The Warrior Returns: Far Kingdoms #4 (The Far Kingdoms)

by Allan Cole

  He never thought it strange that his sister was a soldier. He found my taste for women rather than men the natural order of things. In fact he used it to his advantage during his wild seed-scattering youth by questioning me closely about the ways of women, figuring I’d be doubly wise in those matters.

  He understood instinctively that women in Orissa had only four roles they were allowed: Daughter, mother, wife or whore. A few, like myself, were permitted a fifth role as a member of the all-woman Maranon Guard that had defended the city for many generations, forswearing men for the honor. For most of us that was no sacrifice at all.

  In later years Amalric opened a sixth door to me. When I’d returned from my adventures in the WesternSeas I’d realized my profession as a soldier had to end. I’d seen too much flowing blood and been the cause of much of it.

  Besides, along with my newly discovered abilities as a wizard came the wander lust that is the curse of the Antero family. Familiar horizons quickly bored me. I yearned for the scented mysteries of fresh winds on virgin seas, the cast of the sun setting on distant mountains no man or woman had crossed before.

  Amalric won me an appointment as the first woman Evocator to lead an expedition. It wasn’t the favor that impressed me so much as that he’d thought of it at all. I hadn’t known myself what I’d wanted... what it was that troubled me. As an aside, I’ll note it’s no credit to the all-male leadership of Orissa that I’m still the only woman who has ever held that post.

  What I remember most about Amalric is his smile. By the gods, my brother had a smile! It was so broad and white in that beardless face of his, his features flushing nearly as red as his hair at the pleasure of seeing me.

  The last time I saw that smile was fifty years ago.

  I sailed into Orissa with four ships loaded to the rails with rich cargo. I had every reason to be pleased with myself. The trading expedition had been my most successful yet. I now had four such voyages under my belt, three as fleet Evocator and this last as chief trader as well.

  This meant not only had I been in charge of the sorcery used to protect our sailors and ships and goods but I’d been in command of all things dealing with commerce. Naturally, as is the custom of Orissan merchant expeditions, sailing and soldiery was dealt with by the captains and fighting masters. Since the sole purpose of such voyages is profit, however, my word held sway in almost all circumstances.

  It goes without saying that as an Antero sailing with a fleet flying our family flag my word had been taken very seriously indeed. I’d also had a lucky streak and my holds were swelling with all sorts of rare goods - colorful carpets and healing herbs, perfumes and raw gems, precious metals and great bundles of wondrous furs.

  All this was to my credit and I knew Amalric would be pleased that everyone in Orissa could see how correct he’d been to break all precedent to win me this berth. The point would be doubly hammered home because I was returning during the festival that ends the Harvest Month. Wine, sin, high spirits and money would be flowing freely as the whole city celebrated. As any merchant will tell you this is an excellent climate to set profit records, which would add even more to my prestige.

  But my emotional barometer, as they say, was set more to storm than fair when we sailed up to the docks. I traded my Evocator’s robes for a nondescript costume and slipped away as soon as we were tied up near the Antero warehouses, leaving the business of unloading and port inspections to Carale, captain of our tiny fleet.

  It was a warm sunny afternoon and the streets and taverns were already thronging with celebrants. I cut through Cheapside and the great Central Market.

  Drunken farmers reeled down the avenues flush with liquor and coin, ripe for a plucking by the Cheapside’s denizens who regularly harvested a different kind of crop this time of year.

  The atmosphere was a heady brew of incense, sacrificial smoke, roasted meats and nuts and the musk of women wearing masks and little else who beckoned from dark alleys where curtained carriages awaited. None of the carriages had horses to draw them, so it was easy to deduce that their only destination was a pleasurable ride on the soft mattresses inside.

  I saw dinksmen playing “find the pea” with greedy-eyed farmers. Shills cried out from gaming taverns, extolling the fortunes waiting to be made tossing dice, or playing Evocators and Demons with cards they guaranteed were the most honest in Orissa. Pickpockets worked the crowds, bumping into people or engaging them in conversation while their mates felt for their purses.

  There was music everywhere and I was hard pressed to push through the crowds who’d gathered to see troupes of entertainers juggle and vault and balance on ropes strung high across the streets. Small boys threw smoke bombs at the unwary, little girls with solemn faces plucked at their fathers’ sleeves, begging to be hoisted up so they could see. Brawny lads flexed their muscles for giggling maids in bright dresses and hair decked with strings of flowers and bells and beads.

  The main avenue was roped off for that night’s parade when all would be treated to fireworks and magical displays, culminating in a grand costume parade.

  I paid too much money to rent a spavined horse and set off for my brother’s villa, about an hour’s journey from Orissa. It came up lame about halfway there and I had to lead it along the dusty road. We made a sorry sight; the horse limping, me sweating under the midday sun and rolling back forth on legs made unsteady by long months at sea.

  As I approached the long low walls of his sprawling estate I could hear Omerye piping a sweet tune and I felt the weariness fall away. The breeze seemed cooler and the air had the scent of blossoming vines and fruited trees.

  Omerye must have sensed my presence for the tune shifted to a sailor’s welcome home and my heart stirred and my arms tingled to embrace my family. Amalric himself greeted me at the door and his pleasure was so great at seeing me that for a time I nearly forgot the main reason I’d hastened to see him.

  After I’d washed away the grime of the journey and donned a clean robe borrowed from Omerye, my brother and his wife led me out into the garden and my mother’s shrine.

  The flowering plants and trees had been one of my mother’s greatest joys and after she’d died, first my father and then Amalric had spent much effort to keep all the way she’d have preferred. Instead of the perfection you see at most grand homes there was a pleasant untidiness about the garden, making it feel more like a natural glade, rather than the artificial perfection favored in most grand homes. The paths were neat, the beds clean, but plants and trees were allowed to sprawl and some things were permitted to grow amongst others to purposefully mar the symmetry.

  I was the one responsible for my mother’s shrine, a simple stone edifice set under a small rose tree. A spell coaxed a trickle of water down the face of the stone, misting a fragrant moss.

  Amalric knew how much I loved this spot so he had the servants set up a picnic near the shrine. Bees fat with rose pollen and honey buzzed lazily about and a wasp - drunk from fermenting grapes on a nearby arbor - bumped against the stone, confused and a little angry that it didn’t part before him.

  My hosts filled me up with food and drink and family gossip. Omerye was as beautiful as ever, with long, slender arms, a smooth, lovely brow and tresses as red as Amalric’s. She wore a short white tunic with a modest neckline and the flair of her fine figure was emphasized by a simple sash of pale green.

  Then I saw a tell-tale sparkle in her eyes and knew she was anxious to tell me news of a more intimate sort. Although her belly was as flat as a maid’s I saw that her breasts seemed swollen under her tunic. And when she turned or lifted her arms she did so delicately as if her breasts were overly tender. To make certain of my diagnosis I bent my head, made a small magical motion with my fingers and listened.

  I could hear the flutter of a small beating heart. I raised my head, smiling, and Omerye clapped her hands in glee.

  “I see you’ve ferreted out our little secret, Rali,” she said.

  I laughed. “I
wouldn’t be much of a wizard if I hadn’t,” I said. “Although the blush of your cheeks and the sparkle in your eyes are a surer sign.”

  Amalric’s looked first at her, then at me. His brow furrowed, trying to puzzle out the private women’s signals Omerye and I were passing back and forth. Then he smiled as he got it.

  “You’re to be an aunt, sister dear,” he said. “If it’s a girl we plan to name it after you.”

  “You’d better have another child quick,” I said. “Unless I’ve lost my wizardly wits entirely, the little bud Omerye’s sprouting bears the sign of the turtle. Start thinking of boy’s names.”

  Omerye was delighted. “Then we shall name him Cligus after my grandfather,” she said. “I never knew him - he died shortly before I was born - but he left me these pipes.” She gestured at the delicate instrument by her side. “He was a court musician, you know. And he’d hoped the child my mother bore would have the gift to carry on the tradition.”

  Omerye was a daughter of Irayas, the land once known to us as the Far Kingdoms. My brother’d met and fallen in love with her when he and Janos Greycloak first arrived in those lands.

  “Cligus,” I repeated. “That has a nice firm sound to it.”

  “It means ‘forever faithful’ in our tongue,” Omerye said.

  “Now you’ll have a son to rear to take over the family business,” I told Amalric. “By and by you won’t have to take so many long trips away from Omerye.”

  My brother chuckled. “Planning my retirement already, are you? Well, the boy will have a long wait for I intend to sail for as many years as my luck holds out.”

  “O, tell us, Great Evocator,” Omyere intoned - only half in jest - “Will the gods favor Cligus? Cast his fortune for us, will you Rali dear?”

  I grumbled that I hadn’t come prepared, but secretly I was pleased. It’d be an honor to be the first to cast the bones for my brother’s heir. I fished out my favorite set of bones given to me by that master Evocator Lord Gamelan. They were so worn with use that the magical symbols were quite faint. From the pocket in my sleeve I drew out the collapsible casting cup I carry with me everywhere and unfolded it.

  Gamelan had taught me that the Evocator’s art is as much entertainment as wizardry so I put on a good show.

  Frowning in concentration, I blew on the bones, whispered a chant and plopped them into the cup. I rattled them about then scattered the bones on a stone table with a flourish.

  Caught up by my little act, Amalric and Omerye quickly bent forward to study the bones, although no one but a wizard or a very good witch can read such things. Then both of them looked up at me, smiles of anticipation on their faces.

  It’s a good thing I’d grown skilled in keeping my own features blank during such occasions. For my brother and his dear wife would have despaired if they seen in my eyes what I knew in my heart.

  The faint symbols staring up at me did not bode well. They were all demon horns.

  I grinned as hugely as I knew how and swept the bones up.

  “Your son will be a great credit to you,” I lied. “A worthy little fellow to bear the Antero name.”

  As all now know, Cligus would grow to be an even greater betrayer of my brother than Janos Greycloak. But how could I tell them that? And what could they have done if I had - drown the little bastard at birth?

  I think not.

  Praying to Te Date that my casting skills had failed me that day, I quickly buried my fears and let my dear ones chatter on as all young parents do, telling me of their hopes and plans for their offspring.

  When the dinner hour approached Omerye excused herself to oversee the cook and table servants. Amalric poured us both big goblets of that delicious wine my family grew in our vineyards. We eased back in our seats and I filled him in on the general business details of my voyage.

  “You’ve done very well, Rali,” he said when I was done. “But I sense you are not as pleased as you ought to be.”

  I shook my head. “There was a small incident near the end of the voyage,” I said, “that troubles me.”

  His eyebrows arched and he asked me to pray continue.

  And so I did.

  “The pirates jumped us,” I began, “just off Demon Point. Not far from AnteroBay...”

  On my previous voyage I’d pressed farther south than anyone had ever gone before. I’d gone beyond the realm of the Iofra, where the parched sands of the desert meet desolate pebbled beaches. Past the farthest point my father sailed in his youth. He’d been the first Orissan to visit the Ice Barbarians. I’d even crossed that mystical divide that seems to girdle the world, where strange starry constellations rule and tornadoes and water spouts twist in the opposite direction.

  In that mission I’d been concentrating on future trade rather than immediate profit. So I’d charmed, cozened or cowed many a fierce and hairy chieftain into the Antero merchant’s fold. I’d established trading posts, watched over by small compliments of our private security forces, all former guardsmen of the highest caliber.

  My efforts had paid off handsomely on the fourth trading mission and as we approached Demon Point, nearing the first of the southern ice fields, all the ships’ holds were bursting with goods. There were two trading posts yet to visit, the most remote of the ones I’d established. The first was at AnteroBay, which I’d named after my family.

  As we set course around the rocky shoals that edge Demon’s Point I was in the odd position of hoping that business had not gone as well at those two missions as they had at the others.

  “If only we’d taken a fifth ship,” I moaned to Captain Carale.

  Carale was a dark little man, with fierce mustaches and a morose temperament who saw ill where others saw gold.

  “Aye, ‘n that’d be one more t’ lose, Me Lady,” he said. “Th’ devil gods mus’ be drunk in their hellish taverns t’ let us get this far wit’ our skins still whole on our bones.”

  “Oh, pooh, Carale,” I replied. “My brother spent a fool’s fortune on sacrifices before the voyage began. And I’ve made every appeasement to every trumped up local shaman at every thatch and wattle temple from Lycanth to Hells Shoals. The only bad days we’ve seen were a week’s becalming off ShatterIsland.”

  “Mark me words, ‘n mark ‘em well,” Carale said, black brows crossing swords over his small sharp beak of a nose. “We’re in fer a spell o’ bad times, Me Lady. We’ll be wishin’ we’d a stayed home once th’ gods sober up.”

  I laughed. “We’ve had more good luck than is good for us, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Laugh all ye like, Me Lady,” Carale said. “But th’ facts o’ th’ matter are well known t’ all th’t’s been fated to sail th’ salty seas. A bit o’ a blow when th’ voyage begins spells sunny skies at th’ end.”

  “With that logic,” I said, “the richest trip you ever took started with the death of your mother.”

  “Twas me sister, Lady,” Carale answered. “Right bitch she was, if’n ye’ll beg me pardon. I was glad t’ see her in her grave. But she was close enough family wise fer her untimely death t’ see me through t’ th’ best days o’ me life.”

  Despite his gloomy nature Carale was one of my brother’s best captains and he was a sight to behold in a fight - a regular little sharp-edged whirlwind with a dagger and a sword.

  I wanted to laugh again but feared it’d only draw more dark comments. So instead I made a grim face and sighed.

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do but go on,” I said. “They’ll be expecting us and we’ve letters and supplies to deliver.”

  “Aye, that be our duty, Me Lady,” he said quite mournfully. “‘N it’ll never be said that th’ likes o’ Cap’n Carale ever shirked ‘is duty. ‘Sides, they’s prob’ly lonely so far from home. Seein’ us’ll bring a bit o’ cheer int’ their lives.”

  And with that he twisted his mustache points to make certain they drooped downward, then stalked away to make someone else’s hours miserable. As I watched him
slouch across the deck I thought the men at the outposts were likely to contemplate cutting short their lives if they looked too long on Carale’s grim features. I decided to make the visit as brief as possible. Perhaps I could get them to cache the less perishable goods they’d traded for and somehow I’d make room for the rest.

  The first place I considered was my own cabin, which was spacious enough and I could get the ship’s carpenter to knock up a little alcove near the entrance where I could store my Evocator’s chests. I’d hang a hammock over them and would sleep comfortably enough on the voyage home.

  The lookout shouted and Demon’s Point hove into view.

  It was a bleak hump of land jutting out from a range of desolate mountains. Two dark-eyed caves marked the highest region, separated by a huge black rocky hook that formed a nose. A twisted gash below made a bleak mouth and two black spears twisted up from the head like horns.