The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  ‘I don’t understand.’ The captain was feeling nauseous.

  ‘The leveller, a fixative,’ Gilmour explained. ‘The Forest of Ghosts in Praga is legendary, yet no one has ever heard of the Forbidden Forest near Riverend Palace. And why not?’

  ‘Because there are no stories,’ Ford answered the rhetorical question, then blushed.

  ‘Exactly!’ Gilmour slapped the table, making Alen spill his wine. ‘Granted, not too many people have ever gone that far out on the point. But some of us have – Garec, Versen, Sallax, even I – and we know that there’s nothing enchanted about those trees. We have certainly never found ourselves trapped in our past.’

  ‘So he uses the two ingredients together, probably burns them into some kind of ash. They might inhale it, or have it rubbed on their skin, who knows?’

  ‘The ash dream,’ Gilmour said. ‘Well, that clinches it: I have to read that whoring book.’ At Alen’s quizzical look, he explained, ‘Lessek’s spell book – I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve had it for nearly two Twinmoons and haven’t been able to get past the second folio. I acquired it from Nerak’s cabin on the Prince Marek, the night he followed Steven through the far portal.’

  ‘I remember that night,’ Alen said, ‘because it was also the night his hunters stopped searching for me, the night much of the mystical energy in Eldarn quietly ground to a stop.’

  ‘I’ve been putting it off for Twinmoons,’ Gilmour admitted. ‘Now we’ve only got a day or two, and I don’t even know if it will do us any good.’

  ‘You should try anyway,’ Alen said. ‘Once we’re underway, we can look it over together.’

  Someone knocked, and at the captain’s word, Brexan peered around the door, not sure if she should interrupt their discussion.

  ‘Yes, come in, please.’ Captain Ford stood up, offering his chair. ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘I’m fine standing, thanks,’ Brexan said. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘You mentioned once that you were stationed at Welstar Palace.’ He unfolded a river chart and spread it across the table. ‘Can you recall how the encampment was organised?’

  Brexan leaned over the table. ‘I was stationed somewhere along the river in that valley; I don’t think I ever came within half an aven’s walk of the palace itself – no one did, except for the Home Guard divisions and the Seron warriors. However, I can tell you that if we’re heading up that way, the navy patrols the river and there’s a whole legion of barges running back and forth delivering goods. The river’s a rutting highway.’

  ‘That could be good for us,’ Ford said, his finger following the river on the chart. ‘We could try to blend in.’

  ‘It makes it awfully difficult to change direction,’ Brexan pointed out. ‘If you need to turn tail and run, for example, the shipping is so thick that you’d end up ramming someone before you managed to come about.’

  ‘And I’m certain the encampment will have changed in the Twinmoons since you’ve been there, my dear,’ Alen added.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Gilmour said.

  ‘The whole west bank – from the village, up to and beyond the keep – is covered with divisions of soldiers already under the influence of the ash dream. You couldn’t walk a dog through there without it ending up on someone’s menu. There are probably near to a hundred thousand of those creatures there now, Seron beasts transformed into these vacuous, staring monsters, as if Seron weren’t bad enough on their own. The east bank was given over to soldiers too, normal ones – most of the northern corps, I’d guess. I didn’t see much of them; we fled during the night. But on our trip down from Treven, we noticed that most of the hillsides sloping down to the river were dotted with tents, fires, stables, corrals, muster tents – everything a massive army would need.’

  The captain traced the east bank on his chart. Tapping his finger on the site of the encampment, he said, And if Mark Jenkins is still transforming soldiers and Seron with his ash stuff, he might already have given the order to administer it to the divisions on the other side of the river.’

  ‘He might have,’ Alen said. ‘That’s a good point.’

  ‘Ash stuff?’ Brexan asked.

  Gilmour explained quickly, Alen and Captain Ford chiming in.

  Brexan shuddered. ‘That’s horrific! But how would he make them take the ash? I mean, he can’t do it individually, can he? If he had to go person to person it would take all Twinmoon.’

  Alen considered this, then said, ‘I was masquerading as an officer for a few days while Hannah and the others were locked up and I roamed as much of the place as I could, but the only thing I could see in the monsters’ encampments were fires, huge braziers, that kept burning all day and all night, looking as if Nerak had called down a constellation from the skies and left it burning on the ground around the palace.’

  ‘That could be it,’ Gilmour said, ‘but they might have been just fires.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Alen conceded, ‘but why? If they’re trapped in their own fantasies, if they can’t escape their own minds, then they wouldn’t even notice the cold, would they? They did have the odd campfire here and there, but these braziers were huge – were they for light? I can’t quite see what a creature trapped in an endless nightmare would need fire for – unlikely to be light, warmth or comfort.’

  Captain Ford gazed out of the cabin window. The sun glinted off the water, blinding him. ‘So you think they’re inhaling it as ashes or smoke?’ he asked, turning back to the Larion sorcerers.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Alen said. ‘I know I didn’t see anyone administering anything to them – honestly, it would have been suicide for anyone to set foot in that encampment, never mind try to get Seron warriors to ingest anything they didn’t want to, and that includes anything designed to leave them babbling, ignoring all manner of injuries and diseases and following mindless orders.’

  ‘That’s it then,’ Gilmour said. ‘The evil force that took Nerak and now Mark is using the ash dream to create a massive army of unnatural killers – Seron and men alike – to become his slaves when the essence of all evil is ushered through the Fold and allowed to suck the life from the very land beneath our feet.’

  Brexan blanched. ‘Rutting dogs, but I hope you’re wrong.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ Captain Ford agreed.

  ‘Why would Lessek have written such a spell?’ Alen asked. ‘What could he have hoped to gain with such a creation?’

  ‘We need to read to know why,’ Gilmour said, then asked Brexan, ‘Is Hannah in with Steven?’

  As Brexan nodded, Alen asked, ‘Where’s Hoyt?’

  ‘Hannah’s with Steven and Hoyt’s resting up front in Sera’s berth,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t look like much of a healer – in fact, he needs a healer more than any of us.’

  ‘He’s the best in the Westlands,’ Alen assured her, ‘and I think Hannah has an idea how to fix him up right away.’

  Garec appeared in the companionway, a massive Malakasian flag draped over his shoulder. ‘Will this do?’

  Captain Ford laughed. ‘It’s the best news I’ve had all this Moon, Garec. Would you ask Pel to run it up the mainmast and leave the small flag on the halyard, aft? Then Gilmour, Alen and I need to speak with all of you on deck, Hannah included.’ Ford rolled the chart, slipped it inside a wall rack and ushered them into the corridor.

  Hannah pulled up a bench and rested her head softly on Steven’s chest. His clothes stank of sickness, fever and sweat, and his skin was the colour of turned cream. He didn’t respond to her touch, but at least he was breathing evenly. She took some comfort in that. Steven’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm; he was alive, and that was enough for her – for now, anyway.

  ‘I found you first,’ she whispered, surprised she wasn’t crying. ‘It’s been a while, huh?’ She needed to fill the silence. ‘I’ve heard some remarkable things about you, things neither of us could ever have imagined, back home. Do you remember home? Do you want to go back, maybe just me and you?’
She closed her eyes, content to feel the rhythmic motion of his chest. ‘We have some catching up to do, don’t we? I can’t wait. I’ve missed you, Steven – even though we barely know each other, I do know that if it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have made it this far.’

  The Morning Star rolled gently: the tide was coming in. Hannah heard Captain Ford and the Larion Senators shuffle along the companionway and then up to the main deck. She touched Steven’s cheek, and ran her fingers through his matted hair. ‘You look good with a beard. Do all sorcerers have them? Is it some kind of regulation? You’ll have to shave it off when we get home so I can decide which version of you I’ll love more.’ His forehead was damp; she wiped it with the cloth Kellin had left ready. ‘Hey, do you remember that Mexican place we went for lunch? When you came back to the shop to pick up that china cabinet for your sister. I had fajitas. You ate whatever you could stomach after that eleven-course breakfast you thought I didn’t know about. I want to go back there, Steven, just us, and start again. What d’you say? Can we get back there if we both try, or are we too far down this road?’

  She wiped his face again and said, ‘I have some things I have to do, then I’ll be back. We need you and Hoyt, both of you, so I’m going to see if I can help.’ She kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘I’ll be back. Promise me you’ll still be here.’

  Steven didn’t answer.

  Hannah joined the others on deck. To Alen and Gilmour, she said, ‘How do we know when my mother’s opening her portal?’

  THE CARRACK

  ‘The Missing Daughter?’ Markus asked, looking down at the trawler from the pier. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Danelle and I have two sons.’ Sharr tossed a coil of rope beneath the transom. ‘I thought it was funny.’ As Markus chuckled, he added, ‘She didn’t.’

  Markus laughed again. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t make you change the name.’

  ‘She wanted me to, but then I told her what it would cost to have it redone, to re-register with the harbourmaster, blah, blah, blah and so on.’

  ‘Not bad, Sharr, quick thinking.’ Brand gave him a quick, uncharacteristic smile, then stowed the buckets of pitch he had carried on board.

  ‘She floats,’ Sharr shrugged.

  The Missing Daughter looked like the unholy offspring of a sloop, a barge and a booacore boat. Her broad beam, the starboard winch and a short-armed crane made her a steady vessel kitted out for hauling weighted traps and gill-nets. Her two block-and-tackle outriggers were ideal for dragging nets, or – when the fishing was right – trolling the offshore banks for giant sharks, billfish, even tapen. Above the tiny forward cabin, her mainmast was rigged fore and aft, and had a crow’s nest high above, perfect for spotting distant schools of fish on calm days. She had a spanker to keep her steady while hauling nets or traps, and a bowsprit that jutted out so far that she had to be backed into a slip or left moored on a buoy. A number of Capehill’s unsuspecting dockers had found themselves knocked into the greasy waters beneath the packing warehouse after being whacked by the Missing Daughter’s bowsprit.

  ‘What are those lines?’ Markus pointed to ropes running from the bowsprit to the middle and top of the mainmast.

  ‘Haven’t done much sailing, have you?’ Sharr kicked off his leather boots and tugged on a pair of oiled galoshes.

  ‘I’m a farmer,’ Markus protested, ‘the closest I’ve ever come to a boat is a hollowed-out log my brothers once launched on the pond in my uncle’s orchard.’

  Brand searched for a second pair of waterproof boots. ‘How’d that work out for them?’

  ‘It didn’t,’ Markus said. ‘It was seaworthy for just about as much time as it took my brother to shout, “We’re going down!” Then they did.’

  ‘That-’ Sharr pointed to the lower line ‘-is standing rigging for the bowsprit sail. You can see it reefed there along the spar.’

  ‘It looks big for a boat this size. You, uh, have anything you need to tell us, Sharr? I mean, does a really long bowsprit make up for shortcomings in other arenas?’

  ‘It’s massive; I admit,’ Sharr grinned. ‘I rigged it myself, in my own image. It’s for when I need to be a bit quicker than the other boats working the banks or chasing the big schools. That bow sheet gives me a healthy edge.’

  ‘So then, what’s that tall one?’ Markus shielded his eyes and squinted towards the top of the mainmast.

  ‘That’s a little surprise, something I unveil only when necessary.’

  ‘A second sheet?’ Brand held a wrinkled, salt-stained boot against his own sole, checking the size.

  ‘Exactly,’ Sharr said. ‘But it’s more than that, it’s almost a spinnaker. I only use it when the wind is just right, or when I have to hustle my aged bones out of harm’s way – the Malakasian navy and I don’t always see things from the same perspective.’

  Brand scoffed. ‘This old barrel can outrun a naval cutter?’

  ‘Good rutting lords, no!’ Sharr laughed. ‘Look at her – she can barely get out of her own way.’

  ‘So why the giant sheet?’

  ‘When the navy arrives, my goal is never to outrun them-’ He checked that his sons had belayed both outriggers. ‘I just need to be faster than the next trawler on the water.’

  ‘Let the navy busy themselves with the slower deer in the herd.’ He handed Brand a great coil of line.

  ‘Something like that,’ Sharr said. ‘But it won’t matter for much longer.’

  ‘Because we’re going to win?’ Brand asked.

  ‘Because we’re going to die.’ Sharr ignored the outriggers and fell into a comfortable chair he had fixed to the deck.

  ‘But I thought you said this was a fast boat.’ Markus finally summoned enough courage to step on board.

  ‘Left foot first,’ Sharr warned, ‘left foot!’

  ‘Why?’ Markus said.

  ‘Better luck.’

  ‘You just said we were going to die!’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no sense inviting misfortune, is there?’

  ‘Rutting whores!’ Markus stepped on board with his left foot. ‘Any other absurd superstitions I need to know about?’

  ‘Plenty.’ Sharr dug in his pockets for a pipe. ‘I’ll keep you informed as we go.’

  ‘To die.’

  ‘Yes, to die.’

  ‘What makes you so certain we can’t do it?’ Brand asked.

  ‘Have you ever seen a merchant carrack? It’s a four-masted beast with cabins, two and three cabins, stacked on top of one another, giving her a great swollen arse to windward. We could hide my little boat beneath her mainsail. Merchant carracks are like galleons with allergies. Pragan miners use them to transport quarry stones to Orindale, huge piles of rocks, any one of which would send my little boat to the bottom in a blazing hurry. And if that isn’t terrifying enough, she could ram us to splinters without feeling so much as a nudge. Oh, and she’ll be fast; on a northerly wind, she’ll brush past us as if we were swamped.’

  ‘So unless we’re right in her path-’ Brand started.

  ‘An unfortunate place to be-’ Markus was already turning seasick-green, even though the boat was still lashed safely to the pier.

  ‘We can’t catch her?’

  ‘Catch her?’ Sharr laughed. ‘If we’re lucky, she’ll think we’re Malakasian soldiers fleeing Capehill, and heave to.’

  ‘To pick us up?’ Brand considered this new option.

  ‘Yes,’ Sharr said, ‘they’ll reef their sheets and welcome us aboard.’

  ‘Aboard a Malakasian ship, filled with soldiers, possibly Seron warriors, and some kind of evil magical tree bark?’ Markus asked.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I like the run-us-down option better.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sharr said, ‘but – as much as I hate to quote Gita behind her back – you’re not coming, and neither is Brand. But I do appreciate you two helping me load these crates.’ Sharr avoided eye contact with Brand Krug. He liked Markus Fillin; the two of them
had come from similar backgrounds: hard-working parents, strong role models, but Brand was different, difficult to read. Sharr guessed there was brutality in his past, some ugly experience that made the enigmatic freedom fighter keep people at arm’s length.

  ‘And why are we not going along?’ Brand muttered.

  ‘Because this is suicide,’ Sharr explained. ‘There’s no point in all of us going out there for no reason. We stand about as much chance of sinking that ship – of even finding that ship – as I do of sailing to Pellia and single-handedly sacking Welstar Palace.’

  ‘Are there shipping lanes off-shore?’ Brand’s voice was barely above a whisper. At Sharr’s nod, he went on, ‘You know where they are?’

  ‘I’ve fished here all my life.’

  ‘Then that’s where we’re going.’ He looked deadly serious, and he still hadn’t moved.

  Sharr looked the quiet warrior in the eyes. ‘Have you been on the open ocean, Brand? Do you know anything about sailing? Anything at all? The swells out there block your view of the horizon; there are rollers so high they blot out the view… nothing you’ve ever seen at the beach or boating in the harbour can give you any idea what we’re going to face out there. And it’s cold, chill-your-bones-to-aching cold. If we don’t get swamped and drown, we’ll try to cut the carrack off. And assuming I can accomplish this nearly impossible navigational feat, we will get rammed and die. Or, even better, they will mistake us for their Malakasian comrades, heave to, take us aboard, and then we will die.’

  Markus interrupted, asking, ‘So any scenario in which we don’t die, Sharr?’

  ‘Just one.’ He grinned.

  ‘Care to elaborate a bit on our role?’

  ‘You don’t have a role.’ He jumped back to the pier and lowered another wooden crate onto the deck.

  ‘You haven’t convinced me you can sail out there and sink that ship by yourself, Sharr,’ Brand said.

  ‘Not by myself, no. He’s coming with me.’ He gestured towards the dockside, where Stalwick Rees, looking more fragile than ever and lugging a massive canvas bag almost as big as he was, moved hesitantly towards the Missing Daughter. They could see his lips moving as he nervously talked to no one.