She shook her head, white hair as fine as thistledown barely concealing her bony skull. ‘Mainlanders have always feared us, even when they’ve sought to make use of our skills. At least we knew where we stood when the mageborn were beaten and exiled, if they weren’t hanged outright.’
‘Forgive me, Madam Shannet.’ Herion bowed respectfully. ‘But those days were long gone even before your birth.’
‘You don’t think such persecution could return?’ She teetered alarmingly as she thrust her stick at him. ‘For us and for these adepts of Artifice—’ her disdain was palpable ‘—if they’re fool enough to share their secrets. I’ve lived long enough to see how vile the mundane multitude can behave to one another, especially when they fear for their land or livelihood. We have nothing to gain by interfering and far too much to lose. The proper business of wizards is wizardry and that is the business of Hadrumal!’ Her voice echoed back from the encircling wall, unexpectedly forceful.
‘Archmage? By your leave?’ She gestured towards the door, still an impenetrable barrier.
Some of the mages looked towards Planir. As he sat back down with a casual wave of one hand, Jilseth saw the metal cloaking the door flowing back into the everyday bands of iron. The heavy portal creaked and swung open now that the will of the majority inside commanded it. She hastily stepped aside as council members began to leave.
One of the first, Jilseth noted, was Flood Mistress Troanna, as silent as she had been throughout the meeting, her expression as unrevealing as ever.
‘How much of that charade did Planir rehearse beforehand?’
Jilseth found Canfor at her shoulder, looking down at her.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘No?’ He smiled maliciously. ‘Then he does just keep you to run his errands. Well, Sannin, Rafrid and Herion all played their parts admirably. My compliments,’ he offered, sarcastic.
‘Then Ely is teaching you to suspect slights and connivance where none exist.’ Jilseth would have walked away but too many wizards were leaving the council chamber.
‘When did so few wizards last speak at a Council meeting?’ Canfor stooped, his twilight blue eyes unblinking. ‘Where was the usual discussion, weighing the argument on either side of the scales, a consensus agreed among all those present?’
‘Why is that remarkable?’ Jilseth retorted. ‘So many mages have lost patience with Kalion forever disputing the Archmage’s decisions.’
‘How many are losing patience with Planir’s perpetual refusal to act?’ Canfor pressed a hand against the wall to stop Jilseth squeezing through a gap. ‘What will your Archmage do when the mainland loses all patience with wizardry? When his lack of leadership has destroyed all unity among the mageborn? What good does it serve to have such senior mages undermine the Hearth Master’s concerns and distract everyone from the real issues at hand?’
‘Kalion’s notion of unity is everyone doing his bidding.’ Jilseth ducked under his arm. ‘I prefer to think for myself.’
‘A single strong voice commands respect.’ Canfor took a step to stay in front of her. ‘A bickering multitude invites contempt.’
Before Jilseth could counter that, Canfor vanished into the throng. She pressed her back against the wall, allowing the gathering to disperse. As the chamber emptied, she saw Planir in the centre, conferring with Sannin, Rafrid and Herion.
Planir saw her and beckoned. As Jilseth joined the quartet, she saw that Herion was looking glum.
‘So we have curbed Kalion’s interference at the cost of giving rein to Shannet’s prejudices against everyone and anyone not mageborn.’
Rafrid agreed with a heavy sigh. ‘While seemingly endorsing Master Massial’s oft-stated dismissal of anything beyond these shores.’
‘Giving those sharing such bias or blindness the perfect excuse of following their elders’ example,’ Sannin concluded sardonically, ‘thus deepening the dissent already rife in our halls. A good day’s work, Archmage?’
‘Deplorable as Hadrumal’s divisions might be, that’s a lesser evil than magical tyranny, no matter how honourable its motives.’ Planir caught Jilseth’s eye. Whatever he saw in her face prompted a wry twist of his mouth.
‘We don’t disagree with Kalion. Wizards must engage with the mainland if we’re to escape the non-mageborn’s fear and suspicion. If a fraction of the hatred that drove Trydek to this sanctuary ever takes hold again, no wizard’s life will be worth a copper cut-piece on the mainland.’
‘But Kalion’s approach would reap resentment by the bushel basket,’ Rafrid said with sincere regret, ‘which would rapidly ferment into hatred.’
‘Let us be thankful that our Hearth Master is such an honest man.’ Sannin’s remorse was just as genuine. ‘Much as it pains me to use that against him.’
‘He could have lied about his nexus scrying on the mainland,’ Herion explained to Jilseth, ‘or claimed that exaggerated calumny is being heaped on wizardry in Minelas’s name.’
‘No, he couldn’t,’ Planir said heavily. ‘Another mage perhaps, but not Kalion. He’s far too principled.’
‘What now?’ Sannin looked around the empty council chamber.
‘We must get the measure of our esteemed colleagues’ true opinions.’ Planir looked even more weary. ‘Most of them will keep their coin safe in their purse until they see which way these runes will roll. We must also keep a close eye on Captain Corrain,’ he added with asperity.
Jilseth wondered at that. ‘Archmage—’
‘I don’t trust him any more than Kalion does.’ Planir shook his head. ‘He wears that broken manacle as a remembrance; I’ve no doubt of it. He is not a man looking to forgive or to forget anyone who’s done him wrong. I suspect we’re all in that number thanks to Minelas.’
‘I saw that for myself.’ Jilseth wanted to say something different. ‘Archmage, since Kalion’s nexus will be watching you more closely than ever, could we be of assistance; myself, Merenel, Nolyen and Tornauld? We could watch Corrain for you, in case he does something untoward?’
With luck they’d hear some clue to the ruffian’s intent. Jilseth would wager gold against brass on Tornauld’s magic being able to listen a thousand leagues further than Canfor’s.
Planir considered this before nodding. ‘Very well.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Siprel Inlet, Caladhria
1st of For-Summer
CORRAIN YAWNED. THEY’D been keeping watch since early light, when the stream oozing from the marshes was a braided silver thread cutting across brown mud fringed with green, like the rot edging putrid meat. The stink lurked in the back of his throat even now that the returning tide had drowned the flyblown cordweed.
‘You’re certain of this?’ Captain Mersed sat beside him on a mat of lousewort.
‘As sure as I can be.’ Corrain looked seawards through the tangled branches of a salt-thorn bush.
Mersed stirred uneasily. ‘No word from the watchmen?’
‘They’ll come at high water.’ Kusint sat hugging his shins, chin resting on his knees. His talent for making himself comfortable, whether he’d learned that living in the Forest or campaigning with the Solurans, was something Corrain could only envy.
‘An hour or so after noon.’ Kusint checked the shadow of the stick he had set up for a makeshift sundial. ‘A Caladhrian hour.’
Corrain had been surprised to learn that the Solurans divided every day from dawn to dawn into twenty equal hours, as the Archipelagans did from sunset to sunset. Perhaps that made more sense in the southernmost Archipelago where the islands saw days and nights of equal length year round. But Solura was to the north of Caladhria, even more subject to the vagaries of the seasons.
However you measured it, nothing could hurry the sun’s passage across the sky above these trackless, midge-filled marshes. He shifted to ease the ache in his buttocks, careful not to shake the salt-thorn. A corsair galley might already be approaching. Any sentry in the prow would be able to see significan
tly further than those on the shoreline, even if they weren’t hiding in the bushes. The Caladhrian swordsmen must lie concealed until the raiders sailed right into their trap.
Mersed sucked his teeth unattractively. ‘You’re sure this is the right place.’
Corrain carefully folded his arms. Throttle the Tallat captain and some vengeful god would surely send them the galley at that very moment, to be alerted by the sound of choking.
‘You saw the tracks and barrel marks by the stream. This is the place.’
He had no doubt of that. He’d tallied up the summer’s raids marked on Arigo’s map against the almanac, double-checking his own recollection of the phases of the moon against Kusint’s memories of that stop to replenish the Reef Eagle’s water casks. Together they had scoured every map of these remote shores and sought out every greybeard guard’s reminiscences of hunting trips.
From the dates of those first raids and the distances from the despoiled villages, Corrain and Kusint concluded this was the corsairs’ favoured inlet, deep in the saltings between Halferan and Tallat, so remote that there was no point in wondering where the border between the baronies might lie.
So Corrain had bullied Captain Arigo into saddling up the Halferan guard and they’d gone southward in search of allies among the charcoal marks on his map. They’d soon found Mersed and his troopers riding beneath Tallat’s black and white chequer-cloth. Those men had been readily convinced to plan this assault on the raiders. They’d spent the previous six days riding the coast only to arrive each day amid the devastation the corsairs had left, sometimes so recently a burned house was still smouldering.
Faint doubt tormented Corrain all the same. It had looked different at night from the deck of a galley, insofar as anywhere in these endless vistas of reed and scrub could look different from anywhere else. And they were wagering that a galley would arrive before Captain Mersed gathered up his men and rode away. He certainly wouldn’t stay beyond the first despatch bringing word of another ravaged Tallat village.
Corrain saw the tension in Kusint’s angular jaw, as well as a darkness behind his eyes. Corrain recognised that unspoken fear. It had visited him in the cool grey light of dawn.
‘They won’t take us again,’ he murmured to the Forest lad. ‘We outnumber them three to one. We know when they’ll be weakest—’
‘A brindle owl!’ Mersed uncoiled his long limbs to crouch, alert.
Corrain’s hand was already on his sword hilt. ‘We don’t move till they’re split between ship and shore.’
That first call meant a corsair vessel had been spotted off shore. The next signal would indicate it was making for the inlet.
Absurd uncertainties quickened Corrain’s heartbeat. Someone aboard that ship might know that supposed owl for a counterfeit. Brindle owls only hunted among the forests inland. He thrust away such foolish misgivings. The Aldabreshi would be as ignorant of Caladhrian birds as he had been of the twittering in Archipelagan trees.
Kusint offered Corrain a swig from the water skin slung over his shoulder. He sucked gratefully on the horn mouthpiece.
He refused to indulge in more foolish speculation. There was no chance they’d find Hosh chained to an oar. The fool boy was doubtless dead, murdered when Corrain had escaped with Kusint. He would have to answer for that whenever he finally stood before Saedrin.
The brindle owl called a second time. Corrain watched the corsair galley advancing cautiously up the inlet. The platforms at prow and stern were both crowded with armed and armoured Aldabreshi, vigilant in every direction. The slow oars barely raised a whisper in the sluggish water, obedient to the flute’s steady rhythm.
Corrain glanced at the clumps of sea reed marking the uncertain margin between mud and more solid ground. Chest high to a tall man, the tufted green and brown stems offered sufficient cover to hide the Tallat troopers. Mersed had promised they could contain their hatred. He’d threatened to personally castrate any fool ruining all their hopes by attacking too soon.
Corrain knew the Halferans wouldn’t give in to their outrage, not and risk his and Captain Arigo’s boot so far up their arse that they’d be sucking on hobnails. The galley was drawing ever closer to the broad wedge of firm ground, where the stream offered untainted water. With deftness impossible for any ship under sail, it spun around inside its own length, the oarsmen on one side backing while those on the other flank rowed forwards. Now the galley lay sternward to the shore.
‘It’s not the Reef Eagle,’ Kusint breathed.
Corrain saw the disappointment deep in his eyes. He had hoped to rescue Hosh too.
Every oar rose clear of the water, drops pattering down from their blades. The whip master blew his whistle. With a crash, each oar descended and backed the galley so close to firm ground that Corrain could hear the keel grate on the mud.
The corsairs were shouting briskly, no alarm to stir the salty air. The oars were drawn inboard with a rumble like distant thunder, leaving the blades bristling along the oar ports. The crude anchors hit the shallow water, splashing loudly.
‘We’ve got them,’ Mersed whispered, exultant.
‘Lay an egg before you cackle.’ Corrain crouched, tense as a bow string.
Attack now and the corsairs would cut those anchor ropes, whip the rowers to their oars and be away to warn their allies never to venture here again.
The galley’s master was visible in the stern, gesturing as he ordered the hatch opened to the hold. Some Aldabreshi were already climbing down the ladders fixed at the galley’s stern. Corrain watched as a gaggle of slaves began filling leather flagons from the stream while others manhandled the little barrels to be filled with water.
He took a carved horn whistle from the pouch of oddments on his belt and blew a raucous blast. The corsairs looked around, more curious than concerned.
Every Caladhrian recognised the sun-faced duck’s call. They erupted from the thickets and reeds. Mersed ran to join his men, all concealment abandoned.
Those raiders already ashore readied their own weapons. Curved Archipelagan steel clashed with straight mainland swords. Cries of pain mingled with abuse hurled by both sides, mutually incomprehensible.
Every muscle in Corrain’s body urged him to join the fray. No, that first assault was Tallat’s task. If the Caladhrians were to win the day, they must stick to their plan.
More Aldabreshin raiders poured down the galley’s stern ladders, shining blades in hand. Tallat’s troop began retreating. The first of the fallen, Caladhrian and Aldabreshin, were trampled underfoot.
Corrain gritted his teeth. Men died. It was the way of battle. At least those heroes of Tallat had struck a blow to avenge Caladhria’s sufferings.
Now they were relying on Captain Mersed’s mastery over his men. The Tallats must hold off from striking back long enough to draw the corsairs far enough from the ship.
Good enough. The second wave of Caladhrians, led by Mersed himself, surged forward from concealment to cut the raiders off from their ship. Seeing they were now caught between the two troops, the corsairs quickly drew close together.
That left them wrong footed when Mersed’s men rushed up the stern ladders instead. Now the Tallats’ initial retreat stopped dead. Those swordsmen sprang forward to prevent the corsairs on shore from falling back to defend their ship. However, there were still enough raiders on the galley to make a fight of it and these southern barbarians had other resources.
‘Corrain,’ Kusint said warningly.
‘I see it.’ Corrain was watching the prow platform, jutting out from the shore. Pale smoke rose, teased by the summer breeze.
He took the crossbow that Reven offered him. Tucking the stock tight into his shoulder, he sighted along the length of the weapon, through the fine ironwork lattice set in the centre of the curved arms. Several men were stooping over the source of the smoke.
Corrain saw one straighten up. The Aldabreshin drew back his arm, intent on making his throw. Corrain pressed the crossbow�
�s trigger and felt the bolt’s discharge rush through his body like a physical release.
As the corsair fell, he saw the others in the prow looking wildly around their feet. ‘Reven!’
The boy took the spent crossbow, handing Corrain a second with its sturdy hemp string already drawn, deadly bolt loaded. Reven bent to thrust his foot through the stirrup at the front of the empty crossbow. Snagging the string on the hook on his belt and standing upright, his action drew the weapon ready for use once again. He reached into the quiver slung from his shoulder for another bolt, only to realise Corrain was still watching and waiting.
‘Captain?’ Reven had started calling him that, along with a fair few of the other lads. Thus far, Arigo had chosen to ignore it.
Corrain saw a raider in the galley’s prow pounce like a cat on a mouse. The man sprang up, his arm swinging wildly. Something small soared through the air; no bigger than a man’s fist. It burst in a flash of flame, sending fragments spattering into the water.
That was a relief. He didn’t want the fools to burn their own ship to the waterline. The relief was short-lived. The next fire pot flew straight over the galley’s stern to smash on the shore. While it fell too short to shower them with flames, the Tallat men recoiled with cries of alarm.
Corrain raised the crossbow and as quickly as he could, aimed bolt after bolt at the galley’s prow. Other Halferan bows joined him. Hunters like Fitrel and Arigo were deadly accurate, their skills born of years of hunting.
The Archipelagans’ short wooden bows had no hope of reaching the archers equipped with either crossbows or mainland bows in the Dalasorian style, masterfully crafted with bone, horn and sinew. After seeing how readily Aldabreshin wooden bows warped through their rain-filled seasons, Corrain had realised such intricately wrought mainland weapons could never survive the damp. So the raiders would have no answer for Halferan arrows.
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