by David Mason
There had been so few men left alive, at the last, that even with Hugon and Zamor’s help, the clumsy old ship had been hard to work. The survivors were weary, and gloomy, though they knew their luck in being alive. And to Hugon and the others of his party, Grotha was a poor substitute for their original destination; nearly as many miles of sea still separated them from Mazain as there had been when they started.
Hugon knew Grotha well; and it was possible, he thought, that there might be those in Grotha who still knew Hugon. He sincerely hoped that there were none such; but it had not been too long since he had sought knowledge there, among the famed scholars who taught in the ancient schools of Grotha.
Unfortunately, there were many sorts of knowledge, and Hugon had sought to delve in fields in which no degrees were granted, the burgess’s daughter being one such field. A girl of expensive tastes, too, as he remembered her; he had promised her a necklace, and a necklace was what he brought her, obtained at some difficulty and danger. Highwaymen were customarily displayed, swinging odorously in their chains, along the west road out of Grotha town, as Hugon remembered all too clearly. Even now, the thought chilled him a little.
Strange that he could no longer remember the name of the girl, though she’d been a nicely shaped, high-colored lass. Not as slim as the Lady Gwynna, of course, Hugon thought critically.
The Golden Turtle came up the wide channel and round the seawall, into Grotha’s wharves; with the late tide, as the crewman had predicted. There was much conversation with the officers of the port; they bore a somewhat curious feeling toward a battered old ship that arrived without cargo, with only a handful of crew still alive, and the signs of battle upon her. Yet, when Thuramon had judiciously let a few coins drop into the right places, the inquisitiveness waned. After all, other ships had lately come in, with wild tales of the turmoils going on southward, and some ships expected had never come at all.
The Turtle would be sold, for whatever she could bring, and her price distributed to the surviving crewmen. The late captain had no heirs, it seemed. That disposed of, the next problem would be to find a way to reach Mazain, across the Middle Sea, and that problem seemed insoluble indeed.
All four, Thuramon, Zamor, Hugon, and Kavin, sat in a quayside public house, under the flickering lamps, after fruitless hours of search along the quays. No, not until the Middle Sea was safe again, was the repeated verdict of a dozen captains; not for gold in any quantities.
The public house was well-filled, many out-of-work seamen among the patrons. These sat, grumbling, telling strange tales, sometimes wandering oft in search of rumored berths to be had on coasters or on the river trade. Some of them found Fraak a mighty wonder, and came to where the dragonet sat curled on Hugon’s shoulder, to admire him. This Fraak enjoyed enormously; and even more he enjoyed the bits of fish and ripe sausage they brought him, eating the gifts swiftly and repaying the donors with small fire-spectacles and smoke rings.
After Fraak had finished an especially garlic-laden bit, Hugon sniffed meaningfully at the dragonet’s pointed snout.
“Gods, Fraak, you’ll be able to slay a man soon with that breath,” he said. “And I’ll swear you’ve gained half again your own weight, this night.”
“Oookh,” Fraak said, softly, and closed his eyes.
“A handsome beast,” a voice said behind Hugon, and he turned in his seat to look at the speaker.
There was something slightly familiar about the man; a tall, dark man with a spade beard, dressed most elegantly in scarlet and silver and wearing a sword. Then Hugon placed the familiar look; the man was a Mazainian, in dress and accent. Zamor, across the table, saw the look of the newcomer too, and sat, stone faced.
But Thuramon did not seem at all disconcerted; he looked up and smiled, stroking his silver beard.
“Greetings, Lord Admiral Farzakk,” Thuramon said. “Will you sit, sir?”
The Mazainian stared at Thuramon, and his face grew tight.
“You are a sorcerer,” he said, low voiced.
“I have some knowledge of the Art, yes,” Thuramon said. “But it needed no magic to know your name and face. I saw it once, long ago. And I have learned that you have been proscribed as a rebel by the Emperor.”
The tall man sat down between Hugon and Thuramon, leaning closely toward the magician.
“I would prefer no loud words, sir,” he said. “I am not known here, fortunately.”
Thuramon nodded.
“There was a certain acquaintance of mine,” Farzakk said, staring at Fraak. “A lord Barazan, who had purchased just such a beast as this, at a ridiculously high price, but a year or so ago. But he was drowned, I’ve heard, and doubtless the beast went also.”
“Doubtless,” Hugon said, calmly.
“If a man had slain that Barazan,” Farzakk said, “I would bear that man no ill will at all. I considered that lord an arrogant and overbearing fool; and he would have been my enemy today, if he had lived. He would most certainly have gone on serving that madman who calls himself Emperor.”
“I believe that Barazan drowned by mere accident,” Hugon said, calmly. “Not by any man’s hand.”
The other glanced at him, and teeth shone in a grin.
“Then I owe no one thanks,” Farzakk said. “Indeed.” He looked from one face to another, Kavin’s, Zamor’s, and Thuramon again.
“A man came to me and said there were travelers who would go to the Imperial City,” Farzakk said. “A rare thing, just now. By another odd chance, it happens that I have been seeking just such intrepid travelers to… ah, do me a small service,” He smiled.
“A service,” Thuramon said, thoughtfully. “And for what pay?”
“Well, now,” Farzakk said, “If those same men desired to reach Mazain at all, I might be able to aid them greatly there. I could, for example, find them a small swift ship that might land them somewhere in the north, past the Narrow Sea. From there, it would be easy enough to make their way to the city, since the place is not yet encircled.”
“Not… yet,” Thuramon echoed, drawing his hand down his beard. “Has the rebellion gone so far, then?”
“All of the south is lost to the Emperor,” Farzakk said. “Now, if the madman were cut off from both the sea and the northern provinces…” He shrugged. “But of course, the whole fleet of the Mazainian force is out at sea. It would take much force to break through that wooden wall. Many ships…” He paused, and gazed at Thuramon. “Perhaps… even a little of the Art itself.”
“If I were myself a sorcerer of skill,” Thuramon said, serenely, “and my lord will notice… I said if… I would much advise against the use of the Art in war. I have heard that magic is sometimes used so, in desperate cases. But plain steel slays as certainly as any spell, and a man at arms demands a small enough price for his work. But the price of magic is very high, and a man may pay, again and again.”
Farzakk stared at him, with a strange look. Then, after a moment, he spoke.
“I see.”
Kavin, who had been listening with a grim look, said, “Do you, sir? You’re fortunate. I myself learned the truth of what the old man says, once… but it was an expensive lesson.”
Thuramon chuckled. He looked at Farzakk.
“So, apart from whatever weak aid my Art might give you… none, probably… what other service did you have in mind?”
Farzakk spoke very low.
“There may be certain ships,” he said, obliquely. “A few being made ready here and elsewhere. Or even such ships as are now in the service of a certain king, who might bear a grudge of some standing against the Emperor. If many ships drove, all together, against the fleets of Mazain in the Middle Sea, a breach might be made. What might follow is in the hands of the gods, of course, but the city could be encircled; it might be that the king I mentioned might feel it worthwhile to send his own men to the rebellion’s aid, also.”
The High King of Meryon, then, Hugon thought. A grudge, indeed; hate, since that betrayal and
slaughter at Armadoc. Yet, a king borne on the shoulders of wild mountain barons and restive lords, who would not strike too rashly lest he fall himself. Rebellions were mischancy affairs, Hugon thought. Till the High King knew how the dice would fall, he would be the enemy of neither side, openly, though men like Farzakk might build and arm fleets in full sight, in the King’s own lands.
“Then, should that small swift ship you spoke of bear a small party to the other shore,” Thuramon said, “to Mazain itself, as it might be… what would you like in return?”
Farzakk’s eyes suddenly grew wild though he kept a calm face.
“There is a woman and a boy,” he said. “The boy is the son of a rebel lord. He never wedded the woman, in proper form… he had no time, and she was not of high blood in any case. But the boy is… his. They dwell in Mazain. The woman was… she is a weaver, and keeps a shop, close by the Fountains, in the Street of Three Lanterns. Her name is Elanak, and the boy is called Zaraz. She is a handsome woman, pale with black hair…” He stopped.
“What would you have us do with your son, then?” Thuramon asked.
“Yes,” Farzakk said. “He is mine. And the woman, too. I’d have had her to wife, if I had dared oppose custom… but enough. If I’d wedded her, she’d be slain by now, as the madman’s done to all who are related to any rebel. He does not know of her, I think. But she must go out of the city. She must!”
Thuramon nodded.
“Simple enough,” he said.
“Is it, then?” Farzakk said, wryly. “Wait till you try. I desired her to flee with me six months ago, and she… oh, but she’s a stubborn woman, that one. Spoke of her workshop, the five weavers there, and work agreed upon; put off the leaving, again and again. But now it may be too late, unless she is made to go, soon.”
“The Emperor knows nothing of her,” Thuramon said.
“He may discover her relations with me,” Farzakk said. “But there’s another matter, too. Mazain will soon be under siege; a city, starving perhaps, and later to be looted and burned, it may be.”
All at that table knew what the black-bearded man meant. A city under siege… a place of doom, often enough.
“We have business in the Imperial City,” Thuramon said. “If we could reach it, quickly… why, I’m sure I can speak most persuasively with this woman Elanak. Aid her to make haste in leaving, it may be.” He pulled his white beard, and a glint appeared in his eye. “For such uses as that, I may use my Art freely. You’ll remember, Hugon, I gave you a certain crystal toy to silence another woman?”
Hugon grinned. The pendant was still in his pouch.
“I may have use for it again,” Hugon said.
Farzakk came to his feet. “Good,” he said. “I did not set a time, concerning that fleet I spoke of. I was not sure of you, then. But now I must tell you… we are ready, and have been these last ten days. The ships waited only for the wind’s change, that comes every year about this time. So, you understand, you sail at once if you accept my bargain.”
“Ugh,” Hugon said. “I’d hoped to spend one night in a bed that didn’t move save when I caused it to. A proper bed…” He gazed gloomily at a round-formed innkeeper’s girl, who passed through the crowded room bearing a tray of mugs, swaying as she went. He sighed deeply and with feeling. “Well, then… away.” He thrust back his bench, and rose, draining the mug that had been sitting before him.
“Oooh,” Fraak fluted, on his shoulder, opening a golden eye. “Aaah,” on a lower note, and closed the eye again. Fraak, Hugon thought, could sleep soundly in an earthquake if he chose to.
The person called Gann walked with long, steady strides down a winding trail that clung to a mountain side. He no longer wore the battle armor he had rebuilt back in that ruined valley; the coppery metal was bundled on the back of the wooly beast that followed close upon his heels. He was wrapped in a thick, hooded cloak of gray wool, though he had already learned that he did not really care whether he was cold or warm. Yet, the thin snow blew about him as he went, and the temperature was low; this body might not yet be overdriven. There was still the pain, too, the pain that never left. That did not change, no matter whether the air was warm or cold.
Behind him, five other cloaked figures moved, and a dozen of the little, sure-footed beasts called elami bore heavy loads, following the men. Gann did not look back at them; nor speak to them. He did not need to.
The leading man of the five was, or had once been, Mang Elap. Behind him, four others of his tribe walked, and each man’s face was as empty as a skull’s. Their eyes were blank, and none of them spoke as they went, plodding steadily down the long trail toward the known lands at the base of the mountains.
It had been simple enough to perform the operation needed to make these simple creatures into useful workers. Gann knew the procedure well; in his own world it had been common. Now Mang and the others were no more than machines, less free than the beasts they led, but much more useful. As all such should be, Gann knew.
There was a second advantage gained from the thing he had done to the hillmen; he now possessed a great deal of what they had known, knowledge of great use to him. Their language, for one, a tongue which, with variations, seemed to be nearly the same in the more civilized areas where Gann must go. Strange, he thought, a world where so many different peoples speak the same basic tongue. It would imply that this was truly a young world; yet, from other evidence, it was immensely old. There should have been time for a mighty civilization to grow here, Gann thought.
That strange internal compass pointed toward the west, where there was a seacoast, according to the maps he had found. The Other was there, but moving again, steadily away. Perhaps that Other was on a ship again; if so, it would be necessary to cross the sea after him.
Gann would do so, then. He knew that he ought to feel some anger, some sense of fury directed at his quarry; the Other seemed almost to sense his coming. Yet he could feel nothing. It was strange, he thought, but it had advantages, this utter cold that lay upon him. He remembered incidents when he had allowed rage or caution to seize him for a brief moment, and had thereby erred in judgment. Or even worse, compassion. Now, he need fear those enemies within no longer.
The trail turned, and the land below began to be visible. Deep pine forests stretched downward in long slopes toward a distant river; and many miles away, he saw a thin blueness of smoke, and a tiny pattern of rooftops. A town, Gann thought. And a river, that might prove a road to the sea, and to the Other.
He strode on, steadily, and the human machines followed.
TEN
On either side, as far as Hugon could see, the gray ocean was dotted with ships. To port, a covey of slim fighting galleys plowed swiftly, while starboard there lay a huge war galleon that was unmistakably of Meryon build. It was triple decked, and from shuttered ports on its sides, the bronze cannon that were still rarely found in the world could fire. A dreadful and untrustworthy tool of war, Hugon thought; by the favor of the gods, the fashion for those monstrous things had never spread far, though the black powder had been known for a long time now.
Hugon, whose agile brain possessed a truly remarkable assortment of information, had once delved into the mysteries of chemical art. Though the exact means of mixing black powder was a guild mystery, he knew that it required three elements, two of which were easy to find. The third, the white salts, were not easily gathered, and therefore the art of making the black stuff was, to his great satisfaction, little practiced.
Also, only in Meryon were really strong cannon cast; their smiths had secrets known to no others. Even after the black powder had been acquired, with much trouble, a war lord might find that a badly cast cannon could slay more of his own men than those of the enemy.
But at such times as this, the cannon came again into use; those great galleons were their most suitable home. Hugon watched the giant, under towers of sail, plowing steadily along; and there, behind it, another, and then a third.
Farther away
, toward the horizon, he counted seven big vessels, warships of Grothan make; and in the other direction, nine more, these of varying rigs and sizes.
Every one of them was filled with fighting men, Hugon knew. Some were mercenaries out for loot; but many more were exiles of Mazain, ruined men and landless now, whose relatives had been slain by the mad Emperor, men who would take joy in slaying any who still served Sharamash. Also, men of the Meryon Kingdom, who had come to the ships with no command of their own king to send them, but none to forbid, either. These would fight with almost as much fire as the exiles and rebels; the memory of the landing of Imperial force on the soil of Meryon was fresh and new as spilled blood.
The ship on which Hugon and the others now sailed was a slim, swift little vessel, with hardly any cover from the weather, crewed by four dour men. Both the ship and the four crewmen had a distinct air of having once been engaged in much less respectable trades; but Hugon thought it would be just as well not to ask about that.
It was fast, this little boat; it bore a rather well-made carving of a winged girl at the prow, and the name Swift Virgin. The virginity Hugon took to be merely symbolic; the speed was a fact. And, like other virgins, Hugon noticed, she gave a rough ride; he was forced to keep a hand close to a rail, even in the light winds that presently drove her.
One man was at the helm, and a second squatted, watchfully, atop the foremast step, one arm around the mast. Then that man rose suddenly, hand over his eyes, peering.
“Signaling, up ahead,” he called to the helmsman. After a moment, he added, “Three smokes… and there, the galleon’s running up a pennant.”
“Below, there,” Hugon called out. Zamor’s head emerged from a hatch, and he looked inquiringly up. “The Imperials. They’re close ahead, might be.”
Zamor came up, yawning, and dragging up the long axe which he had kept from the fight aboard the Turtle. He had declared it a fine weapon indeed, and he had ever begun to ornament it with small and intricate carvings on the haft. Behind him, Kavin came also, and Thuramon followed.