky empty of cloud save where vagabond billows clustered far off over the Narrow Sea. Frost rimed the windowpanes and the cobbles of the hostelry’s courtyard, and from the kitchen came the welcome smell of porridge and frying bacon. Calandryll was not surprised to find Bracht already abroad, guessing that the Kern would be found in the stable with his beloved horse. He left Tekkan to his ablutions and went down to the common room, ordering a generous breakfast and succeeding in consuming at least half before the others joined him. Bracht was in excellent spirits, enthused by the prospect of leaving the sea behind and continuing on horseback; Katya and Tekkan, aware that this day was likely the last they would be together, were more subdued, and in this Bracht demonstrated a somewhat unusual tact.
“We need but two animals until we reach Cuan na’For,” he declared. “To cross the grass we’ll require a packhorse, but that may be purchased in Gannshold. Calandryll and I can buy the mounts we need now without your aid. Let us meet here at noon.”
Katya flashed him a grateful smile that he answered with a bow; Tekkan murmured his thanks and Bracht rose grinning, beckoning Calandryll to join him.
They secured directions to the Equestrian Quarter and quit the hostelry, setting off on foot. By day’s light Aldarin was a bustling city, the streets and plazas crowded, filled with the sounds and scents of the multitude of folk who sold and bought, or merely gazed and strolled the promenades. In one of those great squares lined with eating houses and taverns there was a pillar, similar to those employed in Secca for the posting of such notices as were deemed of public import: official pronouncements, edicts, new laws, and news of laws broken. Calandryll urged his companion to halt a moment, studying the column. On it he saw his likeness and the announcement of Tobias’s promised reward. It was, as Darth had unknowingly suggested, not a very good likeness: the face he saw was that of a youth, carefree and bland, somewhat soft of feature, with neat-cut hair and rather vague eyes. It had been copied, he realized, from a portrait that hung in his father’s—now his brother’s!—palace, one painted some years ago. It announced him outlawed for crimes against Secca, ten thousand varre promised for his apprehension or delivery of his recognizable head.
He cursed as he read his brother’s treachery, thankful that the chilly morning allowed him to wear a concealing cloak but still, unthinkingly, drawing the hood farther over his face.
“A poor enough likeness,” Bracht murmured. “What do the words say?”
Calandryll had forgotten the Kern could neither read nor write and in a low, angry voice recited the legend. Bracht nodded grimly and said, “I think that when our quest is ended there should be an accounting with your brother. A wise man leaves no enemies at his back.”
Calandryll shrugged, moving away from the pillar, wondering if the eyes he felt fastened upon him were real, or existed only in his imagination. “Did you not leave enemies in Cuan na’For?” he demanded.
“Aye.” He heard some hesitation in the Kern’s reply. “But that was a different matter.”
He turned his head to study Bracht, finding the freesword’s features set impassively, his expression suggesting he did not wish to discuss the affair: he wondered what his comrade held back.
“Come,” Bracht said, seeking somewhat obviously to change the subject, “we’ve horses to buy and that trade takes time.”
One day, Calandryll decided, he must press the Kern to explain what secret lay in his past that had driven him from his homeland. But not now: he knew Bracht well enough that he could accept such things would be revealed in time, and now more urgent matters were to hand.
They left the plaza and made their way along streets and alleys to a quarter set hard against the northern section of the wall, the odors of cooking food and wine, of ale and people, replaced by the strengthening scent of h
orseflesh, dung, and hay. It lent a spring to Bracht’s step, his stride quickening as they drew steadily closer, his head thrown back to savor the pungent smells as if they were choice perfumes.
He chuckled gleefully as they passed beneath a high arch into a great square filled with a milling mass of animals and men. Set into the city wall facing them was a gate, out of which the horses might be taken to graze on the upland meadows, and to either side spacious stables and barns thrust out, interspersed with saddleries and a few ale shops, the whole encircling the central area, which divided into corrals and pens with avenues between where the beasts might be put through their paces for prospective buyers.
Bracht paused a moment beneath the arch, studying the scene with delighted eyes, then nodded, smiling broadly. “Mayhap we can learn more of Daven Tyras here,” he murmured, and plunged into the midst of the activity.
At first it seemed to Calandryll chaotic, the morning loud with the whinnying of horses, the drumming of their hooves, and the shouts of men, the flagstones slippery with the dung that flavored the cold air, mingling with the sweeter scent of stored hay and astringent urine, the plunging equines and their handlers seeming to pass at random, forcing the unwary to rapidly seek the safety of the fences. Gradually, under Bracht’s experienced tutelage, he saw a pattern was imposed. There, dray horses were to be found; here, palfreys suitable for gentlewomen; close on the gate the pens held ponies, small enough that children might comfortably handle them; to one side were carriage horses; on another, pack animals. The riding horses occupied the center, though even here subtle divisions existed, Bracht pointing out those fit for the hunt and those more suited to bearing an armored man, those bred for racing and those hardier beasts capable of both speed and endurance. It was to the area containing these latter mounts that they gravitated.
At first they wandered, seemingly idly, among the corrals, pausing here and there to make a closer examination of the stock. The traders recognized Bracht immediately for a Kern, his long ponytail and dark, hawkish features marking him clearly as a clansman from the north, and he took advantage of this to inquire about Daven Tyras.