Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “She also has been associating with a group of, ah, concerned sorceric masters since Silverdeath was stolen. Apparently she may have found a way to neutralize Silverdeath.”

  Presently Feran came on deck and ordered the running lamps extinguished. Laron offered Velander the use of his cabin while Miral was up, and although Feran insisted that his own cabin was more comfortable and spacious, she declined the latter offer.

  “It’s true, his cabin does have more space and fittings,” Laron said as he packed his few possessions aside to make room for Velander.

  “Maybe so, but I know that he would like me in there as an additional fitting.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I am the only woman aboard.”

  “Terikel has decreed—”

  “That sort of behavior is not to my taste, regardless of the new Elder’s decree on celibacy. It is a bit like your chivalric principals, esteemed Laron. A silly notion, but one that I choose to follow.”

  Far to the east, on Helion, the constable banged on Roval’s cell door and shouted, “Visitor.” Roval got to his feet and straightened his clothing, then rubbed unhappily at the stubble on his scalp. The door opened, and Terikel was admitted.

  “A quarter hour, Learned Elder,” said the constable as he closed the door again.

  “‘Learned Elder’?” asked Roval, folding his arms and frowning. “As in, Elder of the Metrologans?”

  “That is me. I am Learned Terikel.”

  “Indeed. But what about Learned Serionese? The Metrologan Elder whom I suspect had a hand in recommending me for complimentary accommodation in here.”

  “I deeply regret what happened to you, sir—please accept my word on it. As for Serionese, she met with an unfortunate accident. Unfortunate from her point of view, at any rate. My involvement in the accident is between myself and my conscience, and my conscience does what it is told.”

  Roval smiled, unfolded his arms, and gestured to the cell’s stone bunk.

  “But where are my manners?” he said genially. “Learned Terikel, we appear to be very much alike and have a great deal to discuss. Scrape up some straw, have a seat. Would you like some bread and water? It’s reasonably fresh.”

  “Why thank you. Oh, and I brought this.”

  Terikel drew a slice of cake from her cleavage. Roval took a long breath while trying to think of how to respond.

  “Sultana honeycake, my favorite. Thank you for keeping it warm, it’s the only way to eat it.”

  “Really? I shall remember that for next time.”

  Terikel nibbled at Roval’s bread crust while Roval consumed the honeycake in two bites, then licked his fingers.

  “Our mutual friend Laron has told me much about you, and your dedication to our common interests,” said Terikel, breaking the silence.

  “Ah, Laron. Nice boy, but awful table manners. I trained with him in the Special Warrior Service. We have done five missions together. Actually, he did say a little about you after the Shadowmoon reached Port Wayside.”

  “Did he? He told me all about you, too.”

  Roval froze, with a look of alarm on his face. Terikel began to wonder whether she should have worn quite such a knowing expression for that last sentence.

  “He—he what?” snapped Roval. “If it was about that revel in Palion where I was supposed to have laid on the floor with oysters in my nostrils while a belly dancer jumped on my stomach, it was not like that at all. And besides, he was not there. Miral was down at the time, so he was off in some bedchamber, being dead. You should have heard the scream when a young couple blundered in there looking for somewhere to—Are you all right?”

  “Stop it! I put so much effort into being bitter and twisted, and you spoil it all by making me laugh.”

  “Anyway, they were olives, not oysters … . Why should you be bitter and twisted?”

  “Roval … Seriously, life has not been kind to me lately. It is not just losing everyone and everything in Torea. The Elder before myself and Serionese had me do some things that I disliked with some people I despised, all to gather information for the Metrologan cause. When it became known, I had to play the part of a slut, again to protect the Order’s reputation. Laron helped me when I was alone and at my lowest, and he did it with no hope or expectation of anything in return. Now I am Elder. The only company that I allow in my bed is an occasional book, even though I leave the recreational activities of my followers to their own consciences. I also pay my debts. Laron thinks highly of you, so as far as I am concerned, you can do no wrong.”

  “Oh really?” said the embarrassed Roval, rubbing his stubble.

  “Roval, if Laron is your friend, then so am I. What can I do for you? If there is anything that I can do to make things more pleasant in here—within reason—just tell me.”

  Now Roval blushed. Terikel laughed.

  “Ah, a daily visit from a barber to shave my head and face, and a weekly visit from you to keep me informed,” Roval suggested.

  “What about a daily visit from me, to give you a shave and keep you informed?”

  “Oh, Elder, I could not—”

  “Ah, but I have very steady hands, Learned Roval.”

  “Speaking seriously yet again, Elder, we might achieve some good by pooling our knowledge. When I am out of here we can even do some effective work together.”

  “And when you are out of here, I expect to be shown that trick with the olives, Learned Roval. Meantime, I really shall try to visit every day. Same time tomorrow?”

  “I shall be here.”

  Chapter Four

  VOYAGE TO LARMENTEL

  On the fortieth day out, Feran was standing by the handrail at sunset, drinking in the golds, crimsons, vermilions, and ochers that glowed from the clouds, reminding himself that the dust of uncounted millions of people was among those colors. To starboard was the dark, lifeless outline of the Torean coast. He climbed the five steps to the quarterdeck and peered down at the lodestone float, then took a bearing on the setting sun. Picking up an angulant, he took a sighting between Lupan and the horizon, then checked the drop-log figures on the watch’s slate. Finally he relieved the steersman.

  Feran had the meal watch that night, relieving for an hour until Laron took over. As he left his cabin he had seen flashes of orange light leaking past the sliding hatch that opened onto Laron’s tiny quarters. Velander and all the others were below, at dinner.

  Once alone on the quarterdeck, Feran lashed the steering pole and did a quick tour of inspection. All was normal—then suddenly he turned north, staring at a long line of faint lights on the horizon. So, they’re on the move early, he thought, then he began to untie the steering pole. The running lamps of the fleet of distant ships were luminous specks gleaming yellow amid the dark waves. Feran thanked Fortune and Chance that he had been on watch alone when they had come into view, and that they were following the coast at a greater distance. Very gently he steered the Shadowmoon a few points farther southeast. The sails were not trimmed for quite this angle to the wind, but it would have to do. He prayed that nobody would notice the slight change and come on deck to investigate.

  A quarter hour passed, then a half hour. The Shadowmoon was small and broad, but a fleet travels only as fast as its slowest ship, and—amazingly—that ship was apparently slower than the Shadowmoon. Slowly the lights winked out as they dipped below the horizon. Feran knew they were not visible, as the Shadowmoon now burned no running lamps. Being so small, it would be easy prey for virtually any fast privateer that chanced upon it, so Feran had even been using plain, olive-green sails and running a low profile on the lateen mainsail. He estimated there had been at least six dozen ships in the fleet that the Shadowmoon had skirted. He knew they would use the northwest tip of Torea to rendezvous, and while he had steered to miss that danger, he had not known when they would move. Another half hour passed, and more lights winked out.

  A hatch scraped back on its runners and Feran looked down.

>   “Boatmaster?”

  Velander’s voice. Her feet tapped on the steps as she climbed to the little quarterdeck. Feran shot a glance to the horizon where a few lights still twinkled.

  “Look at all those ships!” Velander gasped as she joined Feran. “Sir, there must be six—no, eight, perhaps nine.”

  “Looters from the Ebaros Sea’s ports,” said Feran casually.

  “So many at once?”

  “They are drawn together for strength, though repelled by greed. Small boats like this one are easy prey for them.”

  “Is there a danger, sir?”

  “The Shadowmoon is actually as streamlined as a fish below the waterline, and is surprisingly fast. All part of being a spy ship, really. That convoy travels as fast as the slowest ship, and that ship seems to be a washtub with a sail. We are definitely outrunning them.”

  Velander took a tube from a pouch at her belt, then pulled at either end until it had expanded to four times its initial length. Feran looked more carefully, and noticed that it was four concentric tubes of brass. She took metal caps from both ends, then held it to one eye and pointed it toward the distant ships’ lights.

  “Laron’s farsight—he lent it to me,” she explained.

  “Laron? But I thought you and he, ah, had no time for each other.”

  “True. He adheres to some heresy that Miral’s rings are dust, not solid. He said that with this you can see starlight through them, and lent it to me so that I should see for myself. Thus far, the dust and smoke high in the air have prevented me from getting a clear view, even with this device. It was invented as a toy a few years ago, but the leaders of Torea suppressed the use of it, allowing its use only for nobles and senior military. They didn’t want the lower classes seeing too far, no doubt.”

  Velander continued to study the ships, but seemed to notice nothing that surprised her.

  “The first I ever saw belonged to a Vidarian sealord, and was made from a single tube, as long as my arm,” said Feran. “The image was reversed and inverted, but it brought out great detail in very distant objects.”

  “Laron disguised the version that he built, as container for medical powders—which is always empty. Now it doesn’t matter, like a lot of old Torean laws. Those ships … They look to be long and low, like battle galleys.”

  “Oh, that’s exactly what is intended,” Feran quickly assured her. “The running lamps are attached low on the sides of deepwater traders so they look to be battle galleys. The ruse only works in the dark, but then that is half the day covered, is it not so?”

  “Clever.”

  “Still, they are stronger than us, and that gives me concern. Anything bigger than a scoreboat gives me concern. The pickings are rich in Torea, and nobody likes rivals where gold is concerned. Strong rivals are met with threats, bluster, and displays of force. Rivals our size are sunk.”

  Velander turned away from the horizon, nodding in agreement. Finding the burned-out Silverdeath was only part of their agenda, Laron had told her. Gleaning melted gold from the ruins of the inland cities and towns was another. The river systems of Torea came close to most of the great inland cities, and Banzalo’s miserable but sprawling empire was now the biggest gold mine in the world. If they were fast they would have first choice of the wealth, return to Helion rich, make the Metrologans rich, and remove Silverdeath from Banzalo’s grasp, all with the one voyage. She noted that the distant ships were almost all out of sight now.

  “It’s as if a rich man’s house has suddenly collapsed, killing him and leaving no heirs,” said Feran. “All his wealth is there for the taking.”

  “In their haste to rummage through the ruins, nobody is stopping to ask what brought down the house in the first place,” replied Velander. “Which of his neighbors’ houses will be next?”

  Feran did not wish to continue that line of thought, and he lapsed into silence. Velander turned back to the sea and watched the distant ships until the last light winked out.

  Laron was still in his cabin when he heard a squeal of outrage, followed by a sharp slap. As he came out on deck to take the watch he was passed by Feran, who was hastening below. Velander was looking back along the Shadowmoon’s phosphorescent wake, to where the planet Caspelli was blazing brilliant just above the horizon. Laron took a bearing from the stars, using the angulant, then checked the rigging and the angle at which the steering pole had been lashed by Feran. Velander told him about the fleet.

  “Could I take the angulant readings?” asked Velander as Laron lifted the instrument from its rack.

  “Of course, Worthy Sister,” Laron replied pleasantly, offering the angulant to her.

  “Feran offered to teach me some of the finer points of navigation just now,” she continued. “Very quickly his hands began navigating their way under my clothing.”

  “That should have been no surprise. Well, my cabin is now vacant.”

  “Your bed is never warm.”

  “Ah, but that is because I am cool in times of danger, and these are dangerous times. Have you finished with my farsight?”

  “Yes, but I saw no stars through the rings,” she said, returning it to him and being careful not to touch his skin.

  “The truth is always there, should you wish to try again later. People can win arguments to the contrary, but truth is like me: unkillable.”

  The Shadowmoon landed on the north coast of Torea two days later, at the ruins of Fontarian. The shallow draft of the little schooner allowed it to go in quite close before the gigboat had to be launched. Fused sand crunched and splintered under the thick leather soles of their boots, but there were other footprints there already. There was also evidence of digging around some of the larger public buildings and mansions. Not a single plant grew, and there were no insects at all, yet the river that emptied into the harbor provided clear, clean water.

  “Already the looters have been here,” Feran concluded as he emerged from a roughly dug trench with a scrap of broken metal.

  “Those who dug the trench, or us?” Velander asked.

  “This is a piece of Cyronese ax-blade, probably from a makeshift hoe. You can tell by the shallow scalloping just back from the edge. The Cyronese did not have their homeland burned, however. The gold in these ruins is all that we have left; we have a right to it.”

  “Ah, so you are Torean-born, sir?” asked Laron.

  “Just Torean,” replied Feran.

  Velander gave a slight sneer and tossed a stone into the trench. “Wherever you come from, you talk like Banzalo,” she said.

  Feran put the fragment of ax in a pouch and dusted his hands. “So, you side with the looters?”

  “No, I merely point out that Torea is ruled by anarchy. We can keep what we find if we are able to defend it. All the seafaring kingdoms of Lemtas, Acrema, Scalticar, and Armaria will soon join the lucky merchant ship whose crew has been digging here. They will bring marines and battle galleys as well as slaves to dig, and there will be fighting. Nothing is as sure as that. Peace will only come to Torea when everything of value has been stripped.”

  They began walking back over the fused sand to the water’s edge, where the gigboat was beached. Migratory seabirds were feasting on the body of something, fighting noisily over the putrid scraps. Other than that there was only silence and stillness.

  “What is that thing?” asked Laron, oblivious to the smell.

  “Dead,” replied Velander.

  “It has four flippers, and a neck longer than the Shadowmoon.”

  “Is it Silverdeath?” asked Feran.

  “No, sir, but—”

  “Then let’s get back to the boat. There are looter ships only hours behind us.”

  “Another hour, that’s all,” Laron pleaded.

  Laron took measurements of the thickness of melting in the sand, and the degree to which various metals had been affected. The other crewmen foraged for scraps of gold and silver spurned by the Cyronese looters, who had been after better pickings. Finall
y Feran gave Laron the choice of sailing on or being left behind. With curious and unexplained reluctance, Laron returned to the boat with them. More than a third of the voyage still lay ahead as they began skirting the coast of the dead continent.

  “Expecting to meet someone?” asked Druskarl.

  “Expecting a delivery of livestock, actually,” admitted Laron.

  “I wish you would not use that word.”

  “Why?”

  “Baa.”

  “Oh, very well, point taken.”

  “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” asked Druskarl as Laron measured out a few drops of potion into a mug of wine.

  The sun was long down, and they were alone on the quarterdeck. Atmospheric dust from the fire-circles was scattering Miral’s light to give the night sky the semblance of a vast, green dome.

  “You will sleep for an hour, no more.”

  “But for what purpose?”

  “For the advancement of knowledge, to enhance the study of natural philosophies, to push back the dark frontiers of ignorance—”

  “To do something unspeakably stupid and dangerous.”

  “Not dangerous, just … difficult.”

  “Why not do it yourself?”

  “The subject has to be alive.”

  “And is this subject liable to be alive at the end of an hour?” demanded Druskarl, tapping his own chest.

  “You have my word upon it.”

  “That fails to inspire confidence.”

  “Druskarl, Druskarl, what I propose is a little exercise in the transference of souls. In time I might be able to do the same with your own soul.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I could very well transfer your soul into a body whose balls are still attached.”

  Druskarl thought about this for a moment, then held out his hand for the mug. He drained it with one swallow, settled back against the backboard, and quickly drifted into oblivion. Laron took out the oracle frame and placed it on the eunuch’s shaven head. It sat loose as the vampyre pressed Ninth’s sphere into the grasp of the three open claws. He spoke a casting, then clasped the double handful of luminous nothingness over frame and head. All at once the claws snapped shut, and the arms of the frame began to merge with Druskarl’s skull. The eunuch stirred and opened his eyes.