Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  Tilbaram survived, until the next morning, at any rate. Four days later the Governance met, and Feran was presented to them. As it happened, what he had to say to them interested them considerably.

  Across the desert, three hundred and fifty miles to the southwest, Princess Senterri was swaying to the music of a pair of windrel musicians while her owners haggled and bickered with prospective buyers in the Hadyal slave market. The town was barely two hundred miles from Sargolan territory, but that was over waterless desert. None of the locals spoke Sargolan, and even their grasp of the Diomedan trade language was limited.

  “Nine pagols each,” declared the slaver D’Alik, folding his arms to show that his offer was final.

  “But they dance, they are white,” insisted the windrel man.

  “They are suntanned, and their hands are filthy from having to milk your goats and tend your cooking fires. It will take a month in Madame Voldean’s College of Domestic and Exotic Skills to get them cleaned up and suitably pale once more.”

  “Twenty pagols, all three. One is princess! Worth hundred.”

  “Then sell her to someone who wants a princess. I want dancers.”

  “Princess is dancer. Twenty.”

  “Eighteen, all three. Three at six. Madame Voldean is going to cost me gold as well.”

  “Twenty!”

  “If you had kept them clean and shaded, yes, but they are tanned and filthy.”

  “Twenty!”

  “Then keep your girls and find another buyer. If you change your mind, see my steward.”

  The windrel man went straight to D’Alik’s steward almost as soon as the slaver went on to the next vendor. Face was saved as eighteen pagols were paid, and the scrolls for the girls were handed over.

  “Robber, is D’Alik. Princess, is,” muttered the windrel as he inspected each pagol in turn.

  “And just which of them is the supposedly royal lady on hard times?” asked the steward.

  “Name Senterri, hair long-fire.”

  “So, she’s brunette? You would never know it with all that dust and grime on her. Ah well, a pleasure doing business with you, Malovot, as always.”

  The three girls were huddled together, and had a fairly good idea that money had just been exchanged in return for themselves. Only Dolvienne had any grasp of the desert languages, however, and she was translating for the others.

  “The big, hairy one with the gold embroidery in his robes,” she said, inclining her head without pointing, “I think he is the buyer.”

  “The one who looks like a middle-aged warrior with about ten years of good eating since his last fight?” asked Senterri.

  “He surely intends to take us home and ravish us this very night,” said Perime.

  “We are worth more as virgins,” said Dolvienne, not sounding at all worried. “Every time we are discussed, that matter is raised.”

  “I am so tired of intimate examinations by old windrel women,” said Perime.

  “Would you prefer it was old windrel men?” asked Dolvienne.

  “After sixty days of windrel food, windrel clothes, windrel smells, and windrel punishment, I’ll never allow a windrel dancer or musician in my palace again as long as I live,” Senterri said firmly.

  “That presumes you ever get back to your palace,” said Dolvienne.

  “Someone will recognize me,” said Senterri. “It is only a matter of time.”

  “The windrels keep trying to tell people that you are a princess, but nobody believes them. I don’t like your chances. We might have to look after ourselves.”

  “We tried that. We were betrayed and abducted almost as soon as we were out of sight of Diomeda’s walls. I should have trusted that nice Admiral Forteron.”

  “He had such good manners,” added Perime.

  They stopped talking as a muscular but well-proportioned man in his thirties walked over and bowed to them. Unlike most of the other men in the market, his black beard and hair were neatly and even sharply trimmed.

  “My name is Toragev, ladies, I am steward and chief of guards to D’Alik, Slavemaster by Appointment to three northern kingdoms,” he said in flawless Diomedan as he unlocked their chains from the display rail. “Please accept my pardon for leading you away by your chains, but it is a matter of protocol. I have to be seen to be in possession of you, on my master’s behalf.”

  “Polite,” Perime whispered approvingly to Senterri.

  “What is to become of us?” Senterri asked tentatively, her nerves badly shaken by nearly two months of windrel punishments, yet encouraged by the steward’s polite manner.

  “Oh, first you shall be given a very thorough bath. The windrels never learn to bathe their slaves, praise be to the gods in Miral. For the cost of water, oils, and soap worth a few coppers, a full gold pagol can be added to a girl’s value. After you are clean again, there will be a month’s or so lessons in manners, customs, and the arts of pleasing noblemen of high degree in the northern kingdoms. Then, I am afraid, you will have a very arduous and boring trip of a thousand miles to those very same northern kingdoms. Is it not remarkable? Here in the southern desert you are worth six pagols, but if we take you sufficiently far north, your value as slaves can increase twenty times over what has just been paid for you.”

  “Slaves?” echoed Senterri.

  “Do not sound so dismayed. Do you realize how many girls volunteer to be sold into our trading house? You are to be the very finest of slaves, treasured and admired, the mistresses of the mighty and powerful. What girl of low birth could normally aspire to that?”

  The question was carefully designed to provoke a response, and the response was quick to come.

  “But, Toragev, I am not of low birth, I am the daughter of, er, a very wealthy Sargolan merchant,” Senterri burst out.

  “Oh, please, if I had a copper for every—”

  “It is true! Read my scrolls.”

  Toragev stopped in the shade of a nut tree, took the scrolls from his bag, and read. The forged certificates from Madame Sairet’s dancing school were in the Diomedan trade language, but there were others in Sargolan, which he did not speak. He pretended to read the scroll declaring Senterri to be the daughter of the merchant Aramadea, of Aramadea Silks, Spices, and Fine Wines in Diomeda. He feigned surprise.

  “This changes everything,” he said in a much softer voice. “The Sargolan border is two hundred miles to the south, but the road is difficult, and thick with bandits.”

  “So you will help?” asked Senterri, dropping to her knees in a mixture of relief and supplication.

  “Please, excellent lady, none of this,” said Toragev, offering his arm to help her back to her feet. “The only safe passage south is with the great caravans, and there are none going that way just now. For the present it will be safest for you to play the part of a slave dancer. You will be well looked after by Madame Voldean and D’Alik, but do not let anyone know that you are from a grand Sargolan merchant house. Leave the rest to me.”

  The girls showered their thanks on the steward—Toragev did not realize that what Senterri had told him was basically true, and Senterri and Perime did not realize that he was lying. Dolvienne distrusted any proposal that seemed too cheap or easy, but played the part of an unquestioningly grateful girl in dire peril because it was what the steward expected.

  None of them realized that just two hundred miles away an army was being assembled to march north on Diomeda. Hundreds of thousands of warriors and sailors were preparing to fight for the freedom and honor of their emperor’s daughter. Farther south, the keels of a thousand dash galleys were being laid. They were small and fast, and each could be built within two or three months. The larger, existing galleys were assigned to defend Sargolan ports, where the new ships were being built. All over the Sargolan empire men flocked to answer their emperor’s call for a million warriors to defend Senterri’s honor or to avenge her death. The trouble was, they were going after the wrong people.

  Even though i
t was all being done to rescue Senterri, it came down to the same point Toragev had made earlier. Effectively, Senterri really was no more than a lowborn dancing girl in her current circumstances. She was in a hostile and alien place and culture, and totally cut off from all the power, wealth, and deference that made her a princess.

  “There sits a man whose mind is full of glass cities.”

  Druskarl twisted slowly in his seat to see a man with a bristly beard, who was wearing a black kaftan and sun shawl weighted down by winged silver globes held in sea eagles’ talons—the Racital symbols for souls in the grip of a slavemaster. The slaver’s hands were folded invisibly into his voluminous sleeves.

  “You again,” Druskarl responded to the shadowed face. “But where are my manners? Sit down, have a drink. Ba’do, bring another cup for my Racital friend.”

  They sat together with their sandaled feet on the table and toasted the distant island in the harbor, which was encrusted with Dawnlight palace and surrounded by Warsovran’s fleet.

  “A nice chal’vik, thirteenth year of Magestril the Sixth, I’d say,” Feran commented.

  “Fifteenth, actually. They put oak slats in the jars to get that mellow bouquet.”

  “How inventive.”

  “So, what do you want?”

  “To toast our escape from Torea.”

  “I’m touched. To escaping.”

  “To escaping.”

  “I forgot to ask last time, where is Laron now?”

  “Here in Diomeda, lurking and hiding,” said Feran with an unconcerned shrug. “Having mere human strength and being compelled to eat normal food has left him somewhat vulnerable. He will even die normally in a few decades—sooner, if some of his enemies catch up with him. Will Ninth ever come here?”

  “A city filled with wenches and you yearn for Ninth?”

  “No, I just … take an interest in women. Pah, you keep your balls in a jar of vinegar, you could never understand the love of women and hate of celibacy.”

  “To celibacy,” said Druskarl.

  “Long may other men practice it!” added Feran. “So, is she in Vindic?”

  “She is with kind and caring patrons.”

  “Good, good. She was such a fearful, vulnerable creature. I am currently seeing a wench who works the taps at one of the taverns. Did you ever have a lover?”

  “Yes. Ba’do, another jar of chal’vik.”

  “A special lover?”

  “I had a wife in North Acrema, but we are obviously somewhat separated now. She is exploring new opportunities for advancement, and I am following the path of duty.”

  “To duty!” exclaimed Feran, draining his wine again. “Especially in the name of love.”

  They lapsed into silence for a while, watching Warsovran’s fleet on the bay. A huge catapult barge shot a stone ball high into the air, and it crashed into the red tiled roof of Dawnlight’s southwestern spire. Part of the roof collapsed, sending a shower of tiles cascading down onto the defenders. Moments later a scatter of firepots came over the wall. Most fell into the water, but one hit a dash galley and two struck the catapult barge. There was a flurry of activity to put out the fires and drag the stricken vessels to safety.

  “King, two; Warsovran, one,” said Feran.

  “The palace has the advantage of height and strength. Presently the Alliance and Sargolan armies will arrive overland, and Warsovran will be forced to sail away with his fleet.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I am in nobody’s employ just now, but I have plenty of Torean gold. I have a mind to go north and consult certain Turiac medicars about my, ah, medical condition. What of you?”

  “Actually, I have been consulting with certain sorcerers about a scheme, and refining and improving certain other plans. One item is currently missing from our plans, however.”

  “And what is that?”

  “As I have said, Laron is no longer a vampyre, and no longer has quite the same strength that he is known for. You, on the other hand, remain as strong as ever and we need the services of one very strong man who has proved his trustworthiness. What are your feelings concerning Silverdeath?”

  “I think that it would be best kept in more responsible hands.”

  Feran sipped at his wine, then pointedly examined his own hands. “And whose hands are they?”

  “After what has happened in Torea and Helion, anyone’s but Warsovran’s.”

  “We have a scheme to capture Silverdeath.”

  Druskarl stared for a moment, the put his drink down. “And do what?”

  “Our intentions are good.”

  “I’m sure they will be added to those that pave the road to the underworld.”

  “But will you be part of it?”

  “First tell me more.”

  “Just now, I cannot. Give me a few days, however, and I shall show you.”

  Feran stood up, bowed in the Racital manner, then dropped a coin on the table and left. An Acreman serving girl bustled up as Druskarl sat thinking.

  “Will you be having another drink, sir?” she asked as she scooped up Feran’s mug and slid the coin into her cleavage.

  “No, I must be about my business,” he replied, then left, too.

  Within a half hour the serving girl was in the Metrologan mission to Diomeda, speaking with Deacon Lisgar.

  “I also heard the eunuch speak about consulting Turiac medicars about his medical condition, then Silverdeath was mentioned twice. I did not hear any more.”

  “And you did not see the slaver’s face?” asked Lisgar as he scribbled down what she had said.

  “No. Another shadow took over to follow Druskarl when he left.”

  “Excellent. Return to your work now, and remain alert.”

  “What does it all mean, deacon? I’m frightened of Silverdeath.”

  “So am I, but I have faith in those who I answer to.”

  Some days later Druskarl sat under the vine-smothered pergola of another tavern, sipping wine while an itinerant barber shaved his head and face.

  “Mighty warriors, yessy?” said the Turiac barber with a flourish of his razor to the harbor below.

  “You watch my head, I shall watch the ships,” replied Druskarl.

  “If I draw blood, worshipful sir, free shave you to have.”

  “I would prefer to pay and lose no blood.” Druskarl wiped his head with a moist towel, paid the barber, ran a hand over his skull, and sat back to watch Warsovran’s catapult barge being rowed back for another assault on the palace. Presently Feran found him, and pulled up a chair.

  “Have you considered my scheme as yet?” he asked.

  “You wish to capture Silverdeath. If I had a copper for everyone who wished to possess it, I would never have to work again. You said that you would show me something today.”

  “Yes. It is a matter of the greatest secrecy, but I feel sure that you will be convinced when you see it.”

  Together they set off for the shipwrights’ yards near the docks. In a long, narrow shed used for storing and curing mast wood, a boat such as Druskarl had never before seen was taking shape. It was long, thin, and very light, and had extremely long oars. Most of it was enclosed, except for where the two rowers sat. It was constructed from hides over an ashwood frame.

  “Those who built it think it’s a messenger boat for travel inland on the rivers,” Feran said softly as they circled it. “It should easily outrun a dash galley on a light sea, and the seas generally are light around this time of year.”

  “It is a very handsome craft.”

  “Thank you. It cost a considerable amount of gold. The designer of the Shadowmoon once described the design to me; he called it a racing shell.”

  “I can see why. Just a bare shell of a boat, good for nothing else but going fast.”

  “Not quite, esteemed eunuch. Like you, it has certain luxuries missing, but in other ways it is vastly superior to its peers. Not only is this thing fast, but if inverted and tied down to rocks
in the shallows it can hold enough air for four or five hours’ breathing.”

  Druskarl suddenly made the connection between Silverdeath and the highly refined little craft. “I do believe that you have recruited me,” he announced as he stood with his arms folded.

  Outside, a harlot rejected yet another offer of employment as she waited, watching for Druskarl to come out again.

  Roval had heard of Madame Yvendel’s Academy, but had never entered it until now. It was not at all to his taste. In his experience, academies were meant to be cold, scrubbed, drafty places where youths wore sacking, drank rainwater, and ate brown rice flavored with olive oil. This place was dark, soft with carpets and hangings, and was reputed to train both girls and youths in etheric sciences and crafts. Learned Yvendel confirmed his worst fears by her comfortable and gaudy clothing. As they bowed to each other and exchanged ritualized flourishes and badge-castings, a short, pop-eyed man of about forty emerged from behind a curtain. He smiled ingratiatingly at Yvendel, while cringing with apprehension. He was not known to Roval.

  “This is Einsel,” announced Yvendel.

  The name changed everything for Roval.

  “Einsel, as in Warsovran’s court sorcerer?” Roval asked the unlikely-looking little man, who had dark bags beneath his protuberant eyes.

  “I suspected I might need no introduction, heh-heh.”

  “How many tracts on etheric fashioning have you written?”

  Einsel blinked at the question. “Ah, thirty-one.”

  “And how many children have you sired?—and think carefully.”

  Einsel looked down at his feet. “One,” he replied, then muttered, “Probably.”

  “You could be genuine,” Roval conceded.

  Yvendel cleared her throat. “As court sorcerer, Einsel raises no suspicion by visiting places such as this,” she explained.

  “Indeed, I am expected to make such visits, Learned Roval. I am something of an inspector for the emperor.”

  “Yet you are not inspecting at this moment.”