The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  ‘Wrote his name.’

  ‘Wrote his name!’ Hoyt laughed.

  ‘And sang funny songs.’

  ‘And sang funny songs!’

  ‘But didn’t chase cats or bite or growl or anything mean like that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Hoyt said, tucking Milla into her blankets and blowing out her bedside candle. ‘Maybe when we get to Falkan, we’ll go looking for Resta together.’

  ‘Mama says dogs cost too much.’

  ‘Well, you let Hoyt worry about that.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘You know, I like pepperweed with gansel eggs and baked potatoes.’

  ‘Good night, Hoyt.’

  ‘Good night, Pepperweed.’

  Alen joined them, said good night, and brushed two fingers gently over the girl’s hairline. Milla’s eyes fluttered a moment; she sighed through her nose and fell asleep.

  ‘You going out tonight?’ Alen asked.

  ‘Just to the waterfront. I need to ask a few questions, do a bit of eavesdropping, find out about whatever’s heading south next.’

  ‘More bark?’

  ‘I hope so, but I don’t honestly care. We’ll hit whatever they’re shipping.’

  Alen pulled a leather pouch from his tunic. ‘You need bribes?’

  ‘No. After my last visit to the southern highway, I’m a wealthy man.’

  ‘All right, but be discreet.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Hoyt checked his sleeve for the surgical scalpel he carried. It was tarnished now and had a few deep scratches along the blade, scars from their brief tenure in the Welstar Palace prison. Hoyt’s fingertips had healed but his nails would be Twinmoons growing back.

  ‘How do you want to hit them?’ Whilst he knew he was expected to bring Larion magic to bear against Prince Malagon’s wagon-trains, Alen wasn’t actually sure what a terrorist raid looked like.

  ‘I think fire is best,’ Hoyt said. ‘It creates confusion, disables wagons, terrifies the horses or oxen, and, if we’re lucky-’

  ‘Incinerates the enchanted bark,’ Alen said.

  ‘It doesn’t do onions, flour or greenroot a lot of good either.’ Hoyt was in his element. This was a measure of vengeance for Churn. ‘Can you conjure up a pretty resilient flame?’

  ‘I’m sure I can figure something that’ll impress them.’

  ‘It mustn’t be totally impervious to their efforts; I don’t want them to realise they’re up against Larion sorcery.’

  ‘Right. They’ll triple the guard if they think we have magic.’

  ‘Or use the river as their only supply line.’ Hoyt tucked Milla’s stuffed dog into bed beside her. ‘We can’t attack one of those barges, not by ourselves.’

  ‘So, fire then.’

  ‘Fire.’

  ‘Good luck tonight.’

  ‘I’ll update you over breakfast.’ Hoyt left, quietly moving down the back stairs.

  Alen sat on the edge of his own bed, watching Milla’s tiny chest rise and fall. She clutched the stuffed dog, silent now, protectively under one arm, giving the animal some much needed rest before its morning caelisthenics.

  This is why I’m here, Alen reminded himself. Beset by the lassitude of so many Twinmoons hiding in Middle Fork, he hoped the feelings of hopelessness would rub off before Fantus arrived. It had been easy to marshal his enthusiasm for an assault on Welstar Palace: rage was an ardent motivator, and suicide had an endpoint, a built-in expiration. He hadn’t had to keep up his anger for very long.

  This was different. Caring for a child prodigy was not what he expected to be doing a Twinmoon after leaving Middle Fork. Were he and Fantus to succeed, Milla would be one of the most powerful sorcerers in a new generation of Larion Senators. It would rest with him to see her safely home, and then through her training.

  And what about you, Fantus? Alen thought. Are you well rested? Ready to be burdened with these responsibilities again? And why are you bringing the key and the table to Malakasia? Do you not know how dangerous that is?

  Alen wanted a drink, perhaps a whole bucket of drinks.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he muttered to the window. He watched for some sign of Hoyt in the shadows but knew he wouldn’t find anything. ‘Not tonight, and perhaps not for a long time.’

  He sat back on his mattress and watched Milla sleep. ‘I do have hope, though,’ he whispered to the sleeping girl. ‘I suppose that counts for something. Although sometimes I fear that all I have is hope.’

  Alen waved the tapers dark and fell into his pillows. Drifting off, he thought, Nothing but hope.

  ‘So what’s the name of this river, anyway?’ Steven asked anyone who might know. Unlike the others, he couldn’t rest. Knowing Hannah was alive, safe and waiting for him in Pellia had Steven pacing the deck like a nervous prom date. The old wooden barge, as big as a floating parking lot, crawled towards Orindale, not covering much more than a few knots an hour. But even if it had been racing, it couldn’t move fast enough for Steven.

  Gilmour sat with his back braced against the starboard gunwale; he was still tired from his attempt to contact Kantu and his longdistance conversation with the child prodigy Milla. He wondered where Kantu had discovered her – Welstar Palace, perhaps. He opened his eyes long enough to tell Steven, ‘This is the Medera River, at least north of the foothills and west of Wellham Ridge. Up in Meyers’ Vale and beyond, I’m not sure it has a name.’

  ‘Medera,’ Kellin said. ‘Wasn’t she Prince Draven’s mother?’ Brand Krug had ridden north for Traver’s Notch; Kellin elected to remain behind, ostensibly to offer what meagre protection she could to the sorcerers.

  ‘Grandmother,’ Gilmour corrected, opening his eyes now. ‘Medera was Remond and Ravena’s youngest, their only daughter. Markon and Glasson were her older brothers.’

  ‘Our Markon, the one from Riverend?’ Steven asked.

  ‘No, Markon I, his grandfather, Remond’s oldest son. He lived at Riverend Palace, ruling Eldarn when King Remond died. Glasson and Medera lived in Orindale when they were old enough to take up the reins of leadership, but it didn’t last.’

  ‘What happened?’ Steven asked.

  Garec said, ‘I know this one. They had a war, a bloody mess. It started in the Eastlands but then spilled over into Praga and Malakasia. Right?’

  ‘That’s right, Garec,’ Gilmour answered. ‘Medera actually left Orindale and moved into Welstar Palace when the war began. No one ever thought to change the name of the river, I suppose.’

  Steven laughed softly. ‘So she was Draven’s grandmother.’

  ‘Correct,’ Gilmour said. ‘Medera had Nora, Draven’s mother.’

  ‘And Draven had Marek,’ Garec said. ‘At least, that’s what the history books say.’

  ‘Right,’ Steven said, ‘I remember: Draven’s wife was the one who had the affair that produced Prince Marek.’

  ‘The bastard dictator,’ Kellin said.

  Garec shrugged. ‘If you believe rumours – I mean, once Nerak got hold of him, it didn’t matter any more.’

  ‘Good point, Garec.’ Gilmour rolled gracelessly onto one hip to reach his pack. He rooted around for a loaf of bread and tore off a generous handful. Chewing, he said, ‘Glasson stayed in Orindale. He had Detria, who eventually ruled in Praga, and Remond II, who took over Falkan when Glasson died. That all happened after the war.’

  ‘So Remond was Tenner and Anaria’s father?’ Steven was trying to build the Grayslip family tree in his mind, glad of the distraction.

  ‘Sorry, wrong,’ Gilmour said, tearing off another mouthful of bread. ‘Tenner and Anaria were Elana’s children, Remond the Second’s older sister, Glasson’s middle child.’

  ‘But she didn’t rule Falkan,’ Garec said.

  ‘No, she was dough-headed; Remond took the Falkan throne soon after Glasson’s death.’

  ‘She was what?’ Steven asked.

  ‘Dough-headed,’ Gilmour explained. ‘How would you say it in English? An idiot, a lunatic, right?’

  Steven shook his head.
‘It’s been a long time since you’ve visited, Gilmour. You really need to come back with me for a while.’ He looked around. ‘Where are we anyway? We didn’t come this way last time.’

  ‘We were in the woods south of here,’ Garec said. ‘I’m guessing we’re another day or two out of Orindale at this rate.’

  ‘Do you think Mark will still be there?’ Kellin asked.

  ‘Impossible to say,’ Gilmour said. ‘I think he’ll sail on the first outgoing tide. He’ll have no difficulty securing a ship and a crew; he will just need to ensure his captain knows the passages through the Northern Archipelago. Then he can stow the spell table and be safely on his way to Pellia.’

  ‘The ship won’t take him to Welstar Palace?’ Steven asked.

  ‘Too many shallows in the Welstar River,’ Gilmour said. ‘He’ll have to offload it to a barge or a river-runner. There’s quite a fleet of them.’ He gestured around the deck. ‘Like this one, they run with a shallow draft, even when loaded to the slats.’

  ‘Then that may be a chance for us to take him, when they’re transferring the table,’ Steven said. ‘He certainly can’t use it at that time so he’ll be vulnerable.’

  ‘We could do that here in Orindale too,’ Garec ventured.

  ‘I don’t know that we’ll make it before he leaves, but if we find the right captain, we might make up valuable time as we head north.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Garec said. ‘We ought to hire a fast boat.’

  ‘You ought to,’ Gilmour said. ‘Steven and I won’t be coming all the way into Orindale.’

  ‘What?’ Steven was taken aback. ‘Why?’

  A gentle wave moved upriver and lifted the barge before moving on towards Wellham Ridge.

  Garec said, ‘I don’t understand, Gilmour. Where are you going?’

  ‘We’ll make our way north along the coast. When we reach the fjord, we’ll take that old boat Mark rigged for us and sail out to its western end, right where it meets the ocean. Ten days from now, we’ll sail offshore and join you and Kellin en route to Pellia.’

  As comfortable as Steven was hiking, biking and climbing amongst the craggy peaks of the Rocky Mountains back home, the thought of sailing a single-masted wooden catboat out into the shipping lanes off the coast of Eldarn’s largest port made his stomach clench. ‘Shit, Gilmour,’ he said, ‘I wish you’d given me a bit of warning.’

  ‘I hadn’t decided before this morning,’ the sorcerer explained. ‘While I was trying to find Kantu I saw something strange. There was a schooner carrying something that rippled with mystical energy, like a Twinmoon celebration at Sandcliff Palace. It clobbered me as I came by, almost knocked me out of my own spell.’

  ‘Was it Mark?’ Garec asked.

  ‘No, it was too far north.’

  Kellin swallowed dryly. Despite her growing familiarity with Steven and Gilmour’s special abilities, she didn’t like the thought that that there were insidious magics hunting for them. She asked, ‘So Garec and I will hire a ship?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gilmour said.

  ‘What do you know about ships?’ she asked the bowman.

  ‘Not a rutting thing.’ Garec grinned. ‘You?’

  ‘Less, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Grand,’ Garec smiled, ‘then we’re the perfect pair for this charge. But Gilmour, you need to give us more than ten days. What if we don’t find anyone setting sail right away? What if we can’t get past the blockade? What if it takes us too long to get there? You and Steven could be capsized in a storm or blown halfway to Raiders Cove.’

  ‘Can’t we take your ship?’ Kellin asked. ‘Can all of us fit? Or is it too small?’

  ‘In Mark’s boat, we’d be fish food in a matter of avens,’ Gilmour said sadly.

  Steven blanched. ‘I don’t like this at all, Gilmour. Why are we doing this?’

  ‘Because Mark will be watching for us,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘He knows we didn’t die in Meyers’ Vale, and he knows it will only be a matter of time before we come after him. Every customs official, every dockside informant, every Malakasian sympathiser on that wharf will be looking for us, not to mention almors, wraiths, acid clouds or slimy bacterial infections he might leave waiting in the shadows. No, going into Orindale is a mistake for us.’

  ‘But not for us?’ Kellin asked.

  ‘No. Mark will track Steven and me, just like I tracked that schooner yesterday. He will search for our mystical energy – he can almost certainly sense the far portal we carry.’

  The bow rose again, higher this time, and fell into the following trough with a splash.

  ‘What was that?’ Kellin asked.

  ‘Tide must be coming in,’ Garec guessed.

  ‘Sending waves this far upriver?’ Steven said.

  ‘What else could it be?’

  Kellin returned to the discussion. ‘All right, so it will be more difficult for Mark to spot us.’

  ‘You can blend in much easier,’ Gilmour agreed.

  ‘Fine, but you still haven’t answered Garec’s questions.’ Kellin sidled a few steps closer to Garec. She wanted to reach out for him, but fought the urge. ‘What about the blockade, the customs officers, the informants? How can Garec and I find an honest captain willing to undertake an outlaw journey against the crown? None of them will do it. It’s a one-shot agreement: they take us to Pellia and they never work for the Malakasian Army again. Who would take us?’

  Gilmour passed the rest of his loaf around. Then he said, ‘You forget, Kellin, that I have a new head, full of army knowledge. While this chubby young fellow didn’t spend much time in Orindale, he did know that the blockade around the city had broken up, so getting to the wharf ought to be quite easy; you might even decide to stay right on this barge – our captain seems happy with the fare, and he hasn’t given us a second glance all day. Also, I’ll remind you that in a deft display of self-preservation, our good friend Steven Taylor stole some sorry slob’s life savings back in Estrad.’

  ‘Hey, Mark found it,’ Steven broke it. ‘I gave the guy a couple of ballpoint pens. It was a fair trade!’ He smiled. ‘Well, maybe not immediately, until he invents the ballpoint himself. Perhaps we did come out on the upper end of that one.’

  ‘It’s a gods-rutting fortune, Steven, and you’re finally going to get to spend it buying safe passage to Pellia.’

  ‘With my money?’

  ‘Your stolen money, yes,’ Kellin said. ‘Pellia is a long way.’

  ‘But you’re not buying safe passage to Pellia,’ Gilmour interrupted.

  ‘Demonpiss,’ Garec said, ‘make up your mind.’

  ‘You are buying safe passage to Averil.’

  ‘Averil?’ Kellin said, surprised. ‘But that’s nearly a Moon’s walk from Pellia.’

  Garec grinned, finally understanding. ‘We’re not going to Averil, Kellin.’

  ‘Well, where in the gods-rutting… oh, I see. We get him out to sea; we pick up these two, and we renegotiate our destination.’

  ‘Renegotiate.’ Gilmour was pleased. ‘I like that way of putting it. Yes, I do.’ He dug in his pack for a pipe and a tin of Falkan tobacco.

  Steven said, ‘You are a nefarious old man, Gilmour.’

  ‘I am not!’ He lit his pipe with a gesture and a ring of smoke encircled his head. ‘This fellow was less than two hundred Twinmoons old. I’m as young as you.’

  Kellin frowned. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Now Garec did put his arm around her.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What doesn’t, my dear?’ Gilmour puffed while he spoke.

  ‘Why go to all the trouble of finding your boat and sailing the length of the fjord if all you’re going to do is join us on whatever vessel we hire for the trip?’

  ‘Because I’m betting that whatever I encountered on the Ravenian Sea yesterday is not the only shipment making its way north.’

  ‘I get it,’ Garec said. ‘Mark might look for you two, but wh
at he’ll find is-’

  ‘Just another ship radiating magic,’ Kellin finished Garec’s thought.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Like I said, Gilmour, you are a nefarious old-’

  ‘Young.’

  ‘Young man.’

  Garec laughed. ‘All right. I understand, but either way, I think you should give us twelve days. There’s no telling how long it will take us to find a ship and a willing captain.’

  ‘Fine,’ Steven said, ‘we’ll make it twelve days, off the mouth of that fjord where I found you when I came back from Denver.’

  Garec glanced at Kellin. ‘That will give us a little time to look for Versen.’

  ‘And maybe Sallax,’ Steven added.

  ‘Right. We might get luck-’

  ‘Wait,’ Gilmour cut him off. He stared west, his eyes focused on nothing.

  Steven felt the magic gurgle to life; something was coming.

  ‘What is it?’ Kellin looked nervous but moved away from Garec, making more room to fight if necessary.

  ‘It’s Mark,’ Steven said.

  Gilmour nodded. ‘The table’s open. Brace yourselves.’

  THE HARBOUR

  Major Tavon didn’t look tired, though she had been awake for days, but spry, well-rested and cheery. However, her uniform, unchanged in as many days, was filthy, accompanying what Captain Blackford assumed was the breakdown in Tavon’s mind. Her shirt was untucked, her leather belt and boots mottled with mud and neglect, and she looked as though she had been beaten up by a gang of dockers. It was clear that the once-excellent soldier had been taken over by a destructive force that had driven her to retrieve the stone artefact, whatever it was, and see it safely to Orindale. If we’re even staying in Orindale, Captain Blackford thought.

  Major Tavon stood outside the boxy living-quarters stacked on the aft end of the westbound barge like so many discarded crates. She was standing a silent vigil; she hadn’t moved from her place in front of the centremost wooden door. She had instructed Blackford, Hershaw and the single platoon of soldiers accompanying them to make fast the granite relic for their journey downstream.