And the deeds of the Askars and of Rolun millennia ago generate hostility between the nations still.
Yet in the third year of the Usurper’s reign, in order to gain the allies to buttress his own forces, Arkov was forced to halve the levy upon the Chabbains for use of the trade route to Jinga, and he also had to allow the Chabbains to occupy the site of the massacre of their army of Askars who had invaded Pellar long past. And in return Arkov gained the promise of a sizable force of Askars to aid in the overthrow of the Northern Alliance.
And as new-made allies, the Chabbains sent ambassadors and emissaries to the court in Caer Pendwyr. . . .
. . . And some two years later on a day in the sixth year of Arkov’s reign, from a distant tower in the Grimwalls far north, a dark bird flew to one of these emissaries. . . .
• • •
“MY LORD,” whispered Counselor Baloff, “Ambassador Mosaam bin Abu seeks a private audience. He says he has news of critical import.”
Arkov looked up from the map he and the others studied. “Critical?”
“Yes, sire. He specifically said critical.”
“What does that dark bastard want now? Less tolls? More land?”
“He does not say, my lord, only that it is a matter of import.”
Growling, Arkov looked ’round the table at his commanders. “Wait here. I shall deal with this Chabbain and then return. In the meanwhile, come up with a plan to discover those who are behind these village uprisings. We’ll make an example of them and put this foolish unrest to bed.”
Arkov turned to his counselor and said, “Where did you put Abu?”
“In the blue chamber, my lord,” said Baloff, gesturing the way to the door. As they strode beyond hearing, in a low voice he added, “I thought you would wish for me to listen to what he has to say.”
“Indeed, Baloff. Observe and make a written record.”
“Aye, sire.”
They passed through several halls, with sentries at every turn, and finally they came to a warded door.
Arkov stepped to the side of the portal and commanded one of the guards: “Announce me.”
Moments later Arkov swept into the chamber, and a tall dark Chabbain turned from a sideboard and bowed, though not half as deeply as Arkov would have liked.
“Ambassador Abu,” said Arkov.
“Sire,” replied the man.
He was dressed in a yellow robe, the bright color making his dusky skin seem even darker. He wore a like-colored turban, which made him appear still taller than his considerable height. He had a hawklike nose and his eyes were such a dark brown to be almost black. His fingers were long and slender, and he held a cup in his right hand.
“My lord,” he said, his voice a silky baritone, “someday I will have to teach your staff how to make a better brew of khawi.”
“Psht!” Arkov’s face twisted in revulsion as he moved to the sideboard. “Vile liquid, that swill. No matter what one does with it, I deem it still would be undrinkable.” He poured himself a dollop of golden brandy, and then gestured at two leather chairs angled toward one another, a small low table between.
As they took their seats, Arkov glanced at a wall-hung tapestry depicting distant ships on a storm-tossed cobalt sea, dark clouds swirling above, a driving rain hammering down. On the opposite wall hung another tapestry, this one showing a deep blue indigo sea, its waters calm, its ships at sail, a cerulean sky above.
A faint smile twitched upon Mosaam’s dark face, for surely beyond one or the other of the varicolored designs, or perhaps both, someone watched through a spy hole.
Arkov took a sip of his brandy. “What is it this time, Abu?”
The ambassador did not correct Arkov. After all, the one who entitled himself “High King” was an ignorant infidel, hence would not know that Abu was Mosaam’s father’s name.
Stupid Garian.
Mosaam set the khawi aside, the drink so poorly brewed that it was nearly unpalatable. He steepled his fingers and said, “I believe what I have to tell you is worth reducing our trade toll in half again.”
Arkov nearly choked on his brandy. “What? What could be so important that I would— You’ve already accepted our bargain, Abu. And speaking of bargains, where are the main of your Askars, your jemedars, your commanders? We need to march on those northern rebels.”
“My lord, we are still gathering the armies we promised. Harvests and such interfere. Besides, you said they would not be essential until you quelled the unrest that—”
“Yes, yes, Abu,” snapped Arkov. “I know what I said. I know our agreement. But to halve the tolls once more is unthinkable.”
“But this information, my lord, is a threat to your very rule. It is something you must deal with before—”
“Don’t tell me what I have to deal with. Just spit out what you’ve come to say, and then it is I who will decide.”
Mosaam raised his hands in surrender and smiled, his teeth pearl-white against his dusky face. “My lord, I will tell you the news. Yet I will withhold the proof and a location. And should you decide it worthwhile, I will give you the proof, but only if I have your word that you will halve the toll after you see for yourself. Then I will give you the location.”
“I should have you murdered right now, Abu.”
“Then you would lose any hope of a Chabbain army, and I suspect that means in the long run you would lose your throne.”
“Dark bastard!”
Mosaam merely smiled.
Arkov stormed to the sideboard and served himself a large spill of brandy. He gulped it down and then poured another. He returned to his chair and sat.
“Tell me and we shall see.”
“You accept my terms?”
Grinding his teeth, Arkov gritted, “Aye. But only if what you say is worth what you ask.”
Mosaam nodded, all the while wondering if Arkov would keep his word. Yet if he did not, then he would lose the support of the Chabbains.
As if to impart secret knowledge, the ambassador leaned toward the Garian, knowing that he would bend forward to hear. Then, of course, Arkov would have to look up at the taller ambassador. It pleased Mosaam when, like an unwilling puppet, Arkov followed suit, glancing up like a supplicant to receive a blessing or alms. Mosaam then lowered his voice and said, “My lord, King Valen’s child, Prince Reyer, Valen’s heir, is alive.”
“Pah!” snorted Arkov, leaning back, now looking down upon the ambassador. “I saw Reyer’s corpse myself, lying on the pyre of his mother. The child is naught but ashes.”
“No, my lord. What you saw was not Reyer. My master, my m’alim, himself knows what passed, and for this news he will one day ask for a boon, and I would not gainsay him, were I you.”
“Your master? King Fadal? For misinformation?”
“Not King Fadal, my lord. The m’alik and I both answer to one higher.”
“Gyphon? Ha! He is beyond the Planes. Trapped in the Abyss. Nay, Abu. I will not fall for this scheme of yours.”
“’Tis no scheme, my lord. Were I to give you proof, would you then halve the toll as well as owe my master a service?”
Arkov looked at the ambassador, and paused. “Luba’s teats, but you’re serious.”
“Indeed, my lord, for this is serious business.”
“Who is this master of yours?”
“He is a Mage, my lord. As to his name, I know it not, yet I do know his . . . .”
Arkov stood and went to the sideboard and poured himself another brandy. Then he turned and said, “All right, Abu. You give me the proof, and I will honor your wishes, but only if you also give me the location as to where this so-called Prince Reyer can be found. —But mind you, if what you tell me turns out false and this pretender is not who you say, then, for the trouble you put me to, tolls will not be reduced but doubled instead. No
t only that, but you will still provide the force of Askars I desire, and I will owe your Mage naught. Agreed?”
Without hesitation, Mosaam inclined his head. “Agreed.”
“Then the proof, Abu. The proof.”
“My lord, it lies in the catacombs below.”
Arkov was taken aback, for he knew of no catacombs below the castle. Swiftly recovering, he said, “Go on.”
Smiling to himself, Mosaam continued, “There you will find an empty sarcophagus, the lead seal removed and then replaced. The name on the tomb is Prince Trenor, child of King Bain and Queen Sarai. It was Trenor’s corpse you saw upon the burning pyre, while Reyer himself was whisked away to safety.”
“So you say,” declared Arkov.
“’Tis not I who tell you this, but my master instead.”
“A Mage, you claim,” said Arkov.
“A most powerful one, my lord.”
“Even so, this ‘Reyer’ could be an imposter,” said Arkov.
“Not so,” said Mosaam.
“Imposter or no, give me the location and I will see to him.”
“The location of Prince Reyer will be forthcoming when you have halved the toll.”
Growling, Arkov downed his brandy and said, “First I will see to this tomb of yours.”
• • •
“THE ISLAND OF KELL, that’s all we know?” asked Baloff.
“That’s what he said,” snapped Arkov.
“My lord, that narrows it but little. And what if this is a trick? What if Mosaam somehow spirited away the corpse of the one buried in the sarcophagus? Perhaps he has agents within the palace. Perhaps he found a way to reach the catacombs from the outside. What if—?”
“Enough, Baloff! Think you that I have not considered all those things you ask and more? The proof one way or another will come on the Island of Kell.”
“And should we find him, what proof?”
“Mosaam says he has the griffin claw birthmark and bears the King’s seal.”
“Even so, who is to say it is truly Prince Reyer? Rings can be forged and birthmarks falsified.”
“Reyer or not, the seal alone will convince enough fools that Valen’s line yet survives. And the birthmark will cinch it for them.”
Baloff shook his head. “I think this but a ruse to halve the tolls. This so-called prince might be nothing more than Mosaam’s plant, his dupe. And should we lose the war, then Mosaam will be the power behind the—”
“Silence, fool!” raged Arkov. “By damn, we will not lose the war!”
“Yes, my lord,” quavered Baloff, shrinking back.
The counselor waited until Arkov’s seething abated. Finally, Baloff said, “Indeed, we will not lose the war, yet this trumped-up Prince Reyer still could be a sham.”
Arkov grunted and nodded. “Nevertheless, send assassins.”
“The last time we sent assassins anywhere, my lord, they vanished.”
“Deserters, I would think,” said Arkov.
“If these vanish, then what, my lord?”
“Then we will have Abu arrange for assassins from the Red City.”
“Nizari,” murmured Baloff.
“You disapprove?”
Baloff sighed, then said, “My lord, at every turn it seems we get deeper and deeper into the debt of these men of the South. Their memories are long, sire, and with a Chabbain army upon our shores, who is to say whether or no they plot some vengeance for Rolun’s doings as well as revenge for the demise of their men during the War of the Ban?”
“Without them, I think I cannot defeat the Northern Alliance, especially should the current unrest turn into a full revolt. So I need the Chabbains and our other allies from the South. —Or would you have me simply abdicate?”
“No, sire. It’s just . . .” Baloff’s words fell to a whisper and then naught.
“Besides,” said Arkov, “should the Chabbains attempt to carry out some violent plan of retribution, we control the food supply. Our sources in the East have provided us the means to deal with Askars in that event, yes?”
“They have, my lord. Three days after ingestion, the entire Chabbain army will be no more.”
“Well, then, fear not these necessary but temporary southern catspaws,” said Arkov. “Once we dispose of this pretender, and settle the growing unrest, and put down the Northern rebels, then we will rescind our treaties with those dark bastards and either throw them out of our land, or bury them under it.”
“As you will, my lord,” said Baloff. Then he glanced down at the map depicting the Isles of Gelen and touched the area in which Kell was said to lie. “As to this Prince Reyer, what would you have me do?”
“Given a choice, I would invade the isle and kill every person there, but I am not yet ready to take on the Northern Alliance. Instead, arrange for men of stealth and guile to search out the one who claims to be Valen’s child. I would have this so-called ‘rightful heir’ dead and the seal recovered. The sooner the better.”
“As you will, my lord,” said Baloff. “I shall form a death squad.”
“No, send not a squad, Baloff. Individuals instead. Disguised as ordinary traders or tutors or some such. Choose from among our better spies. And they do not all have to be men, for to do in the pretender, perhaps a woman’s gentle hand is better suited to the task.”
19
Sjøen
In the north of Mithgar along the waters of the Boreal Sea lies a coastal nation known as Fjordland. With its narrow, steep-sloped, ocean-mouthed ravines filled with deep and dark and chill waters along which the towns and villages lie, its very name describes this land. The inhabitants—strong and yellow-haired men; buxom, yellow-haired women—are fishermen and traders and sea merchants and craftsmen of various stripe as well as fierce mercenaries, and in times past were raiders who preyed upon the innocent. Yet since the days of Egil One-Eye, their raiding days dwindled as more and more of the men came to realize the harm they did to the blameless as they took from them that which their own labor fashioned not. Even so, their hawklike ways remained, and many became warriors for hire in causes their jarls deemed just. Still others sailed forth to find fabled lost riches in distant lands, as did Arik and others who accompanied Elgo of Jord and his men on their mission to slay the Dragon Sleeth and claim his treasured hoard.
And these ventures were made in Dragonships, long and slender and open-hulled, clinker-built to give them flexibility and nimbleness and speed as they clove through distant seas.
Yet they were not the only realm that plied the waters in such craft, for their ancient enemies, the men of Jute, also sailed the oceans in Dragonships, but they had not given up their plundering ways, especially when it came to raiding Fjordlander settlements.
And retaliation begat retaliation . . . over and again throughout time.
And on a day long past, three ships bearing Fjordlanders returning from a far distant endeavor sailed past the Island of Kell, and there at a place on the western shore smoke rose from burning buildings, and four Jutlander ships were beached and raiders despoiled the town.
The Fjordlanders, though outnumbered, landed on the shingle and entered the small seaport and fell upon the men from Jute. None of the raiders escaped alive.
With most of the townsmen slain, the women gratefully tended the wounds of their rescuers, and the Fjordlanders remained for a while.
Winter roared in, and the storms were fierce, and the Northern Sea as well as the Boreal became too dangerous to ply. Yet spring finally came, and the Fjordlanders sailed on. Yet a goodly number of the warriors remained behind, and they settled down with their new wives and families, and became fishers and crafters and took up other such occupations.
And that’s why that small town in Kell is now called Sjøen—Seaside, in the Fjordlander tongue—and why many of its inhabitants are tall and blond and spe
ak three languages altogether, and the men are handy with shield and axe.
And it was this coastal village to which Silverleaf had come some nine years past, bearing a wet nurse and two children, one of whom was a boy with the birthmark of a griffin’s deadly talons on his right shoulder, a mark that assassins would seek. . . .
. . . And on a summer morn in the tenth year of the Usurper’s reign, when Rígán and Alric were eleven summers old, into Sjøen they came riding . . .
• • •
THEY WERE DOUBLE-UP ON Alric’s steed, Rígán’s horse trailing behind on a tether, a roebuck draped across the saddle. Each of the lads had a bow slung on his back along with a quiver of arrows. It was Rígán’s green-fletched shaft that had brought the buck down, and not Alric’s white-feathered one.
The sun had not yet cleared the forest to the east, and a heavy low fog swirled out from the sea and into the lanes of the town, to curl up the slopes and over the crests and into the greenery beyond.
Down at the docks and dimly seen, the fishermen readied their nets and oars, for with the wind lying still this dawn like so many other daybreaks they would have to row out on the flat sea, and wait for the offshore breeze to come rolling down from the land.
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