Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “There are not many to choose from in a town of this size. Why do you ask?”

  “I did not see you arrive on any of today’s barges. The gatekeeper said that no horses or camels passed in, either.”

  “Perhaps I arrived yesterday, and spent a day resting.”

  This had not occurred to the artisan. “The militia’s captain is interested in your fine new type of armor. He wants to know whether it is for Warsovran, or loyalists in Diomeda.”

  Feran considered. The town was, in theory, within Diomeda’s domain, but almost certainly was loyal to the besieged king, even though it was trading with Warsovran.

  “Well, if he wants to discuss it, I can be found at Hergon’s establishment,” Feran replied, naming an inn he had passed on the way there.

  Minutes later Feran crept out of the shadows beside the docks with the huge bundle on his back. Back in the center of the port a fire was taking hold and a gong was booming out amid cries of alarm and screams. Druskarl already had the aft covers of the racing shell open.

  “Pack it in, hurry,” Feran hissed as he handed the three main sections down to Druskarl. “The artisan betrayed us to the militia. The militia’s captain is loyal to the king of Diomeda, and I am a Torean. I thought all the possibilities through in advance.”

  “Very logical of you, but then why come here at all?”

  “It is beyond the reach of Warsovran. There, all secure.”

  Feran pushed the racing shell away from the pier and scrambled into his seat as Druskarl began to row.

  “We have to row like demons of—” began Druskarl.

  “No! Row slowly until we pass the edge of the town wall.”

  “The militia will have guards on the way there by now.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? Guards with bows? Bows that shoot arrows? Arrows that really hurt? While we row slowly?”

  “This boat is a strange shape, O eunuch of little faith. On one of its trial runs Dorimithy the shipwright said that it looked more like a small, short boat closer to the shore than a large, long boat far away. By the time the guards get the range right we shall be gone.”

  “They will send lancers.”

  “Lancers who think we travel slowly. Once we are clear of the walls we shall indeed row like men possessed.”

  Nine arrows did strike the racing shell as they passed the river edge of the town wall, but as Feran anticipated, most shots went wild. Once out of sight they rowed with all their strength, sending the racing shell hurtling down the Leir faster than any other craft in its history, yet there were none to witness the feat. From Miral’s movement Druskarl estimated that it was nearly an hour before riders with flaming torches appeared in the distance.

  “We are dead now, there must be thirty of them,” panted the eunuch.

  “Just row, I’ll decide when we are dead,” Feran replied with confidence.

  A few more minutes passed, and the torches of the riders grew more distinct. Suddenly Feran slowed the pace of his rowing.

  “Long, deep, silent strokes from now on,” he said softly.

  “But that will slow us even more.”

  “We have just passed the place where we stopped on the way upstream, O eunuch of little faith and maximal fears. Remember that sack I took ashore?”

  “Yes.”

  “It contained some handfuls of splinters, a small ax, half a bag of oats, a pair of strap-on hoofs and one Torean gold coin. Now, do as I say and row softly.”

  As Feran had hoped, the militia cavalrymen assumed that the fugitives had chopped up and sunk their boat before riding off into the sand dunes. When the lights of the torches were almost invisible again, the rowers resumed their former pace. Miral rose ever higher in the sky, and Druskarl noted its progress.

  “At this rate we should be back in Diomeda at least an hour before dawn,” Druskarl commented as they passed a marker cairn on the shore.

  “Splendid, then we shall be clear of the harbor and well down the coast by first light,” replied Feran.

  “What? Just what is going on here?” Druskarl asked.

  “By tomorrow evening we should be exhausted, sunburned, and approaching the little harbor of Saltberry.”

  “Saltberry? That’s a hundred miles down the coast, to the south!”

  “Yes, and on the northern border of a state which is not currently at war with Warsovran. A dash galley will be waiting for us there, and we shall be hauled aboard after nightfall. It will put to sea that very hour. Long, long ago I learned to move faster than those in pursuit of me, and to do what they least expect.”

  Druskarl shook his head. “I never thought I would say this, but it is a relief to be going with you,” he admitted.

  The sky had just begun to lighten was when the racing shell swept back down the Leir through Diomeda, riddled with arrows, yet even faster than before, thanks to the current. By now Laron had returned to the riverbank, and he saw it flash past the boatsheds without even slowing. He immediately got up and gave chase, but after an hour under a bridge his legs were stiff and cramped. By the time he reached the mouth of the river the racing shell was lost on the harbor’s dark water.

  Something seldom appreciated by nondancers is the amount of training and stamina required by even a competent amateur doing a folk dance. An intensive bout of axwork requires no less exertion, and the risk of injury shadows both elite dancers and beginners alike. As Sairet’s apprentice, the auton girl had already discovered this, but she had the foundation of a strong, fit body and her progress was rapid. Wensomer was in constant need of novelty for her entertainments at court, and had hit on the idea of fire-breathing. There was nothing especially novel about it, except that the exponents were all well-muscled and oiled windrel men. Were a girl to breathe fire at court, the Toreans would really be startled.

  Ninth’s first lesson in fire-breathing was in the marble courtyard of Wensomer’s villa. Sairet was there to supervise, but she sat at a safe distance. Wensomer watched, impassive, as a windrel man took a swig of clear, pungent liquid, then squirted it in a thin spray from between his tongue and teeth. He swung a torch through the stream, and suddenly a great tongue of flame shot from his mouth. Ninth cried out in surprise, even though she knew what was going to happen. The windrel spat another streamer of flame, this time at the feet of the novice. She jumped into the air and scampered back several paces.

  “Not to be frightened of fire, if to be breathing it,” the windrel said sternly.

  Ninth walked over to the water gourd and took a mouthful, then squirted it out in a heavy stream.

  “Am I doing it properly?” she then asked.

  “Too much at once. Had that not been water, poof! Half the courtyard ablaze, yourself including.”

  The auton girl took another swig. This time the stream was thinner, and traveled farther. She tried again, and again. By the tenth mouthful she could manage a messy but consistently thin stream of water.

  “Better, better,” commented the windrel.

  Ninth held her hand out for the gourd that the windrel carried. This was moving faster than the man was willing to accept. He looked to Wensomer, who shrugged then nodded.

  “Take the torch away first,” Sairet called. “Let her practice by just squirting spirits. You will decide when it is safe to start igniting them.”

  The windrel bowed, and handed the gourd to Ninth. She took a swig—and immediately spat out the mouthful and dropped the gourd. She staggered about, spitting, spluttering, and rubbing her eyes. The windrel scooped up the gourd, grinning but not laughing aloud. Sairet put a hand to her mouth. Ninth washed her mouth out with water, then turned to face the windrel again. She held out her hand for the gourd.

  By taking smaller swigs Ninth accustomed herself to the foul taste of the spirits, and began practicing at squirting the fluid between her teeth. After another quarter hour she had become fairly proficient at it, although her face had gone pale from the taste and fumes.

  “Don’t let th
e fluid trail away, or the flaming spirits will dribble down onto your clothing,” the windrel called anxiously, aware that his strangely fearless pupil was determined to spit real fire, and to do it soon. “End the stream sharply. Purse your lips, like so! Make sure that not a single drop falls on you.”

  The torch was brought. Ninth held the gourd in one hand and the torch in the other. She took a small swig of spirits as the windrel led her to an area where there was no spilled fluid.

  “Hold flame of the torch up, so. Spit as before, but through flame. Remember, blow sharply, close your lips fast when to stop.”

  Ninth sprayed the spirits from her mouth, and a long streamer blazed out beyond the torch. Suddenly she was out of breath, but not liquid. She pressed her lips shut for a moment, then lost her control and swallowed some of what was left in her mouth. She coughed out the remainder, and a large gout of orange flame erupted before her. The windrel jumped back even though he was well out of the way. Ninth stood panting, then tossed the torch to the windrel man, handle-first, and stood with her arms folded. Wensomer and Sairet applauded.

  “That last fireball was very impressive,” Sairet commented.

  “A wonderful finale,” agreed Wensomer.

  The astonished windrel handed Ninth the gourd of water and she washed her mouth out. Unbidden, she picked up the gourd of spirits again.

  The steward appeared, bowed to Wensomer, and whispered something to her. She excused herself from the lesson and went quickly to her parlor. Waiting for her was Laron.

  “Hail the morning, former Prince of Vampyres,” she said, giving him a bow and courtly flourish.

  Laron smiled, revealing two long, pointed fangs. Wensomer gasped and skipped back. Laron reached up and removed the fangs, revealing two normal teeth beneath.

  “I carved them from sea-dragon tusks,” he explained. “They will discourage those in search of revenge for my past feedings.”

  “I have no doubt of it.”

  “Look what else I have.” He took a locket from within his tunic, where it hung by a chain around his neck. He opened it to reveal a chunk of greenish glass held in silver claws.

  “Glass, from the very place in Larmentel where Silverdeath detonated,” Laron explained. “We collected other pieces, but Feran stole them when he left the Shadowmoon—along with an ocular showing a fire-circle.”

  “Damn, what a pity it was lost.”

  “On the other had, an ocular is attached to this piece of Larmentel glass as well. It shows the late king of Gironal indulging in amorous frolics with sundry wenches.”

  “Indeed?” exclaimed Wensomer, pressing her fingertips together. “I have heard of him. An overweight king with a taste for comfortably built courtesans, or so reports have it.”

  “Indeed. I have viewed it—but purely for historical research.”

  “Of course. What was it like?”

  “Astonishing.”

  “I hate you.”

  “But you are no longer, ah, weighty.”

  “When I am finished with what I am doing in Diomeda, I have every intention of taking great pleasure in putting my lost sixty-one pounds straight back on. Having done that, I will be taking renewed interest in sex for sensibly upholstered people. What, er, price are you asking for that ocular?”

  “I had intended it as a present for you.”

  “Really, Laron, how sweet of you,” said Wensomer. “But why?”

  “I, ah … violated the spirit of chivalry.”

  “What? How?”

  “I consumed a lamb and kidney pie, when I should have been supporting you as a soulmate.”

  Wensomer opened her mouth, drew a breath while composing a look of astonished outrage on her face—then slowly exhaled.

  The fire in her eyes has died down, Laron thought as he glanced up.

  “I … may have stolen a cold pork cutlet in the market, smuggled it home in my cleavage, and consumed it,” she admitted sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  “But—but you need not have told me,” the relieved Laron babbled at once.

  “You told me about the pie.”

  “I am male, I have chivalric obligations.”

  Wensomer batted her hand across his face several times. “Women have chivalric obligations, too,” she said. “Thank you for telling me.”

  They circled the parlor, both with their arms folded behind their backs, and in silence.

  “I suppose I don’t really deserve that ocular now, do I?” sighed Wensomer.

  “Don’t be silly,” muttered Laron.

  “Was it interesting?”

  “Well … more so than the fire-circles. You can have the Larmentel glass in … oh, a month. I need to finish some work on it. It has some etheric energy which is gradually fading for no apparent reason. I am going to probe it and write a thesis for the Academy, then it is yours.”

  “Laron! Thank you!” exclaimed Wensomer, skipping in front of him and throwing her arms around his neck. “When I have studied it, and have been eating properly for at least a month, I must invite you to join me for some experimental verification. Fifteen years! You were my tourney champion before I had even met my first lover.”

  “You have had nine lovers since then. One of them was a king.”

  “What—Oh, him. I was a bit drunk.”

  There was another extended silence between them.

  “Laron, were you jealous when I slept with those men?”

  “I was dead; jealousy was out of the question. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you killed eight of my former lovers and ripped off their heads.”

  “They were not nice to you.”

  “Why did you spare Roval?”

  “When he awoke, he made it plain that his intentions were honorable.”

  “What? Garbage! When he awoke he said, ‘Gods of the moonworlds, what have I done?’ Then he swore never to drink fermented potato-mash spirits again. The bastard. Now, getting back to us …”

  “My exams require virginity.”

  “Pox take virginity.”

  “Well, in five minutes I might be dead,” laughed Laron.

  “Oh, again?”

  “And so may you.”

  “Oh. Do vampyres do that sort of thing?”

  “The females might. The males cannot get it up.”

  “Really?”

  “I should know.”

  “But what about now?”

  “None of your business—Wait a minute! Why did I come here?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I mean, I remembered why I came here. Feran and Druskarl left for Panyor in a two-seat gigboat last night.”

  “Horrid place, right in the middle of the desert. I had to spend a night there last year.”

  “They returned before dawn.”

  “So they did not reach Panyor?”

  “I saw their boat in action,” said Laron urgently, greatly relieved that sex had vanished from the conversation. “It is very, very fast. Even the fastest dash galley would be hard put to overhaul it over a short distance, and it is far more agile.”

  “I’m impressed. What else?”

  “Their boat was decorated with a lot of arrows that were not there the night before. They rowed straight out into the harbor.”

  “To where?”

  “I did not see. It could have been to Dawnlight, to Warsovran’s fleet, to some foreign trader, to some pier on the beachfront, north along the coast, south along the coast, or east to Helion.”

  “That does not really narrow the options, does it?”

  “It excludes inland.”

  “Along with straight up. Still, I think that their scheme is now under way, whatever it is, and we shall not see them again until after Helion’s next fire-circle.”

  Velander had watched and listened to the entire conversation from the etherworld. Part of her wanted to release the orange thread of light, drift away into the darkness, and fade into nothingness. Laron—how could he? Laron the chivalrous, embracing that—o
lder woman! She had proposed a dalliance, a liaison founded upon pure lust. And he had refused her. Well, he had evaded the issue, at least. Very chivalrous. Yes, of course. Just like Laron. Remorse tugged at Velander’s spirit. He would face death for a woman, but Velander had also seen him stop her from making a stupid mistake, then try to make sure that her feelings were not hurt.

  Stupid mistake? Surely he deserves something after seven centuries. Is this really me thinking this? What is sex like? she wondered. She had seen her body doing it with Feran. It had seemed … embarrassing, unplanned, unplannable, messy, dirty, and not at all enticing. On the other hand, that was what she had actually seen. What about between Laron and Wensomer? Would that be any better? By now they probably knew each other too well to be anything more than friends, even though Laron was again alive. That had to be it.

  Velander was not capable of feeling lust, but sadness was sufficiently intellectual to register with her, being a disembodied spirit. Very foolish, Laron, it might have been fun, she decided on his behalf, then watched through the ocular as Laron returned to the Academy through the crowded streets of Diomeda.

  The Sargolan dash galley was under sail with its oars shipped as Druskarl paced the deck in the suit of leather and felt armor. He was now six inches taller and covered with the thick, white, insulated butt-leather. A plate of polished quartz crystal was his eyepiece, and every breath he took was passed through a water cooler similar to those used by many patrons of Diomedan taverns.

  “Three hours now,” said Feran as Druskarl continued to pace. “How does it feel in there?”

  “How? Smelly and very damp, but nothing beyond bearing,” came the muffled reply. “How much longer will your tests last?”

  “You have already lasted well over the time required. Just two more tests today.”

  Feran nailed a leather jacket to the deck. Druskarl approached it and seized it in one clawed glove while chopping clumsily at the nails with a hatchet. After a minute the jacket came free. The sailors removed the helmet from the eunuch; Feran poured water over his head.