“This information is indeed worthy of investigation by an armed patrol,” replied the prince. “Have a dozen men sent to Hadyal to investigate. In particular, have inquiries made after the names of the two handmaids. There are millions who know the name Senterri, but the names of her handmaids are the filter through which impostors are discovered.”
“My informant said they were Perime and Dolvienne.”
The stare of the prince suddenly became so intense that Governor Roilean raised his hands to his face for a moment. The room was blanketed with absolute silence. Roilean stopped breathing.
“Governor Roilean, in a quarter hour I want you dressed for riding, along with a dozen guides to the roads and trails to Hadyal.” The prince turned to his generals. “I want five thousand lancers riding behind me on the road north when I set off with the governor. Go!” He strode after them, then suddenly turned on his heel and looked back at the astonished Roilean. “Best get used to being called Duke Roilean,” he called back. Then he was gone.
Laron made a show of yawning as he entered the refectory of Madame Yvendel’s Academy. He was by no means the last to arrive and be marked on the roll, but as he sat down with his tray and began to eat, he became aware that he was redolent with the musky scent of Pellien. He glanced about his table. All were students, except for Lavenci but she was at the other end. Well, if they are all genuine virgins they will not recognize the scent of what I’ve been doing, he thought. Dacostians were almost unknown in Diomeda, after all. Laron yawned again, and this time it was not for show. In all he had wasted less than an hour of Pellien’s delightful company by actually sleeping. Lectures and tutorials were going to be difficult to endure this morning.
“Been burning oil in the name of scholarship, Laron?” asked Lavenci.
She was an academician, but only a tutor. The fresh-faced but rather angular and tall albino girl always had her long, pale hair swept back in a tight ponytail.
“Yes—That is, yes, I learned a lot last night.”
The students at his table began to pack their trays and leave. Laron gulped down his grape juice and munched a handful of raisins. The moment Laron was alone at the table, Starrakin sat down opposite him.
“Not expecting see you at Bargeman’s Pole,” declared the Vindican, coming straight to the point.
Laron stared back at him, but Starrakin would not be stared down. “I was studying last night,” Laron declared.
“What? Studying bag of live oysters and two jars of claret with old whore?”
The word “old” was Starrakin’s mistake. Laron had been aware only of Pellien being lovely, not of her age. Her age was, in fact, difficult to pin down. Somewhere between twenty and forty, perhaps. Suddenly honor was at stake. The honor of a woman. The honor of his lover. Laron attacked.
“If you spend so much time in the Bargeman’s Pole, you must be living beyond your allowance,” he said in an even, level voice.
“You have rich patron, plenty gold,” replied Starrakin.
“Oh yes, very, very rich,” said Laron. “And generous.”
“Five gold pagols, make it difficult for me remembering you at Bargeman’s Pole.”
“I did nothing there worth five pagols of silence.”
“With woman, you eat. Buy two pies, two jars.”
“I was with a student friend, we ate while studying.”
“Hah! Pull other leg, it play ‘Gods of Moonworlds, Save Our Gracious King.’ Virginity of yours, severely missing. Rich patron find out, five years’ allowance of yours missing, too.”
“My friend and I just study together—”
“Taverner say oysters and wine you buy—”
“He was lying!” Laron shouted, thereby securing the attention of all those still in the refectory, and fetching back most of those who had left.
“You lying!” Starrakin shouted back, determined to ruin Laron, having failed to blackmail him. “You cheat patron, never pass sorcerer test, jiggy-bump old whore—”
Laron flung his tray at Starrakin’s face, then vaulted the table and came crashing down on top of him. They traded a few flailing blows then rolled apart, bounced to their feet, and squared off. Starrakin was over twice Laron’s weight, and as he charged he swung a punch. Laron spun on his right heel, deflected the blow with his right arm, then brought up his left hand to seize Starrakin’s wrist while he thrust his left hip into the Vindican’s stomach and heaved his arm down.
Starrakin cartwheeled in midair, slamming down on the refectory table behind Laron. The table collapsed noisily. Laron sprang on top of him and managed three punches to his face before two of the younger male academicians seized him by the arms and held him back, lifting him from the ground. Starrakin lay dazed, bruised and winded. Laron shouted and cursed, challenging Starrakin to a duel with a choice of any weapons. By now someone had fetched the nurse. Pellien entered, carrying her medicar’s bag, and began pushing through the crowd until she caught sight of Laron.
“They were fighting over some woman’s honor,” Lavenci whispered to her.
“Er, anyone I know?” Pellien managed.
“None of us knows her, but Laron still beat the Vindican senseless for saying she had bedded him.”
Yvendel burst through the circle of onlookers at this moment. “Precisely what is going on here?” she demanded.
“He attack me!” cried Starrakin.
“He questioned the honor of a lady!” countered Laron.
“Who threw the first blow?” asked Yvendel.
“He did!” said Laron.
“Hah! First he throw breakfast tray, kick me in face!” Starrakin countered.
Starrakin was pulled from the wreckage of the table and hauled to his feet. Laron was lowered to the floor and released.
“What did you say to Laron?” asked Yvendel.
“Say he was, last night, ah, don’t know polite word, ah, inseminating old whore.”
“And what basis did you have for—”
Laron’s etheric fireball exploded on the floor between Starrakin’s boots, setting both floorboards and boots alight. Starrakin leaped into the air and shrieked. There were several more moments of confusion before the flames were smothered. Starrakin and Laron were forced to kneel before Yvendel. Pellien cowered in the background, her arms folded between her two sets of breasts and her eyes firmly fixed on a gold leaf in the top right-hand corner of a tapestry on the wall behind Yvendel.
“This is a scholarly academy, not the royal court,” declared Yvendel firmly. “This sort of behavior is expressly prohibited.”
“He challenged a lady’s honor,” Laron said again.
“Indeed, as myself, my academicians, my students, my cook, my cleaner, my laundress, my nurse, most of my neighbors, and quite a few passersby all heard, very plainly. Who is she?”
“I cannot say.”
“Starrakin?”
“Not knowing. Guessing. Joking, I was.”
“So this lady’s identity was unknown to all but you, Laron, yet still you smashed a table, flung a casting in the dining hall, beat Starrakin to a pulp, then set him afire in defense of her honor? Just what does she mean to you?”
“She is a friend, no more. But if I do not defend her honor, who else will?”
Pellien shuddered, as a mixture of pride and guilt boiled through her.
“You attacked Starrakin, you began the fight,” Yvendel concluded. “Thus you are in breach of my rules for Academy students. You must leave within three days.”
Starrakin had the good sense not to grin. Laron gave this a moment’s thought, then made a quick tactical decision.
“I can ask for examinations and a test of my etheric control at any time,” he said firmly.
“For initiate level nine? You will fail the examinations as surely as the sun shines in the sky.”
“The sky is quite cloudy just now, rector. Besides, the status of my virginity will be determined on the third day, when the etheric control test is done. That will
vindicate the honor of my lady friend.”
Yvendel ordered the registrar to make the arrangements at once. As Pellien treated Starrakin’s injuries with her most sharply stinging ointments, her feelings of guilt, and of admiration for Laron, increased considerably.
In another part of the maze that was the Academy, Laron was standing before Yvendel.
“Laron, I agree, the Vindican is a turd, but my rules are my rules. You broke them in the most public manner possible. If you had fornicated with Lavenci on the breakfast table you would have had a better chance of staying.”
“I’m not her type.”
“Look, you already have almost enough background to attempt most examinations, and given a year I would be willing to let you try them, but a month?”
“Honor was involved.”
“‘The more that he talked of his honor, the faster I packed up my glassware.’ Well, I cannot be seen to favor you without provoking questions. Damn you, I could have made you a level ten, then an academician. You could have been lecturing here by this time next year.”
“This time next year I might not be quite myself, Learned Yvendel.”
There could not have been a greater contrast between the departure of Roval from Diomeda and that of Warsovran. The fifteen war galleys and ten dash galleys of Admiral Griffa’s Hellfire Squadron escorted his flagship as it glided out of the harbor between rows of deepwater traders, with drum and trumpet bands massed on their decks. The city had been run on a mercantile rationalist philosophy for over a century, meaning that money was seldom spent on anything that did not contribute to the making of yet more money. While bridge and road maintenance, drainage, and civil and military defense qualified because they kept the city and its citizens efficient, dry, and unmolested, large public spectacles did not. The occasional brawl, fire, execution, or royal wedding was all that usually passed for free entertainment, and Warsovran’s invasion was considered by most to be the greatest show since the great hurricane of 3097.
Thus all of Diomeda had turned out to watch and cheer as the Hellfire Squadron departed, and the forty foreign dignitaries of varied ranks and function who were coming along to see the power of Silverdeath demonstrated upon Helion were already impressed by the city’s apparent enthusiasm for the Torean emperor. As always, Einsel stood beside Warsovran, nervously rubbing his hands together.
“This will serve to show all those in Dawnlight they have already been defeated, and that the palace is their dungeon,” said Warsovran.
“They may soon surrender, and you can move into the palace yourself,” Einsel suggested.
“I hope they do not. Dawnlight is a perfect size, shape, and position for a single fire-circle to destroy. That way I can mingle the ashes of that stupid, stubborn king and that vile, scheming bitch who killed my son, all in a single column of fire stretching up to the sky. I shall do it when the armies of the Alliance kingdoms arrive. I suspect that they will turn around and go back across the desert.”
Einsel had long suspected such a use of Silverdeath was on Warsovran’s agenda, but he had scrupulously avoided the subject. Now he lapsed into a depressed and fearful silence.
Unbeknownst to all of them, the besieged Diomedan king also had decided that public spectacle was a sure path to popularity. He had already ordered his men to build an extreme-range catapult out of spare parts, and when Griffa’s squadron and the honor guard of ships had begun to form up, he decided that this was an ideal opportunity for a series of tests. The catapult fired its first shot, which was merely a rock of very precise weight. It flew well beyond the ring of encircling warships and even the honor guard, to splash harmlessly in open water. Few noticed, and nobody thought to have the two lines of ships break ranks. Six minutes later a second shot landed between the two lines, calling a lot more attention to itself and causing consternation among the commanders. Flags were run up, as signal trumpets were of no use above the bands.
Warsovran’s flagship was now passing and within range, and high on the walls of the distant palace a hasty consultation took place between the king and his engineers. Was it worth chancing a precious barrel of spirits wrapped in tar-soaked cloth on only the third test shot? The king decreed that it would be so. The barrel was loaded, the sightings were taken, the elevation cross-beam was adjusted and locked down. The crew captain ordered the barrel to be lit as the rangemaster held up his hand.
“Steady three, steady two, steady one—release!”
The barrel traced out a thin arc of black smoke across the overcast sky, overshot Warsovran’s flagship, but smashed squarely onto the deck of a deepwater trader in the guard of honor. Instantly the decks were ablaze, fire was pouring out of the scuppers, and sailors and bandsmen alike were leaping overboard with their hair and clothing on fire. The flagship passed the inferno without its oarsmen so much as missing a beat, but the wind blew the sooty smoke across the big galley.
A cheer went up from the palace, but the presence of several thousand elite marines among those ashore meant that any patriotic Diomedans there were somewhat more restrained in their reaction. The flagship was first in line, and Warsovran gave the order to raise the speed to battle pace. By the time the catapult on the palace tower was ready for a fourth shot, there were still five galleys within range, but Warsovran’s vessel was well clear. The blazing barrel flew high and far, and this time struck the quarterdeck of one of the galleys. Three-quarters of the ship’s officers had been assembled there in full armor and ceremonial finery for the procession, and were instantly drenched with flame. Knowing that four other galleys were in its wake, a junior officer on the maindeck rushed aft and into the flames. Seizing the abandoned steering bar, he sent the galley curving into one of the deepwater traders in the guard of honor. This cleared the channel for the remaining galleys, but left the galley and trader locked together, on fire and sinking.
The attack had caused considerable loss of face to Warsovran, but as far as the voyage to Helion was concerned, he had lost only one of his escort. The emperor was furious, but as for what his audience of foreign observers said or thought, he cared little.
“When we return, my very first act will be to burn that pile of degenerate, useless architecture to ash,” he muttered to Einsel as he stood at the sternrail. “I shall put Silverdeath on you, Einsel, and restore you to youth again. Would you like that?”
“Your majesty is too kind,” replied Einsel, who did not, in fact, appreciate the offer at all.
Back in the harbor, the honor guard was hastily breaking up and trying to get out of range of the new catapult. The besieging ships held steady, as they were clearly being ignored for the higher-profile targets. The king stood waving his ax atop one of the crenellations, while nobles and guardsmen alike raised their robes or chain-mail and bared their buttocks in the direction of the flagship.
A thousand yards out from the walls of the palace, a Sargolan mercenary sighted his crossbow through a farsight attached to the side. The farsight had been adjusted to allow for the drop over a thousand yards, and within the farsight a pair of stars had been marked by strands of silk glued down by resin. They were lined up on the triumphant king. The weapon had an ashwood stock that was a handspan across, and its bow was laminated battle-ax steel. The string was woven steel cable, which had taken a master armorer five months to make. In spite of its strength, however, the weapon had been made to very fine tolerances, and although heavy, it was mounted on a solid tripod. The water in the harbor was calm, apart from the waves raised from the distant galleys and traders. An apprentice watched for approaching waves; the mercenary tightened his finger on the release.
“Say when,” called the mercenary.
“Looking steady—shoot when ye will.”
The mercenary breathed out, then squeezed the release. The mercenary had been practicing for days, aiming just below the crenellations and hoping the guards would not notice. They had, in fact, noticed, but had assumed that someone was shooting with a weapon that did not have
quite the range to reach them. The precisely-made steel bolt struck the king in the stomach. He doubled over, dropping his ax, then toppled from the wall and began the long fall to the water below.
Had the king fallen backward, or had the defenders had the foresight to pretend that some mere minion had been killed, few would have believed that the Sargolan had killed the king. This was not meant to be. Five men jumped after the king at once, but all were killed by the long fall. Others began scrambling down the walls on ropes, but by now the dash galley captains had been alerted and were ordering their vessels into motion.
Two dash galleys were sunk and another five damaged in the frantic battle at the base of the palace walls, but the king’s body was recovered by the Toreans. He had been imprudent enough to be wearing gold robes and no armor, so that he floated after hitting the water. A dash galley was sent to fetch the flagship back, and Warsovran displayed King Rakera’s body to the overawed dignitaries that were his audience, explaining that the entire incident had been a ruse to lure the king into displaying himself in plain view.
Two hours later the squadron set off for Helion again. Ashore, the Sargolan mercenary sat on a large pair of scales as his weight in gold was measured out.
“Well, Einsel, it cost a good many lives and ships, but I successfully lured the king out into view for my marksman,” Warsovran declared with satisfaction.
“A most cunning and finely balanced scheme,” agreed Einsel, “but I am surprised that you did not share it with me in advance.”
There was the slightest of pauses before Warsovran replied. The emperor never said “ah” or “um”; in fact he only paused when thinking—and he thought very fast. Einsel knew this well, from his many years as court sorcerer and confidant.
“Even you need to be shown that I am full of surprises,” Warsovran now replied.
Einsel’s heart sank. Every other time he had wanted to surprise Einsel, the emperor had said, “Wait and see, you should like this.” Now Warsovran was improvising. This suggested that Warsovran did not always have his plans fully thought-out; in fact, he was probably a master at claiming credit for whatever accidents Fortune strewed in his path. This meant he was almost certainly liable to conduct dangerous experiments with Silverdeath again, even after Dawnlight was destroyed.
Voyage of the Shadowmoon Page 40