Emissary

by Thomas Locke

  “Remember the witches. They fed their globe with pickings from the desert road. They built an altar of bones. And the globe was turning pinkish.”

  “So this crimson rider . . .”

  “The army has assaulted one badlands outpost after another. The rider feeds on this. Growing ever stronger. Until the moment arrives when they attack the Ashanta settlement.”

  Joelle’s features reflected the concern of listening multitudes. “You are suggesting the crimson mage brought the king’s brother and his army to their doom?”

  Trace looked down from his position in the bow. “He meant for them to lose.”

  “That is my thinking,” Hyam confirmed. “I assumed the crimson one fled into the forest. Now I believe I was wrong. He retreated to a safe position, from where he might feed upon their deaths.”

  “This is horrible.”

  “It is. And there is more.”

  Trace said, “More?”

  “The crimson rider feeds on death. Think on what this means.”

  Joelle’s features creased in worry. “They don’t understand what you are saying.”

  “The Ashanta form of attack was to raise up a ghoulish horde. What if the rider now controls them?”

  Both faces showed genuine terror. The boat’s progress slowed as the magical wind faded. Trace demanded, “The rider has stolen the Ashanta army?”

  “I have no idea. But I think, yes.” Hyam pointed to the sails and waited until Trace had resumed his magical task to add, “I fear it in my bones.”

  For much of the day Trace remained alone in the bow of the first boat, with Dama and the orb for company. Hyam had one of the middle sons row him and Joelle to the middle boat. The young man was Hyam’s age, perhaps a year or so older, but he remained silent and cowed by whatever Trace had shared with his brother. Hyam suspected it would be the response of most people to him, if he survived.

  He and Joelle stationed themselves in the bow of the second boat and worked at extending their reach, connecting to the orb, drawing the power. Joelle found it both difficult and exhausting, but for Hyam the distance was not great enough to challenge. So he left her there and moved to the rearmost vessel. Adler sailed upon this vessel, along with the Havering contingent. Hyam waved them off and focused on the orb. The hold was more tenuous now, but over time it grew to where he was certain he could connect at will with the orb.

  He lowered himself into the rowboat and ordered the son to stay away. He loosed the rope and let himself drift back. He ignored the worried faces that gathered at the vessel’s stern, focusing instead on the orb that grew ever more distant. He could not risk loosening his grip, not even for an instant, not without forcing Trace to turn the lead vessel around. And speed was everything. The closer they drew to the river mouth and Port Sutton, the more certain Hyam grew that they were racing death itself.

  Which granted his exercise a vital importance. He focused on the unseen orb, strengthening his grip, extending his reach. As soon as he grew comfortable with the distance, he extended it farther still, until the first vessel’s sail was a distant fleck of white, smaller than his little fingernail. By now the third vessel’s stern was crowded with gesticulating figures. Hyam powered his little vessel forward until it drew close enough for him to shout up, “I am fine. And this is important.”

  Adler called back, “We are drawing into the fishing lanes, sire.”

  He resisted the urge to correct his manner of address. “So?”

  “One vessel talking of how a rowboat without oars keeps up with a sail-driven vessel might be discounted. But if a fishing fleet were all to carry home the same message?”

  “You’re right.” Hyam pulled over to the side where a rope ladder traced a line in the green waters.

  None of the sailors moved forward to tie him up, however. Finally Adler stepped down himself and made fast the vessel. “Was there a purpose to this?”

  “There was.”

  “Oh, good. I would hate to think our leader caused such alarm simply because he needed a few hours of solitude.”

  “There may come a time when I need to appear empty-handed,” Hyam replied. Now that he was done with the exercise, fatigue lapped over him like the waves rocking his little vessel. “If I had done this earlier, I could have drawn on the orb when we were assaulted at the mapmaker’s. Now help me up.”

  Adler offered a warrior’s grin along with his aid. “You think like an officer.”

  “I don’t see how. I have never been in battle,” Hyam confessed. “Except the one time I ran away.”

  Hyam retrieved Joelle from the middle boat and returned to the first vessel. As they clambered on board, an idea struck him. The thought was so outrageous he took it first to Trace. The old mage heard him out in silence, his only response a slight furrowing of his brow.

  When Hyam finished, the wizard said kindly, “You realize what you are suggesting is not new.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Of course not. But your idea carries powerful implications.”

  “My question stands,” Hyam said. “Should I do this?”

  “Your idea is a good one. Excellent, in fact.”

  Hyam found himself slightly giddy with relief. “Should I wait?”

  “Whatever for?”

  But now that his thought was approaching action, he found himself vaguely embarrassed. As if by carrying out the deed, he was binding himself not just more closely to Joelle but also to a future he dreaded.

  Trace must have sensed his hesitation, for he said, “The time is right, the deed a good one. Go.”

  Hyam clambered down the stairs to the main deck, where Meda and her aide were wielding swords in slow motion, the officer talking through every motion. Joelle watched in rapt attention.

  At Hyam’s approach, Meda stopped and said, “You need something?”

  “Could all of you join me on the foredeck, please.” He led them back up the bow stairs, searched beneath the sailcloth, and came up with his pack. Only as he drew the sword and scabbard from his belongings did he realize he had no idea what to say. “Trace, help me.”

  “It is your idea, my liege. Your decision. Your deed.”

  “I don’t know the proper words.”

  “The act is what matters, my liege.” The old mage could not quite keep the smile from his voice.

  Hyam fought down his nerves and faced an uncertain Joelle. “Back at the Long Hall, you asked if I would arm you. I agreed.”

  Joelle swept a hand over the clustered troop. “They are doing that and more.”

  “Lass,” Trace said gently. “Let him speak.”

  Hyam drew his sword. As the milky blade appeared, the women gasped. Meda breathed, “Is that . . .”

  “Milantian steel,” Trace confirmed. “Yet another legend comes to life.”

  “I want you to carry this,” Hyam said.

  Joelle did not move. “I-I don’t understand.”

  Trace’s tone became formal. “My lady, you are being asked to serve as sword bearer to the Ashanta emissary.”

  “If you will,” Hyam added.

  Joelle stared at the blade for a very long time. Finally Meda asked, “Do you agree?”

  “I . . . Yes.”

  Meda gave a hand sign to her troops, who came to attention. She said, “Do you pledge to bear this weapon in defense of your liege? Make his enemies your own, his battles yours as well?”

  “I do,” she whispered.

  Hyam sheathed the blade and handed her the sword. “It’s yours.”

  40

  The river broadened until both banks disappeared beyond the horizon. Sails of all shapes and sizes filled the water. Fishing vessels dipped great booms from either side, their nets spread like tawdry wings. They emerged filled with fish that sparkled in the afternoon light.

  Hyam took over the wind spell, allowing Trace and Joelle to doze for a time. Then Adler arrived from the third vessel, drawn by the news that Joelle now possessed a Milantian sword. He a
nd Meda and Gimmit and the other officers inspected the milky steel with the astonishment of seeing ancient fables arise before their very eyes. Adler fashioned a shoulder harness, fitted it to Joelle’s back, then used his own blade to show her how to draw and sweep and attack, all in one fluid motion. Joelle proved adept at this as well, so Adler challenged her to fight. The mock battle lasted all of two seconds, for at her first parry Joelle sliced Adler’s blade off an inch above the pommel. Crew and warriors all gaped as the metal clattered to the deck.

  Later Hyam, Trace, and Joelle ate a ship’s feast of hardtack, plums, cherries, and cheese that crumbled at the touch. And they talked. Hyam wondered aloud how their one orb served an entire Long Hall of mages.

  “The orb has a master,” Trace replied. “Whether the master takes on the orb or is himself chosen has been debated for a thousand years.”

  Hyam recalled his moment of connection, a visceral bond that defied even the witches’ brew. “You were Master of the orb as well as the Long Hall?”

  “Until you stripped away my power and my comfort,” Trace replied, poking him in the ribs. “You scoundrel.”

  “You can’t call our surroundings unpleasant,” Hyam replied.

  “Not for an instant.” Trace tossed a fragment of hardtack to a patrolling seagull. He leaned against the forward gunnel with a bundled sailcloth for a cushion. “Still, there were many grand aspects to my former life. We numbered four hundred wizards and half again as many acolytes. All I need do was speak a wish, and if it was within power of mage or man, it was done. Which only made my foes among their ranks all the more sour.”

  Joelle spoke softly. “Except for those items where they could block you.”

  “True enough, my dear. True enough.” Trace spent a long time staring out over the water, then said, “Many are the comforts that can blind a man to his imprisonment.”

  “We were speaking,” Hyam said, “of one orb and many users.”

  “All mages whom the Master welcomes may use the orb. There is no limit to the number. The Master may require oaths, he may also deny access. In some Long Halls, this is where the greatest abuse of power arose. The threat of exclusion is used to bind the wrong mages, and for all the wrong reasons. When I was named Master, I promised that no wizard would ever be denied access to the orb.” He smiled sadly at Joelle. “There were times when I immensely regretted this vow. One of the few important losses my opponents dealt me was over my right to teach you openly.”

  The sour taste of Hyam’s unwanted memories joined with those that stained Joelle’s face. “The Three Valleys Mistress claims I’m not human either. Why did the mages teach me?”

  “Ah. The question for which there is no answer but one. And none knows that answer save the Mistress of that Long Hall. And she is not saying.”

  “I thought you said you talked.”

  “We did. And I asked. As did others. The Mistress would only say that she was told to do this. Not asked. Told. Who might be in a position to give orders to a Long Hall Mistress is a mystery wrapped in an enigma.” Trace sighed contentedly to the sky overhead. “When you uncover the answer, lad, be sure and let me know.”

  Hyam’s response was cut off by the signalman atop the mast crying, “Port Sutton to starboard!”

  The seaman’s eyes were far keener than Hyam’s, which only saw a stain upon the horizon. The sky was the color of an infant’s eyes, pale and milky blue, except in the direction where the watcher pointed. A yellow cloud hovered like a blemish.

  The skipper climbed the wooden steps and entered the bow station. “The wind is against us.”

  “So it is,” Hyam agreed.

  “If I tack into the harbor, it will take us the better part of the day.”

  “Which we do not have.”

  “But if three crowded river vessels are seen sailing with a wind that is theirs alone, people will talk.”

  “Which we don’t want,” Hyam said, and shut his eyes.

  A moment later, the nearest son called, “Ho, the wind!”

  “Don’t just stand there like a buffoon! Come about!” Gimmit roared. But he remained planted upon his stubby legs, glaring up at Hyam.

  “Was there something else?”

  “Aye, there might be.” Gimmit turned and gestured. Three of his sons approached with nervous smiles and offered a forelock to Hyam and Trace and Joelle. The skipper declared, “My sons are determined to see me planted in a watery grave.”

  “We’ve heard your company talking, sire,” the youngest said. “We want to sign on.”

  Gimmit stomped to the lee gunnel and spat over the railing.

  “Sailors are born spying things others don’t,” the older lad said. “Rocks and shoals aren’t the only hazards we have to see well before they’re trouble.”

  “We know something is amiss in this realm,” the eldest said. “A shadow of doom is about.”

  “If it’s true you’re headed off to battle the bringers of woe and ruin, we want to help,” the youngest said.

  Hyam turned to where the skipper stared out over the waters, beyond the city rising within the harbor walls, into the unseen. “What say you, Captain?”

  “My sons are scamps and ne’er-do-wells. But on this they’re right.” He wheeled about. “Is Port Sutton your destination?”

  “It is not.”

  “Where are you headed?” When Hyam hesitated, the skipper barked, “You’ve had time to take your measure of me and my sailors. As I have of you.”

  “We must find passage to Falmouth Port. From there we head into the badlands.”

  The sons were turned grim by the news. The skipper kicked at a wooden cleat, then declared, “You won’t find passage. And do you know why? Because all vessels are forbidden from traveling to the Oberon fiefdom.”

  “Then what—”

  “You’ll need to trust me, is what! I’ll buy us a ship and I’ll sail us!” He glowered at the three grinning youths. “See what your pestering has brought us? Misery and unlawful deeds and doom beyond the horizon! Up in the rigging, the lot of you! Make ready for docking and the calamity to come!”

  41

  Arriving at a port city and acquiring a seagoing vessel was not like buying a loaf of bread, according to Gimmit. Not if the skipper ever intended to show his face in the town again, which Gimmit most certainly did. When the third river barge was drawn up at the stone quayside, he ordered Hyam and his team to seek refuge in a sailors’ tavern. And wait.

  The inn was clean enough, crowded and noisy and filled with good cheer. Hyam left his gear with the others and ordered up a bath. The bustling innkeeper was accustomed to travelers demanding anything at every hour of the day or night. Hyam was soon led out the rear door and into a windowless hut of stone and heavy beams. A great copper tub steamed in fragrant welcome. He eased himself down in stages, sighing contentedly. He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew Gimmit was pounding on his door and demanding, “Five minutes more and you’ll miss your own boat!”

  Hyam dressed hastily, only to discover the skipper had no intention of leaving before he enjoyed a well-deserved meal. Together they feasted on roast lamb and white beans and fresh-baked bread. Joelle emerged from the baths with her hair still wet, dressed in Meda’s idea of a uniform. The hilt of Hyam’s sword rose by her left shoulder, and four knives rested snug in her belt. Hyam was not the only one to nod his approval, but he was the one who was rewarded with Joelle’s rare smile.

  He ate until his belly stretched tight as a drum, reveling in the simple pleasures of good food and firelight and friends. When they left the inn, he cast a longing glance in the direction of the night-clad city.

  Gimmit asked, “Never been to Port Sutton before?”

  “I’ve never seen a town. I entered Havering and five minutes later I was arrested.”

  “And I’ve never been anywhere at all,” Joelle added.

  “I suppose we can spare you time for a bit of a wander.” The captain glowered. “Long as
you don’t waltz around blowing things up.”

  The night market was a whimsical fairyland. Adler and two of his men and the skipper’s youngest son accompanied them. The officer had traveled by ship before and urged them to buy fresh victuals for the journey. They purchased fruits and cheese and a variety of other items that Hyam scarcely saw. Port Sutton was a major trading hub, and the harbor market traded in goods from every corner of the realm. Hyam could have spent days wandering the crowded lanes. Weeks. Instead, it seemed as though they had scarcely entered before the youth declared, “We must be away, sire.”

  Hyam smelled the vessels long before he spied them. They were the ugliest ships tied up to the harbor wall, two great hulking vessels that stank of pig. But for once, the skipper was smiling. Gimmit stumped down the gangplank, his yellow teeth glinting in the torchlight. “They’re old, they’re ugly, and they came cheap.”

  Adler snorted. “You should have spent more money.”

  “No, no, that’s where you’re wrong. We could have spent days dickering over finer ladies. But the skipper of these is a mate, and he was only too happy to hire them out. As far as their owner is concerned, I’m transporting soldiers to the Lacombe tourneys. My clients are nobles, but they’re poor, and they are willing to show up smelling of porkers.” Gimmit studied the two hulking shapes with genuine satisfaction. “They leak like sieves. I assured the owner my poor nobles could be taught to bail.”

  “I can seal the hulls,” Hyam said, hoping it was true.

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  His eldest son trotted up. “The last of the water barrels is loaded, Pa.”

  “Call up the first watch.” Gimmit gave a mock bow and ushered them on board. “Now let’s be off while the dark still hides us.”

  Hyam joined Trace and Joelle on the first vessel’s forward deck. It had clearly been used by the crew, for it stank a bit less. As they cast off, Hyam held the sack containing the orb and called up a gentle wind. The vessel creaked and lumbered and came about, followed a long moment afterward by her mate. The two boats were both high-decked and twin-masted. They were also very slow. Hyam resisted the urge to speed them onward.