“No, and I must be circumspect with what I say. Anyone might betray me, including you. My head is filled with facts of the most delicate character, and in return for presenting it to Warsovran on a platter you would be given gold sufficient to ransom a king. I am not willing to have myself exposed to people who could verify who I am by what intelligence I might pass on. For example, you might not be Roval.”
“My sources are reliable,” Yvendel assured him. “If you can trust me, you can trust this man.”
“As court sorcerer to Warsovran,” continued Einsel, “I had a great deal of information shared with me. Too much, perhaps. The emperor made me nervous. When nervous I am sometimes forced to take drastic action.”
“He makes a lot more people than you nervous!” exclaimed Roval. “Did you see what he did to Torea?”
“Yes, and South Helion besides. Other than Warsovran, I have probably seen more fire-circles than any other living man.”
“Why are you here?”
“That weapon, Silverdeath. I have seen it, touched it, even probed it as well as a mere initiate of grading eleven can manage. What I have seen and heard frightens me. Warsovran intends to use it, over and over again.”
“He what?” said Roval incredulously. “Has he not seen what it can do?”
“He seeks to intimidate his enemies. The problem is that one accident, one miscalculation, and he could destroy this world. This is of rather great concern to me, because I have nowhere else to live.”
“Why are you confiding in me?”
“Some of us are plotting to put a little distance between Warsovran and Silverdeath. When it is in our hands we shall need to keep it very secure. It cannot be destroyed, only removed from temptation’s way.”
“From what I know of Helion, and Silverdeath’s ‘double diameter in half-time’ pattern of fire-circles, it will run out of land to burn in one hundred and twenty days.”
“Not so,” Yvendel interjected. “If more than half of a fire-circle’s area is over water, it also will be quenched. Come over here.”
She led them to a table where a map of Helion was laid out. It was an ugly, functional map, like those used by navigators, and was all exact lines and positions, with none of the illumination and embellishment more often seen on decorative maps in libraries.
“I risked my life copying this thing,” explained Einsel. “See, the first fire-circle centered on the Metrologan temple was all over land. The second will all be over water, except for the isthmus to North Helion.”
“Ah, and the third fire-circle will thus destroy part of Port Wayside,” exclaimed Roval, “but otherwise be mostly over water. It will fall after ninety-six days.”
“Correct, but wrong, heh-heh. As Admiral Griffa was sailing around Torea, purging Warsovran’s rivals from the coast, his navigators did a survey that pushed the art of cartography to the very limits. The final fire-circle was definitely over more land than water, yet it was still quenched. The entire circumference was over water. This appears to be another quenching condition.”
“Appears to be … but even Griffa’s navigators and surveyors may be wrong.”
“Perhaps, but as soon as Griffa’s carrier auton landed, my emperor decided to conduct an experiment at Helion. Even now his marines and the islanders are digging out the isthmus between North and South Helion. The second fire-circle’s circumference will be entirely over water, and Silverdeath may fall from the sky. Learned Roval, you must get there first, find Silverdeath when it falls, and flee with it.”
“How? Visitors and sightseers will be discouraged with great enthusiasm until South Helion island is cool enough for Warsovran to walk upon, and even if I got past the guards—well! After a few hundred yards my body would be fit only for presentation with rosemary, chives, garlic, and a red-wine sauce.”
“Made with a nice cabernet from the central Acreman highlands, I should think,” said Yvendel, “but you could do it another way.”
“The Learned Rector will not, however, tell me,” said Einsel, a little resentfully.
“If you know nothing, you cannot crack under torture,” explained Yvendel.
“Will you tell me?” asked Roval.
“Presently. After Learned Einsel is gone.”
Once the little sorcerer had left the Academy, Yvendel explained what she had in mind. Roval thought it over as he studied the map Einsel had left.
“I could do it, but I would have to practice in complete secrecy,” he concluded.
“That can be arranged.”
“I would need the Shadowmoon to get me to Helion, and a very fast galley for when I am fleeing.”
“That can be arranged as well.”
“In that case, I agree.”
Yvendel now flourished a leather-bound folder, which contained about two dozen pages.
“There is another plot to seize Silverdeath being planned in Diomeda,” she announced. “It involves a former Vindican king by the name of Druskarl. Another conspirator is Feran Woodbar, the former boatmaster of the Shadowmoon, who appears to be building a fast, light boat of some description. Do you know anything about this?”
“Druskarl wants Silverdeath so that his castration can be reversed. Feran is just an agent, but he is sure to be working for dangerous people. My guess is the High Circle of Scalticar.”
Yvendel’s eyes narrowed. “But I also work for the High Circle of Scalticar.”
“If you are surprised, then you have obviously not visited the grand palace of the High Circle of Scalticar. Two senior sorcerers with two separate budget allocations are perfectly capable of administering two separate projects with the same aim. Unless someone complains, let us continue with what we are doing, and regard Feran and Druskarl as a backup.”
“But if Druskarl becomes master of Silverdeath—”
“Then he is sure to be an improvement on Warsovran.”
The great port of Alberin was shrouded in drizzle and woodsmoke as the Shadowmoon tied up. This was nothing unusual, as most of North Scalticar seemed to be shrouded in drizzle most of the time. There were Acremans who said that North Scalticar got all the rain that should have fallen on the vast deserts of Acrema, but the Scalticarians replied that if the Acremans could find a cooperative weather god, then they were welcome to all the rain they could divert.
It was early in the tenth month as Terikel stepped ashore. The very first thing she did was embrace the nearest bollard. Next she swore that she would never set foot on another ship for as long as she lived. There was no welcome other than a customs official. A bribe was paid, so the official did not search the box the crewmen were bringing ashore for her. Terikel walked awkwardly, unused to solid ground beneath her feet after such a long time at sea. Norrieav, Hazlok, and several wharfers followed, carrying her box of gold in a sailcloth sling hanging from a pole.
Alberin was designed for rain, so awnings, walkways, and public shelters featured heavily throughout the city. A member of the city guard directed them to the rented house which the Metrologans now called their temple. In spite of the number of public coverings, they were soaked by the time they reached it. Terikel knocked on the door. Footsteps were heard approaching. An eyeslit slid open.
“Possible to help, yes, you are who?” asked a heavily accented and awkward voice in Scalticarian.
“I am your Elder, and you can start helping by letting me in from the rain,” declared Terikel.
The door was flung open just as soon as the bolts could be thrown back. Soon the four Metrologan priestesses were helping Terikel out of her sodden clothes before a fire while Norrieav and Hazlok helped themselves to smoked fish fillets on toast in the kitchen. Justiva donated her spare blue robes to her Elder.
“There is great goodwill toward us here,” Justiva explained as Terikel dressed, “and this is a very tolerant city. It is also a city where all pay their own way. The four of us are already serving in taverns to keep the roof over our heads and food in the pantry.”
“Still
, you are alive and safe,” observed Terikel.
“And in need of you. We were all rammed through our last studies just to get us formally ordained and preserve the Order. We know nothing about organizing things.”
“You seem to be doing superbly,” replied Terikel, who had been expecting far worse. “A warm, dry house with no leaks, and everyone clothed, well fed, and healthy.”
“That’s just it! I can run a house with a few girls in it. Fortune knows, I used to run a rather different one in Port Wayside. What I can’t do is be the deputy Elder for the entire Metrologan Order. I can’t deal with senior sorcerers and nobles, discuss policy, loans, or even what we have to offer Alberin as priestesses.”
“We have a couple of rooms out the back for street girls without shelter,” said Latelle, “and I run a herbalist service once a week for those in poor health.”
“From where?”
“Where you’re standing.”
“We have been managing without money, but we really need experience and leadership,” said Justiva. “Otherwise we’re just a house full of girls—we might as well be looking for husbands.”
Terikel eyed her box full of gold, then looked over the faces of her four priestesses again. There was so much faith, and it was all directed at her. She could, of course, tell them about the gold, but that would just tell them wealth solves all problems. They had achieved miracles merely by getting here and surviving, and much of that probably had been under Justiva’s direction and brilliant leadership. Now they needed to be shown that an Elder could work miracles, and that they were supposed to be training to do the same.
“Why has the Scalticarian High Circle not given us a temple, rooms, and staff?” Terikel asked Justiva.
“A temple? I—ah … I—”
“Did you ask for them?”
“I, ah—no.”
“Did you tell them what we have to offer?”
“To offer?” asked the suddenly exasperated Justiva. “Us? Two reformed whores, a cook, and a nurse who can do windrel dancing? What can we offer the Alberin Branch of the High Circle of Scalticarian Sorcerers? A small orgy, with food, entertainment, and a complimentary checkup for the pox included?”
“You might have done those things once, but you are now Metrologan priestesses with between three and five years’ study to your credit. We have a charter to teach, research, and do charitable works, and wherever we are, we are going to do just that. All of you, come with me—and bring my box in the sling bag, two at either end. Shipmaster, Hazlok, look after the house. Justiva, take me to the local tower of the High Circle.”
Twenty minutes later, and again soaked, Terikel entered Alberin’s tower of the High Circle. She brushed aside clerks, guards and lackeys until she was in the chambers of the tower master, then told her priestesses to wait outside. The tower master did not at first realize that Terikel was a new arrival.
“Just who do you think you are, bursting into my chambers!” he shouted, rising from his chair. “I said we were willing to allow sanctuary for your Order, but remember that you are just destitute refugees with—”
Terikel dropped a chunk of dark green glass onto his writing desk. The man had not become tower master without having a good eyes for powerful etheric talismans. There was the impression of what looked like elaborate chain-mail.
“That bears the imprint of Silverdeath itself, and was dug from the lake of glass at the center of Larmentel, where it fell,” declared Terikel, in a voice as cold and level as a frozen river. “It also has the last Torean succubus in existence bound to it.”
“I, um … Succubus?”
“I know its name.”
“Ah. Oh.”
“And this is for us destitute refugees to pay our way!” shrieked Terikel, flinging a handful of gold across his desk.
A half hour later Terikel emerged with the tower master.
“Justiva, we have a temple, living quarters, and school. Freehold. The tower master will arrange for the local militia to clean and vacate it by tonight, when we shall move in. You will administer it. Latelle, you will be lecturing on Torean healing arts at the university every afternoon, then talking about the benefits of windrel dancing for the treatment of bad backs. Jeles, you will turn that rented house into a sanctuary for sick or injured harlots.”
“But the owner said—”
“In one hour the owner will be me. Kelleni, present yourself here tomorrow morning. Some students of sorcery wish to speak to you about Torean cuisine and the enhancement of etheric energies through good cooking.”
Terikel turned back to the tower master. “You! Find me dry robes. Find us all dry robes.”
“Ah, yes, Elder. Certainly.”
Terikel stalked after him as he hurried away.
Latelle finally remembered to close her mouth, then turned to Justiva. “Are we all meant to be able to do that when we grow up?”
“Apparently so,” replied Justiva, who was still looking after Terikel, her eyes shining with admiration.
Six days later it was the Festival of the Etheric Lights. As if in deference to the great occasion, the clouds above Alberin broke up, then vanished to leave a flawlessly blue sky, which soon melted into a deep-red furnace as the sun set. Miral glowed brightly, attended by Dalsh, Lupan, Belvia, and Verral, while a stunning wash of stars covered the entire region around the south celestial pole.
The Sisters of the Metrologan Order filed into the ornate and soaring Etheric Cathedral of Alberin, with antiphonal choirs of boys and girls singing the carols of the season. The cathedral was packed with the nobility, academicians, sorcerers, and the wealthier merchants of Alberin, and carols and readings echoed into the darkness amid the rafters. Midway through the service Terikel was called upon to give the Metrologans’ blessing to the season, and she spoke in carefully translated and memorized Scalticarian. Latelle sang one of the Order’s hymns, “The Lamp in the Darkness,” while holding up a Torean pottery oil-lamp that had come over on the Shadowmoon.
At the end of two hours the crown prince led the huge congregation in one final carol, then they streamed out into the city’s main square, where all the soak torches had been extinguished. High above, a brilliant splash of etheric lights rippled and danced among the moonworlds, stars, and Miral. People laughed, cheered, and passed around jars of fortified wine and mead while initiates flung dazzle castings high to burst in the air.
Terikel embraced Justiva and Latelle, and decided that she was feeling truly happy for the first time since leaving Torea. She was the Elder, and the Order was secure in a strong and prosperous kingdom. They had patronage, money, and something to offer. The weather was admittedly abominable most of the time, and there was more work than the five of them could easily cope with, but that was better than being hunted or—even worse—ignored.
She felt a hand on her arm. The tower master. She was hurried away to his chambers.
“I have to leave tonight?” Terikel ranted in Diomedan as she paced before the tower master’s chair.
“Er, yes,” said the tower master. “There is very little time.”
Outside, the festival was still in full cry, with the enthusiastic support of her four priestesses and four new Scalticarian deaconesses and deacons. Although she was not yet thirty, the young priestess suddenly felt old, tired, and very, very lonely.
“I can invoke the auton’s message again,” offered the tower master.
“No, thank you, I’m good at picking up bad news the first time. Why me? Surely in all of Alberin, the biggest port on the continent of Scalticar, you can find one bloody sailor extra for the Shadowmoon.”
“Learned Yvendel insisted on you. Her message was quite explicit.”
“But I’ve only been here six days! I love this place, I’ve just been to the most beautiful ceremony and festival of my life. My Sisters need me.”
“Justiva is highly capable, merely less, ah, forthright than you. Elder, nobody wants you to go, but this involves Silverdeath. The Sar
gol Governance is backing a scheme to snatch it from Warsovran, and we must do it before them.”
“Every monarch and sorceric organization in the world has delusions of possessing Silverdeath. It brings immortality and limitless power, after all. Why is the Sargol Governance worth worrying about in particular?”
“Their agents are Obanar Druskarl, former King of Vindic—”
“Damn his pickled testicles.”
“—and Feran Woodbar, former boatmaster of the Shadowmoon.”
“The little worm! Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”
“The Sargolans have made a dash galley available to Feran, and have reportedly built another submersible like the Shadowmoon. We have been trying to gather together the survivors of the Shadowmoon’s crew, those who know submersibles and know how these two men work and think.”
“They are both bold, brave, and resourceful, whatever their faults,” muttered Terikel.
“Roval will meet you on the Acreman coast, a day south of Diomeda. You will command the expedition until he joins up with the Shadowmoon. If he does not make the rendezvous, you will remain in command until Silverdeath is recovered.”
“I can’t believe the others were willing to go.”
“They were not. Hazlok had to be dragged out of Madame Feather’s Vale of Perfume by the city militia; D‘Arto’s wife chased my guards with a broom as they fetched him away; and boatmaster Norrieav was carried out of the Flash Frigate on a stretcher shouting, ‘Pump, ye buggers, pump!’ and singing something about hauling on the bowline.”
“You’re trying to tell me that the entire world is about to be placed upon my shoulders?”
“Well, yes. They are the only shoulders strong enough. I mean, very shapely shoulders they are, but just think: You are a proven commander, you are a priestess and initiate nine—”
“I want to take my tests to be graded to ten. I’m ready—”
“I’ll arrange for that as you are walking to the docks. The examiners will sail on the galley with you and do the tests there.”
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 35