“Been awhile since I serviced—” Roval began.
“Not that, you boorish oaf!” snapped the vampyre. “I meant being in the service of a lady.”
“Ah, as in serving. But you have been in Learned Wensomer’s service.”
“Learned Wensomer? She needs the service of a champion about as much as a battle galley jammed full of marines. She is a very senior and powerful sorceress, and would be the Consolidator of the Scalticarian High Circle if she did not spend so much time around cake shops, pastry markets, and gourmet wine vendors.”
“Actually, I heard she has moved to Diomeda to lose weight by learning belly dancing, so there may be hope. But getting back to you, Laron, think more on your own achievements. You are in the elite Special Warrior Service, just as I am. You were the first dead person to be admitted.”
“I am the only dead person to do practically everything that I do. What sort of existence do I have? Drinking nine pints of blood at every meal, always on the run.”
“Anyone who drinks nine pints of anything would certainly be on the run.”
“Very funny. Roval, I just want to be settled with a lady, to be her loving and devoted champion.”
Roval laughed mirthlessly, then hauled in the stayline with all his strength. “Tie that fast, will you? Just a timber hitch, that’s it. Laron, once upon a time I nearly married my beloved. Then I thought about what being settled would really be like. I realized that she had a voice that could shatter ax-blades, a temper that could set water on fire, and a social circle full of people who could talk very loudly for an entire week about nothing whatsoever. Why do you think I tried so hard to get into the Special Warrior Service? It was a stunningly good excuse to get out of my betrothal—I cannot even remember what the reason I actually gave was. Some vision from some god that I do not believe in anyway.”
“How did she take the news?”
“Badly. Months later my head was still ringing from her tirade.”
“It sounds like you made a good decision.”
“My first tour of duty took me thousands of miles from her, and when I returned she was married to someone who … Well, let us just say that you could not have strangled him.”
“Really thick neck?”
“No brain to starve of blood. Laron, Laron, even if a week seldom passes without having to fight for my life or endure great danger, it is still far more peaceful than living with her would have been. Now, you haul on the line and I’ll do the final tie-down.”
Laron hauled the stayline tighter than any mortal could, then Roval secured it to the top of the mast.
“Haul in the bracebar lines,” Roval called to the men below, then he watched the knots for any slippage as the ropes of the rigging tightened.
“I want a lady who depends upon me, someone who adores me,” said Laron, staring wistfully at the distant actress, who was now explaining something to a port constable and waving her hands a great deal. “Someone I may worship, someone I may love with the most pure and gallant of motives.”
“Consummation is more pleasant—unless the lady concerned is Wensomer, of course. I have had the occasional dalliance, I must admit. The Special Warrior Service forbids members to make the first move, so the lady must always ask me first, and most ladies are depressingly coy about that sort of thing. Still, being tumbled infrequently is better than not at all.”
“My motives are above such things.”
“Your motives sound like a bit of a bore. Why cultivate a favored lady without some bounce and giggle as a prospect?”
“What a crass outlook. You do not understand purity in love.”
“Laron, you have been fourteen years old—and dead—for seven centuries. You have no choice in matters involving women, so you are stuck with virtuous motives. Were you alive, you would be a dirty little boy with no more chivalric purity and self-discipline than—”
“You are wrong!” insisted Laron. “Were I alive, I would feel the same way.”
“Were you alive you would be making up for seven hundred years of enforced celibacy, and every girl, woman, and sheep for a hundred miles around would be reaching for their chastity belts.”
“This is pointless,” said Laron. “I know my motives have the strength of steel and the purity of freshly fallen snow, yet nothing will convince you of that.”
“True,” said Roval, patting the now-taut stayline with satisfaction. “Let us descend.”
“Nevertheless, I still desire a lady to serve.”
“Laron, with your preference in food, not to mention some rather worrying table manners, you do not have a hope.”
“I know, I know. I am doomed to be alone and misunderstood, yet I shall try to do good nonetheless. That also is the path of chivalry.”
Half an hour later the body of the Mighty Bendith had been loaded onto a cart and removed. Captain Mandalock was sitting in the sterncastle cabin of the Kygar with Dovaris, the commander of marines.
“I don’t like entertainments that go wrong,” Mandalock confided as he poured himself a drink.
“Oh, I don’t know. The men say it was the best show you have ever put on.”
“Carnival accidents are little hints from the gods about real life. I don’t like them.”
The officer of the watch rapped at the door and reported that a courier dash galley was entering the harbor and flying flags of the emperor’s Service. Mandalock went outside, and saw that the little galley was stripped of its weapons and shields. It was docked with the highest priority and Mandalock was waiting on the pier as the courier captain presented his credentials to the harbormaster.
“I am Captain Esar, and I require fresh rowers and supplies for departure within the hour.” He turned to Mandalock. “You are the captain of the Kygar?” he asked Mandalock.
“Captain Mandalock, at the emperor’s service,” Mandalock replied smartly.
Esar called his clerk, who came running with a bag of scrolls. The captain selected one, broke the seal, and scanned what was written.
“Captain Mandalock, you are to assemble all fifteen galleys and dash galleys stationed in Fontarian into a squadron, requisition all deepwater traders in the harbor, and gather all available marines onto the traders. You will then escort them to the port of Narmari.”
“Sir! I hear and obey.”
Before the astonished harbormaster could protest, Esar turned back to him.
“Harbormaster, you will begin raising a town militia for the defense of Fontarian, and set the shipwrights building six dash galleys to patrol local waters. All expenses are to be charged against the treasury of the emperor, and you are hereby elevated to the rank of military governor.”
The exchange had been conducted quite loudly, before a crowd of sailors, dockers, and wharfers. There had been no attempt at secrecy. Within earshot were Roval and Feran.
“I think that I should seek work aboard one of those deepwater traders,” said Roval.
“For general advancement, or to get away from Laron?”
The one factor the Shadowmoon had in its favor was its lack of desirability in any sort of obvious military sense. It was too small to carry more than three or four marines and of no use in any harbor defense force, so it was ignored. By sunset Mandalock was the proud commander of thirty ships that were following the Torean coast southwest, his forebodings about the Mighty Bendith’s death forgotten. Ignored by all was a tiny schooner, following in the wake of the fleet.
“With luck we can shadow them all the way to Narmari,” said Feran with satisfaction. “No privateer will go anywhere near a force like that.”
“But after that we may encounter convoys going the other way,” said Laron.
“Then we will stand closer in to the coast, out of their way. I wonder why Warsovran has ordered this?”
“Doubtless Roval will find out. He is a spy of great skill and resource.”
“Speaking of spies, have the boat’s name painted over and changed to, er, Arrowflight.”
“Arrowflight?” echoed Laron.
“Warsovran seems to be gathering ships together from the most remote of quarters, and someone from Gironal may wonder what brought a little trader like the Shadowmoon halfway around the continent so very quickly.”
“Arrowflight?”
“Yes.”
“Arrow? As in the small, pointy thing that moves really, really fast?”
“Yes.”
“Are you not worried that such a name will seem suspicious when applied to the Shadowmoon?”
Feran stared at Laron for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he was worth a sneer.
“People are seldom suspicious of what is ludicrous,” the boatmaster said patiently. “I want people laughing, and not asking questions.”
Exactly one hundred twenty days after the first fire-circle burst out of the sky above Larmentel, the Shadowmoon tied up at one of the long stone piers in the port of Zantrias. Its name was now the Arrowflight, and its rigging had been rearranged to present a new profile.
A large temple was visible in the distance, perched on a verdant hill three miles back from the coast. Feran escorted his passenger through the port to the safety of the temple complex, and at the hospitalier’s portico they were received by the Elder’s steward. Here Feran was told that his work had been well done, but that he was no longer needed. As he made his way back through the empty Gardens of Contemplation, someone hailed him. A blue-robed priestess with a pale face and tightly bound black hair was approaching, attended by a shorter student girl who wore the green robes of a deaconess, and whose dark brown, wavy hair was unbound.
“Worthy Terikel, how delightful to see you again,” he said. “And Deaconess Velander, I see that you are still a deaconess.”
“But you are now a boatmaster,” Velander observed by the red shoulder-tassels of his deck jacket and his three-cornered hat. “Congratulations.”
“Will you be in port for long?” Terikel asked.
“The Shadowmoon is temporarily the Arrowflight, and the Arrowflight is to be careened. There is also other work … maybe eight days.”
“Velander and I need more practice with spoken Diomedan.”
“Ah, so you are still studying that exotic tongue?”
“Oh yes. Are you available?”
“For Terikel and Velander, always. Why not walk back with me now, speaking Diomedan?”
Once through the gates and past the guards, Feran softly asked, “Have you any more news of Warsovran’s weapon?”
“There have been two more tests,” Velander replied. “One of them was a week ago, and it burned a circle two and one-third miles in diameter. Some nobles from nearby kingdoms were invited to see it happen. The other was sixteen days earlier, and smaller.”
“That’s four tests. What have you learned?”
“The first fire-circle was a third of a mile in diameter. I learned that from a slave we carried on commission. As for the second test, we know almost nothing, just tavern talk by Warsovran’s troops. Maybe he was not sure why it worked the first time, and did not want witnesses if it failed.”
“All of this makes me wonder. The emperor is assembling a lot of warships at Narmari. He may be so confident that his weapon can smash any inland city, that he intends to claim the entire coastline.”
“Can he do that?”
“He has the largest fleet in Torean history, but even that is not enough ships to beat the combined might of the southern seafaring kingdoms. Besides, privateers will play merry hell with his unescorted trading ships while the warships are away. Those fire-circles are impressive against cities, but not all Warsovran’s enemies are to be found inland.”
All the way to the docks they discussed the statistics of the fire-circles, figures that encompassed destruction combining the swiftness of lightning with the power of a volcano. Velander talked earnestly about the fire-circles and smiled continually, yet within her hearts she was resentful. Feran was an intruder, introduced into her intensely monosexual society by her own mentor. The relationships and politics of the temple were balanced with exquisite care, and into this the boatmaster had intruded with all the delicacy of a stallion loose in a mustering yard full of mares. Who are you, and why is my soulmate paying you so much attention? she thought as they walked the neat, narrow streets down to the waterfront. His speech was deep and harsh to her ears; even his smell was sharp and nauseating. All she could do was stay with Terikel, weathering the barrage of strangeness, but angry and resentful.
“What can doing, ah, to fighting … fire-circle?” Velander asked, her Diomedan tortured and slow, yet almost aggressive in tone.
“Just what we are doing,” Feran replied easily. “Study, record, and learn. My thought is that they don’t work well over water.”
“Perhaps Warsovran is going to put one mighty effort into smashing the coastal kingdoms, then use fire-circles on defiant cities inland,” said Terikel.
“True, the fire-circles are invincible on land,” said Feran. “No man can stand against them.”
“But men are soft,” said Terikel. “They boast of their prowess and power to impress mere women like us, do they not, Velander? We know their weaknesses.”
“Oh yes, they are no match for us,” replied Velander, trying not to sound appalled at the thought of seducing men as a strategic tactic.
The narrow streets suddenly opened onto the wharf area, with cool but mellow sea air and a forest of masts. Velander felt herself relaxing as they approached the Arrowflight along the pier. The ordeal was almost over.
“Arrowflight here, being, is!” Velander declared in triumph, pointing to the name.
“Ah yes, and it’s a special design,” said Feran with a wink to Terikel. “Its masts can be lowered to pass under low bridges, for working in rivers.”
“Just like, ah, old ship, Shadowmoon,” Velander managed, trying to disguise her mood with an attempt at a joke.
“If you please, keep your voice down!” Feran hissed in genuine alarm.
Velander swelled with triumph at having discomfited the male invader, but she said no more. The little schooner was being unloaded, and the air was full of the curses of wharfers. Terikel searched for something flattering to say about the Arrowflight, failed, then Velander suggested that they should return to the temple.
“So soon?” said Feran, sounding disappointed.
“Velander has to prepare for ordination,” Terikel said.
“Ah, how wonderful for you,” Feran responded, still speaking Diomedan. “How many days more?”
“Eight, but five of, ah, being vigil,” managed Velander, stubbornly refusing to revert to their native language. “Must fast, drinking, er, water of rain. Only. Endure, I must … ordeals alone.”
“Ordeals?” asked Feran.
“Being interrogated by the Elder,” explained Terikel, coming to Velander’s aid.
“Hah, it’s brave of you,” laughed Feran. “Five days with only that old bat for company.”
“Shall not alone, totally,” Velander now added.
“One’s soulmate customarily endures a fast nearby to give comfort,” said Terikel.
“Worthy Terikel, fasting, nearby, will be,” said Velander, as slowly and distinctly as she could.
“Yes, I shall be in the Chapel of Vigils while Velander fasts in the temple’s outer sanctum.”
“And then you become a priestess with twelve years of celibacy before you,” Feran sighed. “Who could endure such a wait as that?”
“Not you, boatmaster?” asked Terikel.
“Not I, celibate and esteemed ladies.”
Two of the crew paused to stare as the two women walked back down the pier.
“So which do you fancy of ’em?” asked the deckswain.
Laron put a hand on his chest and stroked it with the other.
“Me?” asked Feran innocently.
“You,” chorused Norrieav and Laron.
“Velander’s just a serious puppy—but Teri
kel! Ah, she’s like a queen.”
“They both have … allure,” Laron said, his arms now folded and his head inclined as he stared at the shapely pair of departing figures. There was something about Velander that annoyed him, and he suddenly caught himself licking his lips. He hastily clenched his teeth.
“No chance. Ye look too small, pale, gaunt, and scruffy,” said the deckswain, who was also looking at Terikel and Velander. “Besides, wash off that beard and ye’d look fourteen.”
“I’m a qualified navigator and medicar!” Laron replied.
“Aye, and ye’d probably be stronger than the rest of the crew put together, but ye still look like a cabin boy.”
“So does Feran,” retorted Laron.
“But Feran has curly hair, blue eyes, and body. It gets ’em every time.”
“Well, not quite every time,” Feran demurred.
“Tread careful, boatmaster,” warned Norrieav. “Ye can see that the little one adores the priestess, while the priestess is as protective as a mother cat. I’d not like to come between them.”
“I would,” admitted Feran. “Without a tom, there’d be no kittens.”
The two women reached the end of the pier, passed between some stalls and vendors, then vanished into a lane.
“I’ve been asking around, as I always do,” said Laron, turning away and stroking his beard to check that it was still all there. “There is far more to Velander than meets the eye. Just three years ago she was in deep trouble. She had killed several men, apparently agents of Warsovran.”
“At seventeen?” exclaimed Feran.
“So it seems. She was also orphaned by agents of Warsovran. Terikel’s sister Elasse got her into the temple academy. When Elasse died on a voyage to Acrema, Terikel made Velander into a sort of foster sister. She became her mentor, and even found sponsors for her years of study. As far as Velander is concerned, Terikel is her friend, sister, saint, and queen. She would die for Terikel, and probably kill for her, too.”
“Kill?” said Feran. “As in, kill me?”
“You, in general, as opposed to you specifically,” explained Laron.
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 5