“We come from the Placidian Ocean, yet you ask us about slavers in the desert?” asked the master.
“Well, there’s two thousand gold pagols on offer, and questions are free. I ask everyone.”
“It is very honorable of the Toreans to offer so much for the safety of a foreign princess.”
“Not quite, excellent and esteemed master. The emperor of Sargol thinks the Toreans are lying, and that they have her as a prisoner. He has threatened to declare war.”
“Ah, now I see. Were I a Torean, I should be worried.”
Druskarl and Ninth were not known to anyone in Diomeda. Both spoke the language, and the eunuch had even exchanged some of his Torean gold for Vindican gold and silver during the voyage. Both were now dressed in Vindican robes, and would be unlikely to attract any attention.
“Remember, sail north to Bantak and wait,” Druskarl said to Suldervar as they docked.
“For how long, Your Highness?”
“Three months. Say that you are Vindic’s contribution to Bantak’s defense against privateers. Nobody will question an offer like that.”
The Inspector of Travel registered Ninth and Druskarl as a servant girl and a eunuch returning from Vindic, and once they had cleared the docks they were as anonymous as anyone could be in a big city. Ninth was uneasy in the jostling crowds, having only ever seen Port Wayside, and even that was from within her oracle sphere. Diomeda was hundreds of times bigger. A wide river, the Leir, flowed to Diomeda across the desert from the lush, wine-growing mountains of the inland, and barges of jars and barrels floated down to be unloaded at Diomeda’s wharves. The city was also midway on a desert coast, making it the only refuge for ships sailing between Acrema’s northeast and southeast kingdoms.
“Where we staying?” Ninth asked nervously, overwhelmed by the crowds, the smell, and the noise.
“I know a kind lady named Sairet, who is on hard times. We go to her first.”
Sairet was known to teach poor girls dancing in the marketplace during the afternoons. This she did for free. They arrived just as she was finishing for the day, and Ninth had the impression of a thin, attractive woman in her mid-forties. Even though she was tired, she still somehow radiated command and charisma.
“Well met, Mad Queen,” said Druskarl, going up to Sairet as she washed the dust from her legs, and giving a formal and elaborate bow.
“Druskarl! Most welcome, eunuch king,” responded Sairet, with a different but no less formal bow and flourish.
Druskarl bought them date cakes at a stall, and they left the market with Druskarl and Sairet exchanging stories. A considerable number of Druskarl’s stories were heavily edited.
“So, I find myself with this quite sweet but, ah, limited girl,” he concluded, after recounting a quite untrue story of how Ninth had lost her memory after nearly drowning.
“Ah, so you want me to take her as an apprentice …” Sairet said, with a little genuine surprise.
“I can pay well.”
“Even better.”
“She means a lot to me. If she can be looked after for two years while she recovers her wits and learns a skill, Madame Sairet, I could not ask for more.”
“Well, she is fit and attractive. What do you have to say for yourself, girl?”
“Ah, I was on a small ship, and I nearly drowned,” said Ninth. She tapped at the scarf on her head. “My forehead has—”
“Enough, leave that scarf on your head if you have a scar. I dislike scars. So, you had an accident and lost your memory. Druskarl decided that you were worthy of rescue, so here you are. What can you do?”
“Do?”
“What can you do? Cook? Wash clothes? Clean out a grate? Buy and barter in the market without getting robbed?”
“She learns quickly,” said Druskarl.
“I can learn mostly anything, if shown,” said Ninth.
“I see,” Sairet said slowly, frowning as she thought, then brightening. “Druskarl, what can you pay?”
“Torean gold,” he said, reaching into his purse and drawing out some coins.
Sairet’s eyes widened. “Ah, indeed. All fees in advance. Would that all of my clients were so considerate. Are you sure she is not a fugitive or runaway?”
“No more than any of us, my dear Mad Queen.”
“As bad as that, King Eunuch?”
They reached the building where Sairet lived. Now it was clear that Druskarl was about to leave, and Ninth had become quite fearful.
“Are you going?” she asked. “Shall I never see you again? Like Laron?”
Druskarl laughed. “I am going to find somewhere to sleep. You are to sleep here, in your new home.”
“Will you visit?”
“Yes, starting tomorrow. Meantime you must learn dancing, and other things that may bring you advantage.”
“Yes, and in time I’ll marry you off to a handsome merchant,” added Sairet. “You will dance in the marketplace, wearing the robes that he wishes to sell. Druskarl, until tomorrow.”
“My dear Sairet, the night will drag slowly.”
“Good-bye.”
Sairet lived a mile from Wensomer, on the roof of a grain warehouse. She rented the whole of the flat roof, which she had covered with frames and tenting, and used as a dance space. The dancemistress slept in one corner, with her chests of costumes and materials, cushions, mirrors, makeup, and ornaments. The autons, cats, and dogs that guarded the grain kept her space secure as well. Sairet worked a rope and lowered a hinged ladder. They climbed it to the roof.
“Well, there seems to be no language problem,” Sairet chatted as she prepared a place for Ninth to sleep. “Is that little bag all that you have?”
“Yes,” replied Ninth.
“Ah, poor waif. First we must get you sewing and dressed like a Diomedan. You can tell me about yourself as we work. Later we shall take you through some dance steps.”
Warsovran’s squadron soon returned from the conquest of Helion, bearing news of the fire-circle’s use. Druskarl listened to the tales of the Torean sailors and marines in the taverns that evening, grimly noting every detail in his mind. From what he remembered, Helion was longer than it was broad, and would require four or five fire-circles to blanket it completely. That would mean Silverdeath might not fall to the ground until one hundred twenty days after the first detonation.
That was worth remembering, yet there was a mystery amid all the descriptions of the incredible blast of light, heat, and sound. Warsovran had apparently executed a Metrologan priest on the island, then brought him back to life with Silverdeath. Druskarl knew that to be within Silverdeath’s abilities. The odd thing was that the priest’s name had been Laron. Laron was a Scalticarian name, and Helion was a Torean outpost. Back in his hostelry, Druskarl chalked dates and sailing times on the stone floor. The Shadowmoon could have reached Helion no more than a day or two before Warsovran arrived. It seemed unlikely that Laron could have been ordained in such a short time, yet there was no doubt about the name. Whoever it was had been subsequently imprisoned on Helion, yet that person’s identity remained tantalizingly out of reach.
Druskarl decided not to make any decisions until the matter had been clarified. He lay down on his narrow bunk and closed his eyes. There was still a chance for him. He knew where Silverdeath was to be found, and nobody suspected his true intentions.
“Are any of us truly not traitors, deep in our hearts?” he asked himself out loud.
Elsewhere in the city, several other men were not sleeping quite so comfortably. One of the guards who had sold Senterri to the nomad slavers had been unfortunate enough to return to the city, and had been recognized. Forteron paced around the hearth beneath the contract guardsman, who was tied spread-eagled to a wheel, and facing down at a bed of live coals. The hissing of his perspiration hitting the coals was almost continuous.
“At least part of your story can be verified,” Forteron said, reading from a scroll. “We did find a burned-out wagon, dead horse, a
nd three mutilated bodies about a day’s journey west of the city. It was made to look like a nomad attack, but nomads would not have killed the horse, neither would they have left nomad arrows in the dead bodies. Nomads tend to be rather frugal with iron arrowheads and horses. Next, you return. You tell your friends that you have just spent a month escorting three dancers all the way to Lacer. Your friends turn you over to the authorities, for a five-hundred-gold pagol reward. My sources tell me that you spent half of your time away in Lacer, spending a lot of money.”
By now the guard was uninterested in anything other than stopping the pain.
“We killed guide, drivers … sold girls,” he wheezed.
The guard had repeated this sentence several hundred times over the previous four days. It was either true, or he was very, very brave in the face of torture.
“We gathered as much from the wreckage of the wagon,” said Forteron. “Who did you sell them to?”
“Nomads.”
“Palver Windstriker, I am a very powerful man. I am powerful because I pay that most excellent hooded fellow who is slowly lowering you face-first toward those coals. Now, as far as you are concerned, that makes me the most powerful man in Acrema, but that is not really so. The most powerful man in the Acrema is the man commanding the most powerful army in Acrema, and that man is the father of the girl that you abducted and sold into slavery, and probably raped.”
“Not so … . Pale virgins worth … triple.”
“Who were the nomads?”
“Leir Valley windrels.”
“What names?”
“Didn’t say names.”
“Where were they going?”
“West, Zalmek markets.”
“No white dancing girls were sold in the Zalmek markets over the month just past. I say you ravished the three girls, then buried them in the desert.”
“No.”
Forteron broke off his pacing and made for the door, saying, “If he dies, you will take his place,” to the torturer as he passed him.
The surveillance marshal was waiting outside.
“Still no confession, Admiral?” he asked.
“I suspect that what he is saying really is his confession. The girls were certainly sold to nomads, and their high value in the northern kingdoms is beyond question. The trouble is that we are at war with the northern kingdoms. That will tend to hamper inquiries.”
“Besides, the northern kingdoms will be keen to add the Sargolan empire to their Alliance. That will make them even less cooperative.”
Forteron rubbed his face in his hands for a moment, as if he wanted to shut out the world. There was a truth looming before him, and a quite unpalatable one.
“Senterri is either dead or out of our reach, Marshal. In either case, I have nothing to offer the Sargolan emperor except what is left of that wretch in there—and the names of his companions in betrayal. Summon the Sargolan ambassador, have him witness the guardsman run through his confession again, and have him list his companions. After that, the guardsman’s head is to be struck off, pickled, and sent to the Sargolan capital, with the ambassador, aboard a dash galley. It may not be enough for the emperor, but he shall have it whether he wants it or not.”
“I fear that the emperor wants his daughter or blood, Admiral.”
“Well, drain the guard’s blood and send that to him as well.”
The Shadowmoon limped into the harbor of Diomeda under the pennant of a Sargolan coastal trader. It was riding low in the water, and the hasty repairs to the damage to the rigging were coming apart.
“I’m still unsure of how you convinced me to sail here first,” Terikel muttered as she leaned over the rail to be sick one last time.
“The Shadowmoon is leaking almost as fast as we can pump the water out, and Diomeda is the closest port to Helion,” replied Laron. “As arguments go, I’ve heard worse.”
Terikel wiped her mouth, adjusted the shadeframes over her eyes, and pulled her shawl forward to cover more of her face. Of all the cities in the world, this was the most dangerous one she could have been compelled to visit. After helping the pilot on board, the deckswain bartered convincingly for a lower landing fee because of storm damage, but the full fee was still charged.
“Have you been here before?” the pilot asked as they navigated between the ranks of traders, galleys, coasters, and river barges.
“Our first trip,” replied the deckswain as he took charge of the steering pole again.
“Ah, well, then, note that little island there, the one with the palace built on it. That is the former king’s palace. It is still under siege, so keep your distance from it if you have no interest in being rammed by one of the dash galleys.”
“What threat could a tiny trader like this be to the mighty Warsovran’s fleet?” the deckswain protested. “We are but honest seamen.”
“So keep your distance. Ah, yes, and do not be tempted to swim in the harbor, either. Agents have been caught swimming out to the island by Miral’s light. Now scraps from the butchers and fishmongers of the city are thrown into the water several times daily to encourage the sharks, and the sharks are feeling very encouraged. By the by, would you have heard anything of a Sargolan princess named Senterri, who was abducted and sold into slavery last month? It was in the desert, to the west of Diomeda. The reward for her return is up to six thousand gold pagols.”
“The desert? We arrive from the other side of the Placidian Ocean and you ask us about an abduction in the desert?”
“Ah, well, questions are free, and six thousand pagols is a lot of gold. Have a prosperous stay in Diomeda.”
Feran joined the deckswain on the quarterdeck as the others dropped anchor and furled the sails. They were over a sandbar, which would support the Shadowmoon once the tide was out. The pilot went amidships to wait for his gigboat.
“Those leaks were bad; we were lucky even to reach Diomeda,” said the deckswain.
“The repairs will cost plenty,” grumbled Feran.
“So? We have plenty. Have you forgotten the Torean gold?”
Laron, Terikel, and Roval went ashore in the pilot’s gigboat, leaving the others to have the Shadowmoon assessed for repairs.
“Sometimes I am tempted to tell the harbormaster just who they are,” said Feran as the gigboat receded in the distance.
The deckswain shrugged. “They could in turn tell him some very entertaining stories about you.”
“Which is why I have little interest in a trip to the harbormaster. Norrieav, as purser would you be so kind as to count out my share of the gold? It should not take long.”
“Aye, whatever you like. Are you planning to impress the Diomedan wenches and raise hell?”
“No, I need money to buy a commission aboard a deepwater trader. I now know enough deepwater navigation to qualify as an officer, and as a former boatmaster and veteran of three voyages across the Placidian Ocean, I should be much in demand.”
The deckswain rubbed his chin. “Ah, well, yes. I’ll be sorry to see you go, as will the others.”
The tide went out, leaving the vessel on the sandbar. The water was pumped out as hired carpenters repaired the rigging. Norrieav inspected the hull, but the leaks were not obvious. As the tide returned, the carpenters packed up and a dockswain waded over. He inspected the hull and gave Norrieav a price and date for careening the barnacles and weed from the hull. He had, however, been quite unable to find any leaks.
By the time the sun was low in the sky the surviving crewmen had gone ashore for a well-earned rest, and Norrieav was planning what else had to be done to get the Shadowmoon fit to reach a Sargolan port. The damage to the rigging had been trivial to repair, once new spars, ropes, carpenters, and the right tools had become available. Two days for careening and a coat of tar, one day for provisioning and loading the sacks, barrels, and jars of a cargo to maintain the guise of a trader, and then they could sail, Norrieav decided. The Shadowmoon could not carry as much as the deepwater traders, but it c
ould fit under bridges and reach inland river ports that were denied to bigger ships. Once Terikel and Roval were gone, the crew technically could earn an honest living as genuine merchant sailors. Obviously, that did not seem likely with Laron as boatmaster, but perhaps Norrieav could buy out the former vampyre’s commission, eventually.
Norrieav began to push at the bellows pump, so that the Shadowmoon would not accumulate too much water now that it was floating again. There was no water. Surprised, Norrieav went below. The leaks had stopped. Completely. He lit a lamp and began an inspection of the hull’s interior. Sure enough, there were dozens of points where the caulking had apparently melted.
Sometime later there was a bump at the side of the vessel, and someone called out to come aboard. It was the voice of a woman. Norrieav crawled out of his small cabin and helped Terikel and Roval to haul the Elder’s contingency sack of gold aboard.
“The Harbor Proclamation Board has Feran signed off,” said the priestess, coming straight to the point.
“Aye, it’s true. He’s set upon becoming an officer on some bigger ship.”
“There’s another line on the board now. Laron has signed off as boatmaster, and named you to take over.”
Norrieav was speechless for a moment. “Just like that? With no fee?”
“He says he has his share of the gold, and he wants nothing more.”
“Boatmaster Norrieav,” Norrieav whispered experimentally. “Boatmaster.”
“And what will you be doing with the Shadowmoon?”
“Honest work, unless dishonest is on offer at a sufficiently tempting rate. I assume that you still want to go to Sargol.”
“Will you take me to Scalticar instead?”
Norrieav whistled. “That is a long trip.”
“I sent my priestesses there with the Metrologan library and archives, so I must join them. With my gold we can begin the Metrologan Order all over again in Scalticar, safely out of reach of Warsovran. Will you take us? I’ll pay the value of a cargo plus another half.”
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 30