Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  Unwanted, the words began to seep into my consciousness. There were many verses, each about a new place the speaker traveled to, a woman he met there, and the attentions she lavished upon him before he continued his journey. Between the verses was a refrain:

  Girls the world over will roll in the clover

  With a man with a strut and a swagger.

  Purse above of gold and below of stone,

  I was well met by the girls of Marlon.

  The girls of Bruster pass muster,

  In Carvell, they are swell, as fine in sweet Carlomond.

  But the girls of Sera Serdent—breasts, sides, and eyes —

  Even Martin de Kolone would not pass them by.

  Even the Founder would have found them divine.

  But the eagle ladies let be, for all the ships in the sea,

  Else her purse will take your stones in fee.

  After several repetitions, Domon was belting out the chorus with lurid if atonal enthusiasm, but I heard nothing but the words themselves.

  Sera Serdent! My hands fell from my ears like the last leaves of autumn. After the false hope of Sari de Nanin, I was wary, but...it was possible. It was dreadful doggerel, of course. Poetic genius was rarely found writing bawdy tales. But here was, perhaps, a mention of Saradena. The repetition of initial syllables was very common over the course of several copyings —

  I pictured Domon eating and drinking as always while he read (and sang). I thought of the unsteadiness of his hand when he lifted the bottle. Maybe this was, like Sari de Nanin, a dead end, but...I met Hal’s gaze. “Get the book!”

  Without a word he ran to the shelf for another manuscript. Even in my distraction I admired his quick thinking. With surprisingly few complaints, he successfully traded it for the one Domon had been reading. It was not long before he handed the book to me, but my mind had already chased possibilities and implications through the Three Lands and beyond. He gave it to me open to where Domon had been reading, and there it was.

  I scanned both leaves, turning over the few following. A full eight pages of bawdy travel lyrics. No title for either the poem or the book, but that was usual. Books were so rare their owner would know what each was about without notation. Even in the more literate past, this appeared to have been true. I’d found no books in the Ragoni library with formal titles. In Vere, important books were marked on their binding to make them easier to locate on the shelf, and books read frequently tended to be referred to by implicit titles referring to their content...

  I forced my mind, skittering in excitement, back to the book. It was a compilatio. The poem was the fourth item in the codex. I leafed through the other works. As near as I could tell from a hasty inspection, they were unrelated. They were prose and about Ragoni lewdness rather than that encountered in travel. I might have to read them more closely later. I winced at the thought, if the reference were real.

  I moved to the poem. I’d been hesitating, steadying myself to be disappointed again. I took a deep breath, touching the first lines. It began with the speaker boasting he would tell of his travels throughout the whole world and the women he ‘met’ along the way. There certainly were a lot of them, I thought wryly, noting again the length of the poem. As was typical, the chorus was written after the first verse, but after each additional verse its repetition was indicated by a mark.

  I studied the refrain, the piece that had caught my attention during Domon’s singing. Marlon, Bruster, and Carvell were all part of the Three Lands. Carlomond and Sera Serdent were not, nor did those resemble names for any region of Valenna, Bruster, or Elbany. They could be other countries, outside the known lands. Sera Serdent could be a variation of Saradena...

  I checked rising hope. Better to eliminate other possibilities first. I did not want to spend time tracking down this reference only to discover that Sera Serdent was a minor town in Adrien.

  “Are there maps?” I asked Hal.

  “In the library?” His lips pursed. “Not that I’ve found. There might be something sketched in one of the unread vitae, but no formal, full maps.”

  I nodded. I’d expected as much. I’d glanced through nearly all the books and found no maps, formal or marginal.

  I rose to pace. The Roth had a map, a large tapestry hanging in his audience chamber. It was solely pictorial, of course. His mother had made the tapestry for her husband, and neither of them could read. She was Ragoni...might Philip have one? If he did, could I manage a look at it? No good. Philip could not read either. If he did have a map, it too would be pictorial. What I needed was a detailed, labeled map. Where was I going to find that?

  I stalked back and forth along the narrow room. Did I really need a map of the Three Lands before investigating the poem as a possible Saradena reference?

  I did. I must. The refrain implied Sera Serdent and Carlomond were countries. The other places mentioned were countries. But perhaps they weren’t. I would not give precious time to another false lead. Where was I going to find what I needed?

  Vere had such maps. For all the help that was.

  And—Martin de Kolone...

  I rubbed my forehead. Why was that name familiar?

  “A map,” I muttered aloud as I approached the entrance to the outer room. “A good map.”

  “My brother the king has maps.”

  I stopped short. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten both Hal and Domon. I stepped to the doorway.

  “My brother the king has maps,” Domon repeated, eyeing me. “As good as Vere’s. Better, I’d say. Why do you want them?”

  I eyed him back. I’d never trusted him. I trusted him less now. Could I afford to assume he was lying? If the maps existed, he could get them. If he wanted to.

  “The...song...you were singing,” I said. “It mentioned places I’ve never heard of. I’d like to know where they are.”

  His gaze met mine, suddenly clear, then unfocused again. But I recognized this glazed look, and was intrigued rather than troubled. For the first time, I saw the Vere-trained clerk in him.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “Marlon, Bruster, and Carvell, fine...but what are Carlomond and Sera Serdent? Hmm.” His gaze sharpened. “I’d like to know that too.” His leering smile returned. “This fellow thinks he’s found the most beautiful women in the world. And accommodating. Yes, I’d like to know where they are. Hal!” He bellowed this last.

  “Hal,” Domon said again as he appeared. “Let’s go see my brother.”

  Chapter XVI

  I paced the library furiously. Domon was going to consult Philip’s maps. I had not asked, nor been invited. He would have refused, and enjoyed refusing.

  If he claimed neither Carlomond nor Sera Serdent could be found, could I trust him? He might steer me wrong for his own amusement. Or he might simply overlook the names. He had no real reason to search carefully.

  And why, why, why was I certain I had seen the name Martin de Kolone before?

  It was three hours before they returned. It felt longer. I’d paced until my legs ached. Then, lacking other options, I returned to the vita I’d been working on before Domon began singing.

  I had more self control than I would have supposed. I was able to concentrate enough to read.

  At length I finished it, finding nothing about Saradena. I felt weary and disgruntled, persuaded I should not have told Domon why I wanted the maps. Mistress Baynor could perhaps have convinced Philip to let me see them. I was not at all certain that was true. Still, maybe she and I could have thought of something.

  I was trying to force myself to face the next vita when the door opened. I heard the now-familiar sounds of Domon settling himself at his table. I growled Brusterian epithets. He wasn’t even going to tell me what he’d found.

  Hal stepped through the doorway. Three large rolls of parchment lay cradled in his arms.

  I jumped up. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “My lord Philip’s maps. All of them.”

  I silently withdrew the insults I’d hurled at Dom
on. Some of them.

  He set them on the table. I pounced, unrolling the first with almost-shaking hands. Domon had not exaggerated. Or not much. It was a handsome map, nearly as fine as Vere’s. It was large, the width of a full skin, a detailed portrayal of the provinces and cities of Ragonne, beautifully illuminated.

  And labeled. The writing was small and neat, a brilliant black, but the letters were so archaically formed I had trouble reading them. These maps were old. Not Philip, nor his father, nor his grandfather, had commissioned them. Like the books, they were an inherited treasure. But recognizing the maps’ practical worth, Philip and his predecessors had valued them more than the books. Of course, they could scarcely have valued them less.

  “Domon did not find Carlomond or Sera Serdent,” Hal said as I opened the second map.

  Just as beautifully drawn, its writing equally old fashioned, it showed the sixteen kingdoms of Valenna. I pressed my knuckles to my lips. Every province. Every city.

  “I convinced Domon to ask the king for leave to bring the maps here so you could look as well.” His voiced lowered. “I am not certain if Domon is interested because you are or because of the song’s claims about the women there. But he wouldn’t mind if you found them for him.”

  I unrolled the third, which showed the southernmost kingdoms of Valenna, along with Elbany, and to the south and east, Bruster. I brushed my fingertips across the clustered islands, trying not to think of the glinting beauty of the Black Keep in the afternoon sun, the feel of the black sand shore beneath my boots, the touch of my brother Utor’s hand correcting my grip on a knife hilt.

  “We have to search quickly,” Hal continued. “King Philip wants his maps back before his evening meal. That gives us just over an hour.”

  “Well done,” I murmured, gently pulling the map of the kingdoms of Valenna towards me. One hour.

  ***

  A difficult task and little time to accomplish it can make hours fly. But sometimes, focused attention on that task makes time seem longer. As I studied the map, the moments drew themselves out, like rain dripping from the eaves. Hal sat beside me and began searching the map of lower Valenna, Elbany, and Bruster.

  I worked systematically, difficult as that was since I knew time was short. All my instincts clamored to scan the parchment wildly, as if the names would leap out at me if my gaze fell upon them. Training overmastered the urge. I ran my fingers, lightly and slowly, over the map from left to right, moving a little further with each pass. Time stretched like a cat in summer.

  Hal finished his map and moved to the one of Ragonne, but when I finished the Valenna map, I began again. If they were anywhere, they would be here. It was more detailed than I had dared hope. Each kingdom’s provinces, their few cities, all but the most minor villages, even informal local nicknames for certain areas, were included. But none were Sera Serdent or Carlomond...

  Hal touched my arm. “Lady? It is time. I need to return the maps now.”

  No—just a few more minutes—one minute—

  “Lady...” His tone held reproach.

  I looked up. I hadn’t found them. That was, I supposed, a good thing. If neither appeared in maps of the Three Lands, they might well be other countries. Elsewhere. But at that moment, it didn’t feel good. I had to give the maps back.

  I stood, looking over the map of Valenna once more before I must roll it up. Focusing on the words, I’d not appreciated its sheer loveliness. Vere’s were scarcely finer. Brusterians made maps, but they were pragmatic, sketchily drawn in black ink, pictorial only, although my father had had one made that included wording. The Ragoni maps underlined in gold the name of the city where each king made his home, and the names of the provinces in red. The sea-mountains, running along the sides of the southernmost kingdoms, were drawn in dark grey, not the black ink the names were written in. They jutted up from the blue sea, their low peaks looking nearly as ragged and sharp as the real mountains—

  I felt my mouth fall open. That blue.

  Brusterian exclamations, both sacred and profane, trickled out. How could I have stared at the map for an hour, and not seen it?

  The names of the seas were written not in the pale blue-green any Vere-trained scribe could make, but the spring-sky blue I had seen only once before. On the Saradenian letter. I touched it, with the barest tip of one finger. Strictly speaking the Vere ink was a better match for the real color of the sea, but no scribe would ever use it if this blue were at hand.

  We were right.

  I leaned heavily on the table, hands braced on either side of the map. They were right, the Roth and lady Elsbeth. And me.

  We’d supposed the wording of the Saradenian threat meant we had once known of and had dealings with Saradena. The letter also implied that from the Saradenians’ perspective there had been an offense committed by us for which they now demanded redress or revenge. The map gave no indication, of course, what that offense might have been. But it proved our deduction. We did know them. Well enough to have learned the secret of making this ink from them.

  Or perhaps they learned it from us! The Saradenians knew more now, but that might not have been true in the past. Someone in the Three Lands had made this exquisite map.

  Hal touched my arm again. “I have to take the maps back. Did you find anything?”

  “No,” I said slowly, weighing whether to tell him about the ink. “And yes.”

  His head tipped inquisitively.

  “I didn’t find Carlomond or Sera Serdent.” I tapped the illuminated water. “But this blue—this is Saradenian blue.” I explained the distinctive ink on the Saradenian letter, and what it meant, finding it here.

  “So now you know your search has something to find.”

  “Maybe.” With a last long admiration of the blue, I rolled up the map. “We knew them. Now we know that. Surely something was written about them. But have any of those books survived?”

  He gathered the maps up. I followed him into the outer room. I couldn’t keep them but I didn’t want to lose sight of them before I had to.

  Domon looked up. “Did you find them?”

  I shook my head. “No.” I paused, deciding what to tell him. Something untrue might be best, given his wagging tongue. “Perhaps they’re made-up places, for the purposes of the poem.”

  His derisive laughter interrupted me. “That could be true. But you don’t think so.”

  “I assure you—”

  He sneered. “You lie badly. Princess.”

  It was a well-chosen shot. I blinked, eyeing him with new caution. He was disturbingly cogent when his brain was drier than usual.

  He laughed again, enjoying my consternation. “I’d say it means Orlo’s ship was real. And the letter it brought.”

  I gaped. Was the Saradenian letter still a secret from anyone? But the next instant I remembered what Orlo had said. Domon—Philip’s clerk—was well into his day’s bottle when I got there, but it sobered him up in a hurry.

  “Yes,” I said, grudgingly acknowledging what he already knew. I did not mention the blue ink. Then I recalled his other conclusion, the false one. “Orlo plans no move against Philip.”

  He tipped his head back, studying me. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you can keep your own counsel when you choose. Any decent tactician knows an outward threat is an excellent time for an inward challenge. Orlo is a very good tactician.”

  “But—”

  “Enough. Orlo may be planning nothing, as you claim. I suspect otherwise, as I have told my brother.”

  I resisted the urge to speak. No words of mine could dissuade him, and really, what proof did I have of Orlo’s fealty but the impression, upon short acquaintance, of a man who planted his loyalties so deep no swirling winds of fortune would shake them?

  He moved towards the door. Hal followed, the maps in his arms.

  “Wait,” I said, as Domon’s hand touched the latch.

  He looked back.

  “The maps,” I said. “Does Philip know...?” I l
et my voice trail off, unable to put into words the depth of what Philip should realize, and most likely did not.

  I saw the clerk’s gleam in his eyes once more. “No. He values them for their usefulness. They’re much older than he supposes.” His voice rang with scholarly confidence, and I shook my head at the strangeness of hearing it from him. “Philip has no idea of their uniqueness. But I do.”

  I was not sure what he meant, or meant to imply. I was glad when, after another moment, he opened the door and jerked his head at Hal, and they left. I could see, finally, why he’d been sent to Vere.

  ***

  Weary of pacing the library, I returned to my chamber and paced the erstwhile storeroom, the smell of last year’s apples lingering in the air. The poem mentioned not one, but two unknown countries. Were they allies? Did the threat from Saradena imply a threat from Carlomond as well? Or might Saradena and Carlomond be enemies? If so, could Carlomond be enlisted as our ally against Saradena?

  I walked as if I were trying to wear a groove in the floor, questions pelting through my mind.

  I should search for Carlomond as well as Saradena. Had I seen anything in what I’d already read that referred to Carlomond? What was Martin de Kolone the Founder of? The speaker considered Martin a famous enough person to use as a metaphor, and that his audience would be familiar with Carlomond, Sera Serdent, and Martin de Kolone. But that need not mean a connection existed amongst them. The parts of the Three Lands also mentioned certainly didn’t have any.

  I swore until I ran out of breath, if not invective, and only the sounds of my footsteps accompanied me. Martin de Kolone. I’d seen that name before. The memory had flown through my mind like an arrow. I could recall its position on the page, the look of the script, but not the book.

  He must be Ragoni, having been born in or living in the region Orlo now governed. ‘Kolone’ was clearly a variant of ‘Kolon’. He need not be noble. Anyone could and did identify themselves by where they lived. Martin might have been a fishmonger, called ‘of Kolon’ to differentiate him from another fishmonger named Martin who lived in Tiland.