Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  Suldervar sat uneasily. Laron was young, highly educated, a spy, and very strange. The possibility that he might also be important had Suldervar puzzled. He was, after all, a youth of about fourteen, with acne, and a beard pasted onto his face.

  “So, what of Silverdeath?” Suldervar inquired.

  “We failed,” Laron said tersely.

  “But is there hope?” asked Suldervar.

  “Perhaps. We reached Larmentel. The place where the fire-circles burned from is a powerful, disturbed artifact, but Silverdeath was not there.”

  “Our employer must pay it a visit someday. What else?”

  “Warsovran has wiped out the new Vidarian colonies, along with Regent Banzalo’s fleet. I saw the aftermath with my own eyes. Regent Banzalo is also dead.”

  “I have heard about the colonies. The deepwater trader Greenfoam crossed our path on the open sea after calling on them. Warsovran’s squadron seems to be working its way south.”

  “A few Vidarians are left on Helion,” Laron pointed out. “They should be warned. The surviving Metrologan priestesses are on Helion, too.”

  “I cannot take this ship all the way there. I have orders to return to our masters with either Silverdeath or your report of it.”

  “Where?”

  “Our masters do not like to be noticed.”

  “Druskarl wishes to transfer to the Rashih-Harlif, is this permitted?” asked Laron. “We have discussed it, and he has my leave if you can take him.”

  “Why not? The ship is large, there is room.”

  “And Ninth. Can she go, too?”

  “Ninth? The girl who is—How is it said? Like a cage with the canary missing?”

  “She has been through a lot. It has made her somewhat withdrawn. I have patrons in Vindic; they can care for her, and place her in suitable work. It will be no trouble for you.”

  “No trouble, no trouble at all,” replied Suldervar.

  “Then, that is settled. I shall take the Shadowmoon to Helion and warn them.”

  They returned to the deck. Ninth stood listening with a serene and uncomprehending expression as Laron and Druskarl spoke.

  “Will you not come to Vindic as well?” asked Druskarl. “The Greenfoam will warn Helion about Warsovran’s attacks long before you get there.”

  “I gave my word to Terikel, I must return to Helion.”

  “But—”

  “It is a matter of chivalry, it has nothing to do with logic. She is a woman in need, and I made her a promise. That is the end of it.”

  “The more I hear of this chivalry business, the less contact I want with it,” said Druskarl, unsure of whether a smile or frown was more appropriate.

  “When I will see you again?” asked Ninth.

  “Druskarl will take you to Vindic, where an associate of mine will arrange for you to be looked after.”

  “That is no answer.”

  “Vindic is close to Helion; it is only twenty days away if the winds are fair.”

  “That is no answer, either.”

  “Ninth, I am a vampyre. I am dead, dangerous, and vicious, and my eating habits are revolting at best. I can only ever be a visitor in your life, girl, but visit I certainly shall.”

  This seemed to satisfy Ninth. “Nice,” she responded.

  “Yes, very nice. Vindic is a big, strong, prosperous kingdom, where you can live safe from Warsovran and his marines.”

  Ninth was below as the Rashih-Harlif got under way. It had twice the speed of the Shadowmoon, even with only a moderate amount of canvas in use. Before long, both the Shadowmoon and the Torean coastline were out of sight. Druskarl and Suldervar stood in silence beside the steersmen for a long time, as if nervous that Laron could hear them if they were still in sight.

  “It is good to serve Your Highness again,” Suldervar finally said, bowing deeply as he spoke.

  “I appreciate the risk you took, my friend.”

  “I must counsel against a return to Vindic. The regent is not popular, and with the crown prince dead you would find yourself at the head of a restoration rebellion whether you wanted it or not. Your enemies know it as well as your allies, and—”

  “Please, please, I accept your counsel. I never intended to go there anyway.”

  “Ah! Yet you wished the strange youth, Laron, to believe that?”

  “I wish everyone to believe that.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “I shall take her with me, to Diomeda.”

  “Diomeda? But, but Warsovran reigns there.”

  “And Warsovran has what I must have. You will change course and take us straight to Diomeda, then sail north to Bantak, on the Valestran border. Do you still have those two spies from my wife’s faction aboard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look after them. Those two, Silverdeath, yourself, and one small, isolated island are vital to my plans.”

  Life in Diomeda had changed little since Warsovran’s fleet had sailed out of the east and taken the port city in a single day. His fleet was the largest in the world, and he had been wise in deciding to use it to gain a new home while the fleet was still at full strength. Dawnlight, King Rakera’s palace, was holding out, however. Built, manned, and provisioned to withstand a siege of up to a year, and being on an island in the middle of a bay, it had resisted two direct assaults using marines and scaling ladders, and another by the massed catapults and ballistae of the entire fleet. Warsovran’s answer to this was to blockade Dawnlight while building five massive floating catapults that could fling quarter-ton rocks from beyond the range of the defenders’ weapons. This was taking time, but Warsovran had time on his side.

  Diomeda was in the middle of a wide desert, and Warsovran’s fleet controlled the coast. Thus the allies of the besieged king had to assemble and equip an army to march overland, carrying all their water and supplies. Not only was this taking a lot of time, it would provide no tangible benefits. The invaders from Torea were not preventing the passage of trading ships, and had actually reduced Diomedan customs charges, levies, and taxes by fifty percent. This was very good for trade. By sending part of his fleet back to Torea to mine and defend its melted gold and silver, Warsovran had also gained control of more wealth than any single kingdom on Acrema. He could thus afford to be generous to his newly conquered subjects and his neighbors.

  The emperor’s mansion-turned-palace was on a hill near the shore, and had been carefully chosen by Admiral Forteron. The mansion’s balconies and towers commanded an excellent view of the harbor, city, and surrounding desert. Were there to be a massive invasion from the desert, Warsovran could be on his flagship within minutes. Were his fleet to be destroyed, he could quickly flee into the desert with several squads of his newly formed mounted lancers.

  What did appear out of the east one evening was not an enemy fleet, but a messenger auton in the form of an albatross enmeshed in a fine web of energies. Einsel was waiting on the highest of the mansion’s towers as the auton approached. It banked, drooped its tail and raised its wings, then landed at the center of a circle of flickering orange the sorcerer had cast only moments earlier. The circle began to contract. The combination of bird and casting stood quite still. Einsel’s casting merged with the feet of the bird, and slowly began to draw the auton away. After perhaps two minutes the exhausted bird shook its head and looked around in alarm. With a squark it lurched into motion, launching itself over the edge of the tower, then soaring away over the rooftops of Diomeda. Where it had been standing was a tiny figure of glowing energies.

  Einsel reached out and cupped his hands beneath the figure’s feet. It dwindled to a single ball of orange that hovered just above his hands. Einsel straightened and made for the tower’s steps, and before long he was standing before Warsovran.

  “From Admiral Narady, Your Majesty,” said the little man.

  “You have checked the transit name?”

  “Yes. It is a match.”

  Warsovran nodded, and at this cue Einsel bent
over and spread his cupped hands. The ball of etheric energies resolved itself back into a tiny figure.

  “‘Most Esteemed and Supreme Emperor, please accept this despatch from your servant, Grand Admiral Harric Narady,’” it declared, with a bow toward Warsovran.

  “‘It is my pleasure to report that the battle fleet of the Vidarian privateer chieftain Banzalo has been annihilated. Thirty-one of his ships have been captured, the rest have been sunk. The chieftain Banzalo is presumed to have died in the fighting. All Vidarian hamlets on the coast of your continent of Torea have been razed. In addition, fourteen illegal settlements of privateers from other kingdoms have been conquered, and twelve thousand prisoners of able body have been taken as slaves. About half are mixed privateers and the rest are Vidarians. These slaves have been set to work in the extraction of gold, silver, and other metals of worth from the ruined cities of Torea. One hundred and twenty privateer vessels have been captured either singly or in small squadrons so far, and your fleet has reached as far south as Wynsel’s ruins. Losses have been confined to just five vessels, and these have been made up many times over by those which have been captured. It is my intention, subject to subsequent correction by your Esteemed and overwhelmingly wise Self, to divide the fleet, with one-third returning to Gironal in order to mine its riches by means of our slaves, while the rest of the warships circle Torea and sweep away all other privateers who would plunder the wealth that is rightfully yours. I am yours in service and soul, Grand Admiral Narady.’”

  Einsel lowered his hands again, and this time the little figure dissolved into them and was gone. The sorcerer straightened, then bowed to Warsovran.

  “The Grand Admiral is trying hard to win back my favor,” Warsovran observed. “Glorious victories, untold plunder, a continent taken, and yet he is sensible enough to confess that Banzalo’s fate has not yet been confirmed.”

  “Is there a problem, Your Majesty?” Einsel asked, safe in the knowledge that here was a political situation in which he had no stake at all.

  “No problem. Narady uses the best of my ships and elite marines to great effect, and is as loyal as a hunting spaniel. Forteron is at his best against bad odds, but is inclined to go too far without a firm hand on his leash. That is why I sent him against Diomeda, but that is also why I keep him close to me. Narady can be trusted to do as I say, especially after I elevate him to prince regent of the Torean coast and award him one ounce of gold for every twenty recovered.”

  “That is generous of you,” muttered Einsel, who had never been paid particularly well, for a courtier.

  “It is sufficient: neither too much nor too little. Forteron has the illusion of being my favorite and hero, so he is no problem, either. That leaves the matter of what to do with Griffa? The man is a fearsome warrior, but limited if he has to command more than twenty ships. Some say the problem is that he cannot count beyond twenty.”

  “That is indeed the total of his toes and fingers,” Einsel pointed out with a shrug.

  “Nice joke, but this particular joke wants to become Supreme Admiral,” sighed Warsovran.

  “Such men often consider themselves better than their monarchs.”

  “True. They need to be beaten in a show of power, and I have just such a show planned, now that Banzalo has been plucked from the game’s board. Admiral Griffa is to command a small squadron of my fastest ships and train a new millenary of marines. It will be called the Hellfire Squadron, and it shall be used to raid distant ports and harass the shipping of my enemies.”

  “Griffa will see that as a slight.”

  “Not if he is also the designated escort for Silverdeath whenever it is used.”

  Einsel gasped, and was unable to hide the dismay on his face.

  “Your Majesty, you cannot be serious. The first use of Silverdeath annihilated a whole continent, and even now the climate here in Diomeda has become cooler from all the dust and smoke from Torea blocking the sun. You cannot—”

  “I shall!” Warsovran said firmly. Einsel knew better than to protest further. “Griffa will escort me to Helion, where he shall see the power of Silverdeath for himself. Certain ambassadors and envoys to Diomeda from Acrema’s other kingdoms will be aboard my ship as well, and I think everybody will be very impressed. Griffa will be flattered to be known as the escort of Silverdeath, yet he will be overawed, too.”

  “And after Helion, there will be no more use of Silverdeath?” Einsel asked hopefully.

  “Lessons always need to be repeated, Einsel. Now, cast a messenger auton for me to speak into. Narady will be wondering how I reacted to his news.”

  Across the city, two women were lying on cushions on a balcony and fanning themselves in the evening heat. Sairet was a teacher in the Guild of Dancers, but although she was held in high regard, she had never prospered. For the year past she had been teaching the Diomedan version of windrel belly dancing to a rich client named Lady Wensomer. Wensomer was a Sargolan noble who had arrived on a coastal trader from Palion, bought a villa, hired servants, then enlisted Sairet’s services to learn dancing. One rumor had it that she was an exiled princess. Another was that she was the daughter of a rich merchant, sent out of reach of some unsuitable suitor.

  Every morning Sairet would arrive at dawn, drag her rich and slightly overweight client out of bed, endure a tirade of pleas, curses, and abuse as she forced Wensomer to wake up and get dressed, then spend the morning teaching her dancing technique, steps, and music. At noon the steward would pay Sairet, and she would return home to her other students. Wensomer paid well, and seemed to do little more than lie about eating and reading when not engaged in her dancing lessons. In the evening Wensomer had another personal lesson, so that after a year of such intense tutoring she had become quite an accomplished dancer.

  “I like the darkness, it makes this drab city more exotic,” said Wensomer, gazing at the rooftops between the marble supports of the balcony’s railing.

  “It does seem different at night,” Sairet agreed. “Now it’s all shadows, soft outlines, and flickering lights.”

  “Like people,” said Wensomer. “The more you see of them, the more boring they become.”

  “Not like you,” replied Sairet, shaking her head. “The more I see of you, the more I wonder. You are not really the daughter of a merchant.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have no interest in the trivia that daughters of merchants find amusing and distracting.”

  “How should you know, dancemistress?”

  “I have taught a great number of them. I have a real one on my register book at present. She has to be careful not to bump her head, else the hollow, booming sound is a source of embarrassment.” Wensomer tapped at her own head.

  “It sounds full. Am I failing a test?”

  “Only one of many. I have watched you over the year past. You read at least three languages and speak another two.”

  “Very useful for a merchant’s daughter.”

  “True, but still, I wonder.”

  Sairet stood, raised her arms into the air and began to sway her hips from side to side while her upper torso remained perfectly still.

  “Why do you really want to learn how to dance?”

  “Dancing is a talent. Rich, important suitors take more of an interest in girls who can do more than just look decorative.”

  “You are already rich,” Sairet began, but Wensomer also stood up, and peered out over the bay that was Diomeda’s harbor.

  A squadron of Warsovran’s ships was under way, heading for the open sea. Miral was not up, but a bright display of etheric fire was lighting up the sky.

  “Eighteen, nineteen, twenty ships. Six of them dash galleys, and fourteen battle galleys. Now, where might Warsovran be going?”

  “How do you know Warsovran is with the squadron?”

  “The really big galley is his flagship.”

  “You know ships well for a merchant’s daughter.”

  “I know ships well because I am
a merchant’s daughter.” She turned away from the harbor, leaning with her elbows on the balcony rail and trying to look relaxed. Sairet’s experience allowed her to see the tension nevertheless. “This is a good time to end the lesson,” Wensomer declared.

  “Whatever you say,” agreed Sairet. “You are beginning to tire, and will learn little more tonight.”

  They descended the stairs then sidled through the curtain of hanging beadwork and gauze drapery onto the long, locksquare-pattern floor of the passageway.

  “What now, most excellent torturer?” asked Wensomer as they walked. “Do you go straight to bed once you are home, to build up your strength, all the better to torment me tomorrow?”

  “Not at all, I have another pupil. Her name is Senterri.”

  “The brunette girl? The one with the two handmaids?”

  “Yes. She is a rather spoiled young Sargolan.”

  “A Sargolan? That empire is half a thousand miles down the coast. Your fame has indeed spread.”

  “Not entirely. Her family has a trading house here, Aramadea Silks, Spices, and Fine Wines. Rather than sit about in idle splendor while her father arranges an advantageous marriage into another trading house, she learns dancing.”

  “And do you also torment her with such dedication?”

  “I merely teach, whether my pupils choose to call it torment is their own business. Senterri is … lacking in focus. She seems to be learning dance because it is a daring thing for a merchant’s daughter to do.”

  “But it is. I’m a merchant’s daughter, I should know.”

  “You have the drive of a war galley. Senterri is just a silly girl. Still, she is a silly girl who pays for dancing lessons, so I am not going to complain.”

  The steward was waiting at the door, and with him was a eunuch carrying a purse on a velvet cushion. He began to count out Sairet’s fee as the women bowed to each other.