With the unloading done, Laron went into the port and sought a merchant house not far from the water. The back room was nothing like an importer’s office, however. Kordoban’s Sacking and Cord was no more than a front for Kordoban the trafficker in machineries of doubtful ownership. Unlike sorcerers who studied the arcane arts for power or scholarship, Kordoban specialized in obtaining very powerful etheric machines for the use of others. Socially frowned upon, he was nevertheless much in demand, and fairly rich.
“This is a mock-up of your quarry,” said Kordoban, holding a small, violet sphere up before Laron’s face.
He dropped it into Laron’s palm. Laron examined it for a moment, noting that it was very light, and probably hollow.
“I need an advance,” Laron said. “The sanctum of the Metrologan’s Elder will not be easy to breach.”
“No advance, only results.”
Unused to being denied anything, Laron growled and bared his fangs. Kordoban immediately drew two silver daggers and held them ready in the manner of a skilled fighter. Laron’s growl subsided to a rumble as he backed away two paces.
“You are a fool, not helping me to help you,” Laron warned.
“If I paid advances to everyone who claimed to be a master thief, I would soon be a master pauper. Now, then, this mock-up oracle sphere is nothing. You can get as many made as you want for five silvers each at Lapidor’s. The internal structure and contents are another matter entirely.”
“My price is three hundred gold circars,” Laron said firmly.
“Produce, and I shall pay.”
A quarter hour later Laron was standing before a stall in the market. “I am told you can make another of these for five silvers, Lapidor,” he said as he held up the mock-up oracle sphere.
“That I can, squire, and I can provide discretion for another five.”
“I shall take that option.”
“Can you wait?”
“I certainly can.”
That same day the Councilium of the Metrologan Order met the agent Feran had delivered. The man was by now wearing the earth-brown robes of a lay scholar.
“This is Lenticar,” said the priestess who was Councilium Elder. “He was captured early in Warsovran’s wars of expansion, and worked in slavery for three years. Lenticar, tell the Councilium what you told me.”
Lenticar bowed to the Elder, then to each Councilium member in turn, wringing his hands all the while. The six priests of the Brotherhood and six priestesses of the Sisterhood were all attentive and alert, which made Lenticar more anxious still.
“The, ah, essence is that I spent three years in an army of slaves, digging out a collapsed ravine in the Seawall Mountains. One day, late last year, there was a great commotion down at the base of the diggings. We had reached the rocks of the old riverbed, you see. The area was sealed off, and the six hundred slaves who had been working down there were put to the ax. Just like that! No reason, no mercy, just, just—But no matter. The other fifty thousand of us were marched off to build a fortress in Vidaria. I escaped as we traveled, because the guards were by then a lot less careful. I … cannot say why. Not precisely, but … something had been found. I just knew it. We all did. Sometimes we whispered it to each other.”
“Did you see what had been discovered?” asked a priestess.
“No, but I heard rumors that even the guards of the slaves closest to whatever it was were killed. We heard the word ‘cypher’ whispered among the guards. Nobody knew what was meant by it.”
“Worthy Lenticar, do you have anything else to report?” asked the Elder.
Lenticar squirmed restlessly. There was so much to tell, but it was not important here and now.
“I could report suffering, cruelty, death, and selfless kindness in the face of all those three, but those things have no place here. I have given all that I was able to harvest from three years of toil. Now it is up to you, most Learned and Worthy company, to grow what you can from it.”
The Elder stood up again now, and gestured to a seat rather than the door. Lenticar sat down.
“Worthy Lenticar, you have as much right to what the rest of us know as anyone else. Perhaps you may even be able to make better sense of it than we who have not been digging for three years. Worthy company, we have learned that within a few days of the discovery in the ravine, Warsovran rode in with Commander Ralzak and a man named Cypher. Cypher is rumored to be one of the original thieves who stole Silverdeath from its shrine. Just over a month after digging ceased in that ravine, the fire-circle casting burned Larmentel’s heart out. Now Warsovran is testing it on what is left of the city, and is learning how to refresh it more quickly. Word arrived by messenger auton bird this morning that a fifth test scoured the life from an area four and two-thirds miles across. That is enough to destroy any army, and is probably adequate to conquer this whole continent.”
There was a hurried, alarmed murmur among the members of the Councilium.
“Then why does he just detonate it over Larmentel, over and over?” the Examiner asked.
“Larmentel is a shell, and now worthless,” said the Elder. “He wants the other cities intact, so he seeks to frighten his enemies with these obscene demonstrations of raw power over Larmentel’s ruins. Worthy Sisters and Brothers, Warsovran has sworn to wipe out our Order, both priests and priestesses. Clearly we cannot fight this fire-thing, so it is now time for us to fade from sight, as we have often done in earlier times of tyranny. For a few of us, it is time to flee with the Order’s records and treasures.”
Laron sauntered through the twilight market alone, inspecting the stalls but making no attempt to haggle seriously. This was the market where goods of suspicious origins were offered by even more suspicious vendors, but Laron was in the market for nothing tangible. He stopped before a stall whose ragged banner declared, FARUGIL’S POISONS. The words were underscored with a line of little skulls, for the benefit of the illiterate.
“Dragon tears—would you have that?” Laron ventured softly.
“There is little call for it,” replied the vendor.
“Could you get it for me?”
“I could show you where to get it, but the price is high.”
“What is that price.”
“Thirty-five gold circars.”
“Thirty-five! For that, I could buy your soul.”
“My soul is not for sale.”
Their coded exchange over, Laron counted out the price and handed it to the vendor. He was given a vial of cloudy blue glass, which he inspected briefly. Something like a small scroll seemed to be within.
“Transcripts of the Metrologan Elder’s guard autons,” said the vendor.
“They had better be genuine,” warned Laron. “You know what happens to those who cheat me.”
“If you wish to complain, I am here every night.”
The transaction complete, they bowed and Laron casually walked on. Moments later he was slipping through the crowds like an eel through long grass, and by the time he reached the docks he was running. Only the tip of Miral’s outermost ring was above the western horizon as he scrambled into his cabin on the Arrowflight and slammed the shutter closed.
The next two days saw the Arrowflight dragged up onto a slipway at high tide, and scrubbed clean of barnacles and seaweed by laborers. After a wash with hot tar it was floated again, then rowed back out to the pier. Velander sat on a stone bollard and looked down at the deck of the moored Arrowflight, slowly combing and repinning her dark brown hair back from her face with little ornamental combs. Terikel was nearby, bartering for something at a pier stall.
Feran and Laron emerged through the deck hatch. Both were stripped to the waist, but Laron’s skin was as white as fresh parchment, and his chest was painfully thin. He was also wearing black kid-leather dress gloves.
“Deaconess, should you not be keeping a vigil for your ordination?” Feran asked in Diomedan.
“As of noon, yes,” Velander replied, choosing and phrasing her wo
rds slowly.
They strode up the gangplank and stood beside her, smelling of sweat, sacking, tar and resins.
“Have you had a good breakfast?” asked Laron, also in Diomedan. “There are five days of fasting ahead.”
“Have hungered for longer,” she replied enigmatically.
“In your travels?” asked Feran.
“Ah, yes. How is Diomedan sound? Could pass for, er, speaking native?”
“You sound more like a foreign scholar, but speak confidently,” replied Feran. “Why do you ask?”
“Curious, only,” she said, then her eyes narrowed. “Knowing about fifth fire-circle?”
“That’s not common knowledge,” Laron said slowly and uneasily, avoiding Velander’s eyes.
“So, is true! I am hearing, four and two-thirds miles, across. How are you knowing?”
“I move among common folk,” said Laron. “They have ways of finding out, just as priestesses, nobles, and kings do. They note odd things, Deaconess Velander, like the fact that you ask about your spoken Diomedan. Could it be that you might go to Diomedan soon?”
“Idea is, er, lacking, ah, lacking undergarments.”
“I think you mean foundation,” said the vampyre, smoothly switching to Velander’s language for a moment. “The Diomedan for ‘foundation garment,’ as in ‘corset,’ and for ‘foundation,’ as in what a building is built on, are rather similar. Now, try it in Diomedan.”
“Idea lacking the foundations.”
“Close enough, for now. A few weeks in Diomeda will fix all that. Speaking of Diomeda, this morning I noticed crates from the temple being loaded onto a deepwater trader bound for Diomeda. The Searose, that big one with three masts.”
“I know nothing,” Velander replied, unconsciously squirming.
“Is it because of the fire-circles?” asked Feran.
“No!”
“Just no?”
“Worthy Terikel say speak Diomedan, I speak Diomedan. For her. Very well, am learning.”
“But why would she say that?”
“She saying, ah, I am study too much of mathematics,” Velander improvised. “Saying I am need balance of exotic language. No fire-circles then, when she say.”
Feran conceded to her logic. “Well, it’s meant your charming form and company whenever we dock here, so why should I complain?”
Nothing could destabilize Velander quite so readily as a man’s opinion of her figure. Without any attempt at subtle wordplay, she instantly changed the subject—with a glance in Terikel’s direction to see why she was taking so long.
“I cannot make sense, ah, of driving energies … that fire-circles having,” she managed with considerable effort.
“I’m puzzled, too,” said Feran. “Magical ether, one supposes.”
“Magical castings are too limited in terms of sheer power,” interjected Laron, “while hellbreath oil must be pumped out of a hose and does not burn hot enough to melt stone. A powerful and exact convergence of etheric and mundane energies is needed.”
“What would you know of magic?” muttered Feran, surprised and a little annoyed that his strange navigator knew something of the cold sciences as well.
“I read a lot,” replied Laron.
They were interrupted by Druskarl, a senior eunuch of the temple guard. He strode down the pier from where the deepwater trader was being loaded. Like the Arrowflight’s deckswain, he was a black-skinned Acreman, and was wearing the tunic of a pilgrim instead of his usual armor. His black, braided hair was covered by a sunhood.
“Deaconess, your vigil starting today,” Druskarl said in sharp, heavily accented Damarian.
“I am under the escort of the Worthy Terikel,” Velander replied, dropping back into Damarian, and with quite a good parody of Druskarl’s hard, flat voice. She gestured to where Terikel was holding up a pilgrim’s pack and arguing with the stallholder.
“Deaconess! Ordination vigil starting noon,” Druskarl insisted.
“Nobody knows that better than me, Druskarl,” she replied firmly.
By now Laron had noticed that Velander was under siege. Almost without realizing it, he found himself coming to her aid. “I note that the temple is shipping books to Acrema with you as escort,” he said casually to Druskarl.
“No books,” muttered Druskarl.
“I smelled the scent of old books as your crates were carried past to the Searose.”
“What you know of books?”
“I am no stranger to libraries.”
Velander nodded approvingly. Feran smiled and Druskarl frowned.
“Druskarl no stranger to ships, noting Arrowflight’s masts hinge between brackets,” he countered. “Can lie flat.”
“We need to pass beneath bridges when trading on rivers,” said Feran.
“Arrowflight riding high in water.”
“The Arrowflight is nearly empty, and our bilges are being bailed and scrubbed,” Feran explained with a trace of condescension in his tone; when speaking with Druskarl, that was a mistake. “So, are the Metrologans moving to Acrema before Warsovran turns his fire-circle on Zantrias?”
“What are strange hatch-covers below load waterline?” Druskarl countered.
“They are for looking through,” Laron answered smoothly.
Druskarl frowned, neither believing him nor seeing the joke. “Below waterline?”
“Yes, in an hour there will be cargo aboard, and they will definitely be below the waterline,” said Feran.
“Druskarl say masts of Arrowflight easy for lowering. Arrowflight easy to sink, also. Arrowflight pretend sinking in shallow water when chased. Low tide coming, hatches closed by crew, crew bailing, then ship floating.”
“But we are not fishes,” said Feran. “We would drown.”
“Gigboat bolted upside down to frame on deck.”
“It would fill with rain otherwise.”
“Gigboat holding air for breathing when Arrowflight sinking.”
Feran’s eyes narrowed. “Some people have minds so sharp, they could slice precious parts of themselves off,” he said sullenly to the tall, powerfully built eunuch.
“They like to people having sharp noses, yes?” asked Druskarl.
“Well-parried,” said Laron, standing back with his arms folded.
“Good sirs, we need to bid you both farewell,” called Terikel, returning with the canvas pack. “Velander has to prepare for her ordination.”
Terikel crossgrasped hands with all three men in turn, but only Feran felt a scrap of paper being slipped between his fingers.
“The guard knows our secret,” Feran said softly to Laron when they were alone again. “The most advanced vessel on the waters of the world, and he knows what it really is.”
“But he told us that he knows,” replied Laron, who seemed calm about it. “Had he been an enemy, he would have said nothing. Besides, he does not know all the other secrets of the Shadowmoon.”
“Arrowflight! Who is he?”
“Our next contact, perhaps. This could be his way of introducing himself.”
Laron looked to the west, where the ringed disk of Miral was pale in the blue haze, just above the horizon.
“Miral is setting. I must go to my cabin.”
“Perchance to sleep and dream?” asked Feran.
“I never dream, boatmaster. Neither do I sleep.”
Laron walked down the gangplank, stepped down onto the middeck of the Arrowflight, then slid the hatch to his tiny cabin aside and crawled in. When he had slid the hatch shut again, Hazlok came up beside Feran.
“I allus feel easier when he sleeps,” he declared.
“Apparently he does not sleep, matey.”
“Then what’s he do?”
“I have been assured that we are safer not knowing.”
Hazlok folded his arms and shook his head. “I’se glad he be on our side.”
The Arrowflight’s master cabin was about the size of a privy laid on its side, and the bunk, desk, chart lock
er, lamp, and weapons rack were designed to fold back against the wall. Feran sat on his watertight seachest, examining the scrap of paper Terikel had given to him. It was a scroll of tissue, the kind used on primitive messenger auton birds, the ones that could not speak. There was a preamble that was not easy to follow, but it eventually became clear the authors were two priests of the Metrologan’s Brother Order. They had been disguised as peasants and were helping Warsovran’s victorious army to strip everything of value from the ruins of Larmentel. They had also witnessed Warsovran’s weapon being used. Included on the scroll were secondhand descriptions of the first four tests and quite accurate figures on the destruction’s extent. Each test had been at the eighth hour of morning, and every time, a perfect circle had been blasted and scoured by the most intense fire imaginable. Many stones had partly melted or crumbled, and the fire had penetrated to the deepest cellars and tunnels. Not a scrap of wood, food, or even charred bone had survived, but they noted that the fish in a deep ornamental pond, while boiled, were at least whole and uncharred.
“It is our feeling that Warsovran’s Commander Ralzak has a weapon of such potency that no city or army could stand against him,” the report’s minuscule writing concluded.
Total annihilation in a hopeless cause is far less constructive than surrender in the knowledge that Warsovran’s day will pass. Our Order can continue to work in secret until more enlightened times return and—
There was a short pen-slash, as if the writer had had his arm jolted, then the fine writing commenced again.
We have just seen a fifth wall of fire over the city, one reaching right to the city’s outer walls. It burst from the sky at the eighth hour in the form of a torus about a half mile above the center of Larmentel, spilling fire down the center to blast all before it, then rolling back into the sky and down its own center again. It covered a radius from the center to the outer walls in the time one needs to draw a deep breath, and made a sound like a continuous peal of thunder. The degree of annihilation was the same as before on the ground. Make what you will of this ghastly nightmare. We shall release an auton bird with this message and send more news as we are able.
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 6