Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “Aye, agreed,” said Norrieav without hesitation, impressed by the offer.

  “When will the repairs be done?”

  “Except for the careening, they’re finished.”

  “But what about the hull? All those leaks?”

  “I’ve inspected the hull in greater detail than was possible at sea. My theory is that Laron caused those leaks with small, subtle castings, then resealed them just as we docked.”

  For some moments Terikel was inarticulate with rage. Pressure seemed to be building up behind her face. Finally the explosion came.

  “The little bugger!” she cried. “I’ll have his scrawny little balls on a silver platter!”

  “I’ll settle for pickled mutton and ship’s biscuit,” replied Norrieav.

  “The ratty little worm! Damn him to every level of the hells within. Roval, fetch the two crewmen. We leave now. Boatmaster, what more do we need to sail?”

  “We only need provisions.”

  “Damn provisions! Sargol is just days south and I bought a basket of bread, wine, and smoked sausage at the market. That will keep the five of us alive.”

  “But—”

  “I insist! I am a Metrologan priestess in a city controlled by Warsovran, and I have enough gold in this sack to buy a deepwater trader outright. Thus I am feeling exceedingly vulnerable, Norrieav, and I wish to be away from here.”

  “Nobody knows about the gold.”

  “Feran knows.”

  “He would never tell a soul.”

  “Indulge my suspicions. Remember, you shall earn half again as much as an honest cargo to Scalticar. What do you say?”

  Norrieav shrugged and spread his hands. “What else but, ‘Welcome aboard.’”

  Roval was gone for about a quarter hour before the sound of distant singing came floating across the water.

  “‘Drink ter the sbip, lubbers,

  Drink ter the crew,

  Drink, drink drink.

  Drink up the sky,

  Drink the ocean so blue,

  Drink, drink, drink.’”

  “That sounds like my crew,” said Norrieav. “Ah, they don’t write songs like that anymore.”

  “Let me guess—it’s about drinking,” said Terikel.

  “You’re sharp as a blade, Worthy Elder.”

  “When will they be fit to sail?”

  “Who knows, but we don’t need them yet.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “It’s common practice. There’s hardly a shipmaster on the Placidian as does not recruit sailors by getting them blind drunk and having them carried aboard.”

  “Very well, but Roval will want to return to Diomeda in the scoreboat. Unfinished business, apparently—oh, and this is your commission and deed of ownership.”

  She handed Norrieav two scrolls. Within a single hour they were at sea with the sails up and heading south. Hazlok and D’Atro were belowdecks and fast asleep, Norrieav was steering, and Terikel was counting the gold yet again.

  Chapter Six

  VOYAGE TO NORTH SCALTICAR

  An hour after Miral had set behind the hills that ringed the plain on which Diomeda was built, Feran walked to the Amberstone tavern.

  He sat by himself, savoring being alone as much as the smell and taste of the food after more than a week of soggy ship’s biscuit and an occasional fish. The floor was steady beneath his feet, the timbers did not creak, and the only orders he had to give were for his meal. The seagrass mats that made two of the walls had been rolled up to admit the evening breeze, and lissome Vindican maids in plain but elegant orange sarelles glided among the tables with trays of food and drink. He bought a goblet of wine and drank it slowly.

  He had a lot to think about. He had been to the heart of a dead continent, and discovered that the most hideous weapon imaginable was again in the hands of a clever maniac. He also had discovered that Laron was mortal again, and was thus weak in body.

  Someone loomed over his table. “There sits a man whose mind is filled with dead cities of glass, and fleets of masts without ships.”

  Feran looked up to see Druskarl standing before him. “Actually, it wasn’t, but sit down anyway,” he replied, gesturing to a square wicker stool.

  “So, you’re alive.”

  “And you are not on Helion.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “Very astute.”

  “Is Ninth well?”

  “Never better, safe and sound, and placed in honest work. Word is that Laron was executed as a Metrologan priest on Helion, then brought to life by Silverdeath.”

  “Indeed.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I saw it all, but at a distance. Silverdeath needs a healthy host in order to function. It cured Laron of death itself.”

  “Clever. It kills continents, then cures death. I don’t suppose it could bring Torea back?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Why Laron? Did Warsovran know that he was a vampyre?”

  “No. He was merely found wearing a Metrologan ring. Warsovran wanted someone for a public execution, and nobody else was to hand.”

  “So in the confusion nobody bothered to check his credentials?”

  “Nothing like a war to cause confusion. Warsovran axed him, not knowing the little wretch was already dead and that wounds mean nothing to him. Silverdeath was then put on him, and it accepted him as a host. After Warsovran launched Silverdeath to cast its fire-circles, Laron was left with no wound, and able to stand and speak. Nobody but me noticed that he was now awake although Miral had just set, however. Silverdeath had brought him back to life. He has warm blood, may be awake whenever he pleases, and, alas for him, has a tenth of his former strength.”

  Druskarl leaned back and folded his arms, thinking over the gaps Feran’s story had just filled. Things were suddenly looking promising.

  “How did you escape?” the eunuch asked.

  “I am a good swimmer.”

  “And presumably you swam to where the Shadowmoon had been sunk just as soon as the sun was down and the tide was favorable. Who was with you?”

  “Norrieav, Hazlok, and D’Atro survived. Heinder and Martok were killed when Warsovran’s squadron attacked.”

  “And why are you now in Warsovran’s very stronghold?”

  “Silverdeath will eventually be brought here,” replied Feran.

  “Getting it out of Warsovran’s hands will be as difficult as reattaching my balls.”

  “After all those years in a jar of vinegar, I’m not sure the prospect should attract you. Still, there is a way—to secure Silverdeath, that is. Had we been quicker we might have carried it off at Larmentel. The opportunity may present itself again.”

  “At Helion?”

  “Here. A large army from several northern Acreman kingdoms is on the way, and should arrive late next month.” Feran gestured across the harbor. “If Warsovran uses Silverdeath to destroy yonder island palace, the commanders and kings at the head of that army are liable to say, ‘Sorry, big mistake,’ and go home. That is when one might try to reach Silverdeath first.”

  “But Warsovran and his men would immediately fill you so full of arrows that one would be hard-put to tell your body from a large sea urchin.”

  “Not so. I had a chance to observe Silverdeath on Helion. It protects itself and its master; an entire army could not have killed Warsovran while it stood beside him. The fire-circles seem to take all of its strength, though, so it releases its host when commanded to make them. That is its weakness, and our opportunity. Are you interested in helping?”

  “I might be,” admitted Druskarl.

  As he left the tavern sometime later, Druskarl looked out over the water to the east, where Helion lay. Again Silverdeath was moving within his reach.

  The sky was overcast and devoid of Miral’s light as Laron lay sprawled on the cobbles of the alleyway. He knew he did not have much time, but the pain that racked his body was all but blotting out his thoughts. Farther down t
he lane a figure was counting coins by the light of a distant street lantern. The alley was a dead end, there was no escape. He began to crawl. After about a yard he found his discarded, empty purse. Beside it was a chunk of glass, from the glassy ruins of Larmentel. Scooping up both, he crawled on.

  Laron felt smooth, curved wood. Barrels littered the place, in various states of repair. Barrels. Frantically his fingers probed and groped, as he hoped against hope that the gods of the moonworlds would smile on him. He found it! A barrel with one end smashed in. He crawled inside, then heaved it vertical.

  Footsteps approached. “Come now, are ye in pain? I can soon end all that.”

  The hunter probed and groped now. He thumped Laron’s barrel, went on to another, then rummaged about in the smashed pieces.

  “Come out, else it will go worse for ye,” came the voice, but this time there was an edge of doubt to it.

  Laron barely breathed. How long before he lost interest? An hour? Two? The entire night? He had the gold, after all, yet—

  Suddenly there was a hollow knocking. His attacker had found a low door. Where there were barrels there was sure to be a cellar, and where there was a cellar there was sure to be a cellar door.

  “How did ye get in there?” the voice demanded. “Some slackard bugger left it open, I’ll wager.” Laron heard the sound of kicking. “Open up, I say!” his enraged pursuer demanded. “Open up. I’ll not warn ye again!”

  A furious barrage of kicks and curses erupted and echoed along the dark alley, but within moments there were other voices calling out, and someone was ringing a gong. There was the sound of running feet, people shouting, the flicker of torchlight, then silence. Laron pushed the barrel over and crawled the length of the alley on his hands and knees, then hauled himself to his feet as he reached the street. He limped along for a few yards, leaning against the walls of the shops and houses. The owners of the cellar came running back, torches held high.

  “Alms for the lame, in the name of the gods,” croaked Laron, hoping that he looked even marginally as bad as he felt. “Alms for the lame, in the name of the gods.”

  Laron was ignored. By putting all of his concentration into heaving one leg ahead of the other he managed to reach the end of the street. The only public fountain on the entire rim of the Placidian Ocean bubbled and splashed there, and Laron plunged his head into the water for a moment, then drank greedily and wiped some of the blood away. Again he forced his legs to support him, and staggered away into the shadows, hoping that he was no longer being watched.

  Sometime after midnight Laron finally found the Academy of Applied Castings. By the light of the rising disk of Miral the youth could see that it was a door made from salvaged bargewood set into an ancient wall of crumbling bricks, and flanked by a herbalist’s store on one side and Madame Lorica’s Services on the other. Burned into the door in unsteady pokerwork were the words YVENDEL and ACADEMY, but the nature of the academy was no better specified than were Madame Lorica’s “services.”

  There was no handle, latch, or knocker. Laron knocked. There was no response. He knocked again. There was still no response. He pounded at the door continually for a full minute. There was not so much as a curse from within. Laron sat with his back to the door and thought through both his options and the facts to hand. Slowly and stiffly he got up and walked over to the herbalist’s store and pounded at the door a dozen times.

  “Geeroutafereyabastard!” floated across from a neighboring building.

  Laron stood back and raised his fist in triumph. Sound did not carry more than a few feet from the academy’s door. It was a muffler-casting. He wandered the length of the street, collecting scraps of wood and splinters, then piled them at the base of the door to the academy. With a small tinderbox he struck sparks into a handful of straw and applied it to his pile of kindling. It blazed up quickly. Laron stood back. Presently a thin scream sliced the air as the guard auton that had been muffling any knocking on the door began to lose its battle to protect the wood from the flames, and disintegrated. Moments later there was the rattling of a crossbar being removed and the door was wrenched open. An amorphous-looking figure shouted for water, then vanished back into the gloom beyond the door. Laron stepped past the flames.

  Presently three figures came running with buckets of water and doused his fire. They then swept the charred and sodden scraps down the street, returned to the door, and pulled it shut. Just as they renewed the casting for a new guard auton, they were joined by someone carrying a pottery lamp. It was a woman dressed in a silk kaftan and with her hair combed out.

  “Some idiot lit a fire against the door, Rector,” explained one of those who had put out the fire.

  “It disrupted the guard auton,” added another.

  “But the fire is out and a new casting is in place,” concluded the third.

  “All my own work, Rector Yvendel,” announced Laron, stepping out of the shadows in a corner.

  The three students whirled and gaped for a moment, then frantically spoke castings of tangled fire into their hands and held them ready to throw. The woman did not move.

  “You are obviously not a thief, or you would be farther down the hall by now and in the grip of another guard auton,” said Yvendel. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Laron Alisialar. I am under the patronage of Lady Wensomer.”

  Laron noticed that Yvendel twitched at the mention of Wensomer’s name.

  “Have you a scroll of introduction?”

  “Direct me to her villa tomorrow morning, and I shall return with one.”

  “This is all very well, Laron Alisialar, but why not wait until morning?”

  Laron reached out with a scratched, bruised, filthy hand. The students flinched back, still holding their fireballs at the ready. Yvendel gave him her lamp and he held it up to his face. One of his eyes was blackened and nearly closed, his lip was split, and there were bruises on his cheeks and jaw.

  “I was set upon and robbed. The thief thought me beaten senseless, for he emptied my purse and walked off. I dragged myself here because I know where Madame Yvendel is to be found, but not Lady Wensomer.”

  Yvendel took back her lamp.

  “I can shelter you here until morning, but without your gold you cannot enroll.”

  “I merely said that my purse had been emptied,” explained Laron. “I converted one gold coin to silver and used that to weight my purse. The rest of the gold is in my boots.”

  “I see,” said Yvendel, tapping her foot on the stone floor. “Our tests for resourcefulness and cunning should not be necessary in your case, Laron Alisialar. Jarris, clean him up, put his gold under a casting, and assign him a bed in the dormitory. Breakfast is a half hour after dawn, Laron, and after breakfast you will be directed to the villa of Lady Wensomer. Return with her recommendation, and you can come to my chambers to discuss your strengths, weaknesses, and a course of study. The rest of you, back to bed.”

  Laron ate breakfast with the other students. It was a mixed-sex academy, which was very unusual, if not unique in the known world. The dormitories of the girls and youths were separate, however. For the most part, Laron was ignored. He was quite short, and looked somewhat too young to be of interest to the girls. Besides, many students stayed there for a day or two while being assessed, then left for home and were never seen again. Madame Yvendel had high standards as well as high fees.

  Laron became aware of shadows across his table. He looked up to see three Acremans and a Vindican standing over him.

  “Who he?” asked the largest, surliest-looking Acreman.

  “From Scalticar,” said another.

  “Know him, Starrakin?” the third Acreman asked the Vindican.

  Starrakin reached down and poured Laron’s mug of grape juice into his lap.

  “Needs watering, make him grow,” said the Vindican.

  Laron watched them saunter away, his eyes lingering on Starrakin’s neck as he felt with his tongue for his missing fangs. Adjus
tment to being alive was proving harder with each hour that passed.

  The academy itself was rather like a maze of woodworm tunnels through a large and intricate piece of furniture: invisible from the outside, but very extensive and with few entrances. As far as Laron could tell by the faint sounds from the city beyond, it occupied buildings spread over several acres that were connected by tunnels, enclosed walkways, and corridors, and shared many buildings with the outside world.

  He blinked in the sunlight as a neophyte student took him out into the street, then across the city to Wensomer’s villa. By now he was uncertain whether he wanted her recommendation to the academy or something far more sinister.

  Sairet was already out of bed as dawn was beginning to overwhelm the stars. Sargolan missionary priests were chanting syncopated organum prayers in a nearby temple. She woke Ninth, and they washed, ate, prayed to Fortune, and shook out the bedding to air. Next she pulled on a pair of loose silk trousers and laced them at her ankles and waist, then laced herself into a blouse of raw silk that fitted tightly around her chest but had loose, flowing sleeves.

  She began her stretching and limbering exercises, and Ninth followed her example. After Ninth’s limbs had become supple and warm, Sairet began to teach her to move her arms and legs through some basic dance moves. Even though she had been living in Venander’s body for some weeks, her movements were clumsy and abrupt. Ninth had only ever known the rolling decks of ships and the rigidity of dry land had come as a shock to her. Still, she had developed a pleasing grace about her walk, and she had definite promise.

  Leaving Ninth to clean up and sew for the rest of the morning, Sairet climbed down the ladder and set off to work. As Diomeda awoke all around her, she walked briskly to Wensomer’s villa. Neither Wensomer’s servants nor Wensomer were stirring as she arrived. After rousing the steward to admit her, she went to Wensomer’s bedchamber and dragged the curtains aside.

  “Hail the morning, Esteemed Wensomer!” she declared brightly.