by Angus Wells
“Excellent,” Varent applauded. “The talent is in you, as I surmised.”
Calandryll grinned delightedly and began to move about the room. He felt no different, nor were any of his senses dulled by the magic, but he could see from the way Bracht’s eyes darted, trying to locate him, that the Kern was unsure of his whereabouts. Grinning, he positioned himself close to the man and mouthed the releasing spell. He felt the strange prickling again, smelled almonds as he materialized at Bracht’s shoulder, the free-sword starting back in alarm. Chuckling, Calandryll removed the stone and passed it to the Kern.
Bracht took the talisman gingerly, clearly reluctant to attempt the glamour. “It may save your life,” Varent said, and Bracht grimaced, passing the thong over his head.
He mouthed the spell: nothing happened. He repeated the strange words, and still remained visible. A third attempt met with no better success and he shrugged, an expression close to relief on his tanned face. Calandryll said, “Try again,” but Varent shook his head.
“I fear your comrade lacks the basic talent essential to the spell. No matter—you are the one who speaks the Old Tongue, and when you reach Tezin-dar it will be you who recognizes the Arcanum; and I have but the single stone.”
“Take it.” Bracht loosed the stone from his heck and handed it to Calandryll. “I’d sooner trust in my blade.”
He eyed the magical artifact dubiously, obviously pleased to be rid of it. It was, Calandryll thought, the first time he had seen Bracht truly disconcerted.
His own enthusiasm had replaced all doubts and he turned to Varent, beaming. “With this we’ll succeed,” he declared fiercely. “We’ll bring the Arcanum out of Tezin-dar and thwart Azumandias.”
“Let us hope so,” said Varent, returning his smile. “Remember those words, my friend. Practice them, for the success of your quest may rest on them.”
“I shall,” Calandryll promised.
“How shall he recognize the book?” Bracht asked.
“The stone will tell you. The same magic that protects it will reveal the Arcanum. When the book is close the stone will burn. Now,” Varent glanced at the darkening sky, “I had best leave you—the Kand awaits me, and I’d arrange your passage before he’s too drunk to remember our agreement.”
He bowed formally, answered in kind by Calandryll, with a curt nod from Bracht, and was gone again.
“I’ve no love of magic,” Bracht responded gloomily. “Even though it aids us, I don’t like it.”
“As Lord Varent said, I’ll be the one to use the stone.”
Calandryll repeated the spell, and began to stride about the room, chuckling.
“No good comes of magic,” Bracht grumbled at the empty air.
Calandryll reappeared. “Then let’s eat,” he suggested. “Perhaps food will put you in a better mood.”
Bracht nodded and they made their way to the dining hall.
TWO days later they prepared to leave. The sun had not yet risen and mist hung thick in the courtyard of Varent’s mansion, lending their departure a spectral, clandestine air that Calandryll felt was entirely suitable to their purpose. Aldarin still slumbered as they stowed what little baggage they brought with them in the carriage Varent provided and waited on the ambassador. Calandryll wore the red stone at his throat, the cloak and the map folded into a satchel he slung across his back. The money Varent had given them—ample for their needs—was divided between them, and Bracht’s pay was secured in a pouched belt beneath his jerkin. They watched as the ambassador prepared a spell he promised would confuse Azumandias’s spies, drawing faint symbols in blue chalk on both sides of the carriage and the hooves of the horses, then sprinkling some colorless liquid over animals and vehicle alike. Satisfied, he turned to face them.
“The Kand captain’s name is Rahamman ek’Jemm and his ship is the Sea Dancer. He sails on the dawn tide. Darth knows the mooring.” He nodded in the direction of the driver. “I have paid ek’Jemm fifty varre and you will give him the same amount when you land at Mherut’yi.”
He took Calandryll’s hand in both of his, his aquiline features solemn as he added, “You embark on a heroic quest. Find Tezin-dar and bring me the Arcanum, and we’ll end this threat forever. The fate of the world lies in your hands! May Dera ward you both.”
He encompassed Bracht in his look; the freesword answered with an impassive stare. Calandryll said, “Trust in us, Lord Varent.”
“I do,” came the answer. “Now go, lest you miss the tide. I remain here to decoy any spies of our enemy.”
He released his grip and Calandryll clambered into the carriage, Bracht close behind. Varent raised a hand in farewell and Darth flicked the reins, easing the team toward the opening gates.
They turned onto the street, mist or magic—Calandryll was not sure which—muffling the hoofbeats, the avenue shrouded, the mansion soon lost in the swirling brume. Neither spoke as they traversed the city, as if the weight of their mission stilled their tongues, the enormity of what they attempted become more real now the journey was begun. Calandryll thought of Reba’s prophecy, so far come true: he had lost Nadama but gained two comrades, and he would, soon, travel far.
Over water.
Beware the water.
“Dera!” he groaned. “I’d forgotten that.”
“What?” Bracht looked up from his own musing.
“The spaewife warned of water—I’d planned to sacrifice to Burash.”
Bracht shrugged. “Perhaps the Kand boat carries an altar.”
“Perhaps.” Calandryll fingered the red stone nervously. “I hope so.”
He looked to the carriage windows, seeing only the mist, cut here and there with the faint glow of lanterns as folk rose, hearing a dog bark, smelling the moist, salt-tainted air.
“There’ll be temples enough in Kandahar,” Bracht said.
“Still, I wish I’d remembered.”
He turned to watch the shapes of buildings drift by, obscured by the fog, mysterious, the roadway empty, the sun not yet even a promise. Droplets hung like jewels on the budding leaves of trees, and when they crossed a park the greensward shone a ghostly silver, phosphorescent in the eerie light. He realized they had reached the city wall when the carriage halted and soldiers came like wraiths out of the obscurity. Darth exchanged a few words; a document was examined. Calandryll heard Varent’s name mentioned, then a postern was opened and the carriage trundled through a tunnel lit red by torches.
The familiar sound of surf breaking against stone told him they moved along the mole. A breeze stirred off the sea, the smell of salt stronger, mingled with the harbor odors of tar and wet rope and fish. The mist began to break, masts visible, bobbing on the tide, and the bulwarks of ships, creaking at their moorings as though waking and anxious to sail. The carriage halted again and Darth sprang down.
“The Sea Dancer lies there.”
He pointed to a dark bulk that seemed to hang suspended in the swirling grey, three masts standing tall, sails slapping fitfully in the rising breeze.
Calanaryll and Bracht descended to the slippery cobbles, their baggage on their shoulders.
“My horse,” the Kern turned to Darth, “Should I not return, he’s yours.”
“My thanks.” The man nodded. “Dera guide you.”
“Ahrd is my god,” the Kern said.
Darth shrugged.
Calandryll said, “A favor?” and Darth ducked his head.
He brought a varre from his satchel; passed the coin to the man. “Make sacrifice to Burash. Ask that he look with favor on our journey.” He would have preferred to attend the matter himself, but this might do.
“As you wish,” Darth said, then turned as a bulky figure came toward them.
“Are you my passengers?”
His voice was harsh, the Lyssian he spoke shaped by the tongue of Kandahar. He was short and fat, his girth accentuated by the heavy green cape he clutched about him, black-bearded, a golden hoop hung from either ear, a white cloth wound
about his head.
“You are Rahamman ek’Jemm?” Calandryll asked.
“Ship’s master Rahamman ek’Jemm,” the Kand corrected. “You’ll address me as captain whilst aboard my vessel.”
“We’re your passengers,” Bracht said. “Captain.”
Ek’Jemm grunted, studying them as though calculating their weight, then nodded.
“Come on board. The tide’s on the turn and I’d be gone.”
Without further ado he spun about and strode away. Calandryll saw that he walked with a rolling gait. He moved to follow; realized that Bracht hesitated and glanced at the mercenary. The freesword appeared nervous, reluctant to climb the gangplank revealed by the clearing mist.
“I’ve never been on a ship,” he muttered.
Calandryll suppressed a laugh: in this at least he had an advantage.
“You’ll grow used to it soon enough,” he promised.
“Burash rot you! Do you come on board or do I sail without you?”
The captain’s voice boomed from above and Calandryll beckoned his companion. Bracht sighed noisily and began to climb the gangplank.
Rahamman ek’Jemm met them at the head, gesturing sternward. “Wait there. I’ve a tide to catch, so you stay out of the way.” It seemed an afterthought to add, “You share a cabin, but that I’ll show you later.”
He bustled off, his gait no longer odd, better suited to the swaying deck than their own landlubbers’ walk, bellowing orders as he went. Calandryll led the way aft, past busy sailors galvanized to action by their captain’s roaring, and found a place beneath the high poop. He dropped his baggage and settled himself against the planking, Bracht at his side.
The Sea Dancer was a sizable craft of typical Kand design, wide-bellied, with poop and forecastle overlooking the main deck, arbalests mounted on both. Her three masts carried square sails that rose now to the accompaniment of ek’Jemm’s shouting, filling as they caught the wind and the vessel turned ponderously from the harbor. Instantly her swaying was more pronounced and Calandryll heard Bracht groan, turning to see the Kern pale beneath his tan.
“Seasickness passes,” he advised cheerfully, refusing to allow the mercenary’s discomfort to dampen his own growing enthusiasm.
Bracht’s only response was a heartfelt sigh and Calandryll climbed to his feet to watch Aldarin disappear behind them.
The city was still hung with tatters of mist, but now the walls were visible, rising out of the grey, the sky beyond brightening as the sun approached the horizon. At the farther end of the river valley a band of reddish gold stretched from hillside to hillside, surmounted by a growing swath of blue that extended itself as he watched, spreading out to swallow the grey. Then pure brilliance shone down the length of the Alda as the sun came up, driving off the last vestiges of fog to bathe the city in golden light. He turned, looking ahead, and saw the moon low on the western horizon, the sky there still dark, but brightening as day overtook the world. Soon the sky was blue, long ribbons of pristine white cloud strung out high overhead by the same wind that carried them toward Kandahar, and he felt excitement grip him: now the quest was truly begun.
A moan from Bracht tore him from his observation and he saw the Kern rise awkwardly, stumbling to the bulwarks to hang over the surging ocean, shoulders heaving as he emptied his breakfast into the waves.
“Landlubber.” Rahamman ek’Jemm’s harsh voice rang contemptuous in his ear. “What is he, a Kern?”
Calandryll nodded.
“You’re not afflicted?” the captain demanded.
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve sailed before, though not on so grand a vessel.”
That seemed to please the Kand, for his plump face creased in a brief smile and he nodded approvingly.
“The old Sea Dancer’s a stout craft, sure enough. What’ve you used? Those little toys you Lyssians call boats?”
He thought of the small craft he had sailed in Secca’s harbor and said, “Dinghies. A caravel, once.”
Ek’Jemm snorted. “Coastal craft. You heed a ship with heart to cross the Narrow Sea.” He stabbed a finger in Bracht’s direction. “When he’s empty I’ll have a man show you your cabins.”
“Thank you,” Calandryll said. “Do you carry an altar to Burash, Captain?”
The Kand showed surprise, green eyes narrowing until they were almost hidden in the fleshy folds of his face.
“You’re a Dera-lover if you’re from Lysse. And you’re no seaman—why d’you want to sacrifice to Burash?”
“I travel over water, and the sea’s his domain.”
The explanation was sound enough: the Kand nodded, gesturing at the ocean. “We heed no altars when he’s all around us. The ocean’s his temple.”
Calandryll nodded. “Are there forms I heed observe? What might he accept?”
“The priests have rituals,” ek’Jemm rumbled, “but Burash’ll hear you if he’s in the mood to listen, and there’s no priest on board. The sacrifice? What’s precious to you? Give him something precious.”
Calandryll thought for a moment. A book would be precious to him, but he had none with him; the map, the red stone, they were too precious to give up. He might heed his sword. “Might this be accepted?” he asked, drawing the signet from his ring finger.
Ek’Jemm shrugged: Calandryll decided the ring must do. He walked to the rail, standing upwind from the heaving Bracht, hand extended over the waves.
“Hear me, Burash,” he murmured. “I ask that you favor this journey. We travel your domain and I ask that you grant us safe passage over all your waters.”
He opened his hand, the ring glittering as it fell to the waves. He hoped it was enough—it was all he could do.
He turned away, finding Bracht’s eyes on him. The Kern’s face was tinted with a greenish hue and he sucked air as though he thought each breath might be his last. Calandryll anticipated criticism, but all Bracht said was, “Does that buy me respite from this malaise? Ahrd, but I’d not thought sea travel could be so foul.”
Calandryll was about to reply, but the mercenary turned away, hanging over the rail again, racked.
“I’ve a nostrum might help,” ek’Jemm announced, calmly studying the Kern, “ana I’ll have a bucket placed in your cabin.”
“Thank you,” Calandryll answered on behalf of his comrade: Bracht was in no condition to speak.
The captain grunted a reply and left them, climbing the companionway to the poop deck. The Sea Dancer gathered speed, the deck pitching and rolling as she gained the open sea, her sails bellying, the masthead pennants snapping briskly. Sea gulls wheeled overhead, an aerial escort, their shrill cries cutting through the steady slap of water against her prow and the steady rumble of the wind-filled canvas. Calandryll clutched a stay, bracing against the roll, hair streaming in the breeze. He was exhilarated: there was a pure excitement to sea travel that stretched his mouth in an eager smile as he felt salt spray dash his face and filled his lungs with air tangy with ozone.
He looked to where Bracht hung miserable over the rail and saw that the Kern’s stomach was empty, his retching dry now. Too much of that could damage his insides, and ek’Jemm had made no mention of carrying a ship’s healer: he set a hand to Bracht’s shoulder.
“We’d best go below. You’ll feel better in your bunk.” Bracht nodded dumbly and Calandryll said, “Wait here,” leaving him to climb the companionway.
Rahamman ek’Jemm stood straddle-legged behind the wheel, a seaman at his side ready to take the helm. The captain had shed his cape and stood in portly splendor of yellow and black, the tails of his headdress fluttering. He glanced at Calandryll with vague irritation, as though passengers were not welcome in this lofty place.
“I’d see my comrade to his bunk,” Calandryll said.
Ek’Jemm nodded and bellowed, “Mehemmed!”
Calandryll felt his sleeve tugged and turned on the ladder to find a shirtless youth of about his own age clambering unceremoniously past him. A dark brown face
glanced curiously his way, flashing a toothy grin, and the Kand sprang onto the poop.
“Captain?”
“Show this one and his puking friend to their cabin. And make sure they’ve got a bucket.”
Mehemmed ducked his head and turned toward Calandryll, who said, “You promised a nostrum, too, Captain.”
Rahamman ek’Jemm frowned, taken aback.
“You understand the tongue of Kandahar?”
“And speak it,” Calandryll replied in the same language.
Ek’Jemm snorted and said, “When you’ve shown our passengers to their cabin, go to mine and bring them the blue bottle from my medicine chest. Three drops in a little water, morning, noon, and night.”
This latter was directed at Calandryll, who smiled his thanks and descended to the deck, Mehemmed close behind.
They fetched Bracht from the rail and helped him across to the hatchway. Calandryll stooped to collect their gear and Mehemmed eased the pale-faced Kern down into the bowels of the ship. The air was musty and Calandryll was pleased to find their cabin had a port: he opened it as Mehemmed settled Bracht on the bunk below.
‘I’ll bring the nostrum and the bucket,” Mehemmed promised.
“Oh, Ahrd preserve me,” Bracht moaned. “Had I known it would be like this …”
“Best hope the sea stays this calm,” Mehemmed grinned, and ducked through the low hatchway.
Calandryll tossed their gear onto the second bunk and looked around. The cabin was small, the two bunks occupying most of its space, storage lockers beneath them and a narrow aisle between. The ceiling was low enough he had to stoop and he sat, torn between amusement and sympathy for Bracht’s condition.
Mehemmed returned with a bucket and a small flask of blue glass, a carafe and a beaker. He filled the beaker and carefully measured three drops from the flask into the water, handing the remedy to Bracht. The Kern drank it and grimaced.
“It tastes foul,” Mehemmed chuckled. “But it’ll cure you.”