Magesong

by James R. Sanford

  "It, ah, is an old sprain," Farlo muttered. "I always keep the arm wrapped; you've just never seen me with my shirt off."

  Reyin finished dressing. "Well then, off I go."

  A bath cost a penny, two for clean water, another to have it heated, another if you wanted soap. He spent the four pennies, but had no time to soak in steamy comfort. He had to meet the perspective buyer.

  The tax-collector liked the little skiff. When he found that Reyin didn't have a bill of sale or any other proof of ownership, he feigned concern and dickered about the price, saying that he would have to pay a lawyer to assure the legality of the transaction. Reyin considered the trouble of finding another buyer. In the end, he accepted two gold crowns for Dimietri's boat, more than enough for the passage to Ava, yet less than half the value of the skiff.

  The next day they lugged their gear to the ship, Tarradid, that would take them south. The square-rigged vessel, three-masted and wide abeam, rode low in the water. The galley would not be serving until they set sail, so Reyin and Farlo went in search of simple foodstuffs for their day at anchor.

  Farlo seemed better, almost cheerful, as they paid a fair price for steamed clams at a quay-side market. A large merchantman flying the colors of Sevdin, the sister city-state of Kandin, had docked that morning. Now, as the two travellers made their way back to Tarradid, a line of filthy men in rags and shackles, dark men from the south, stretched from the merchant ship along the pier to a place where thick-limbed men waited among benches, barrels of water, and a huge iron tub filled with red-hot coals. Other men armed with swords and pikes stood nearby.

  An officer of some sort, sitting at a little table with a book and quill, called out, and a man with a billy club in his fist sent the first prisoner forward. He was sat on a bench and his head held by one of the men while a skinny old fellow tattooed something on his face below the left eye. The thin old man did this quickly, without a care, as if he had done it hundreds and hundreds of times. The second prisoner was brought forward while the first was moved to another bench to have his right arm tied down there. A short fat man wearing heavy work-gloves yanked a glowing iron from the hot coals and branded the retch on his forearm with a marked lack of precision. The branded man tried to hold back his scream. The noise he made through his clenched teeth was an inhuman sound.

  Reyin stopped. "Who are they?"

  "The condemned," Farlo answered.

  "Criminals?"

  "Mostly. All have been sentenced to life in the mines of the Pallenborne."

  "The iron mines?"

  "Yes. That's why they tattoo 'em on the face as well. There's accidents all the time; an arm can get taken off easy down there. Few prisoners live more than a year or two."

  Reyin looked at the scarred tissue beneath Farlo's left eye, glanced at his right forearm. "I suppose a man would do anything to get out of a place like that."

  "I would think so," Farlo said, his face carved of wood. He turned and walked on.

  Reyin took quick steps to stay with him. "I have heard of ruthless governors who send their enemies there."

  "That happens to some political prisoners," Farlo said in an expressionless tone. "But a lot of them that's in the mines deserve it. I suppose that a few of them aren't guilty, that they're just fools caught in the blind workings of the state." Their boot heels drummed out a few staccato measures before he spoke again. "Yes. Some go mad down there. You would likely do anything to get out. Even if you were falsely accused, you might go as far as kill another man. A funny choice: innocent and imprisoned, or guilty and free."

  That evening, as they stood at the rail watching the play of lamplight on the pier below, Reyin said, "I can make this voyage alone, Farlo. I'm on familiar roads now. You should buy a mule and some grain, and go back home to Lovisa. You could go right now — take my pistol if you like."

  "No, I've decided."

  "I do not need your help. You're taking a risk for no good reason."

  Farlo stared out at the shadow city beyond the lights of the harbor road. "I have reason."

  The full crew had come aboard by then. As Reyin and Farlo entered the forecastle they found a maze of sea chests and small barrels cramped with wiry men unpacking duffels, slinging hammocks, cursing, laughing, washing, wagering at cards, sleeping, and mending old clothing with needle and thread. Most went barefoot, their toes gnarled as tree bark, the bottoms of their feet like old pieces of worn hide. All of them looked burned by years on the ocean. In the middle of the fracas stood a large, long-armed man in his late twenties called Tolan, who told them where to stow their gear and where to sleep. He stood taller than Farlo and looked stronger. Although he had the dark features of a Syrolian, his hair was a tangle of yellow curls, and while he spoke Avic as a native, his voice distantly echoed a Baskillian tongue as he told them a few rules of the forecastle.

  "So you must be the boatswain's mate then," Farlo said to him.

  "No," Tolan answered slowly, taking a step toward Farlo, "just a common seaman. The lower deck always elects me to speak for them. I'm speaking for them now."

  Tolan and Farlo stood too close for Reyin to be comfortable. Those nearby had fallen silent.

  "As you say," Farlo muttered, turning to the niche Tolan had showed them. But later, when no one watched, Farlo stared at him with glossy eyes and a faint smile.

  CHAPTER 8: Shepherd

  Aksel counted heads once again as the upper valley fell completely into shadow. Yes, one missing — that confounded beast with the white stippling and one black horn — must have slipped away when he was chatting with the Svorden lad. He scanned the far hillside. The cloud cover had broken to the east and a gibbous moon had risen late in the afternoon, but that would not replace the sunlight he was losing. He scanned the lower end of the pasture. There was the accursed goat, wandering into a wooded saddle between two hills.

  He should have brought the dogs. He had been angry at Jonn, though his son could not help being what he was, and he had been angry at the dogs for not staying with the herd. He had been angry with himself and only wanted to be alone with his goats. And now he was peeved with himself again. If he had brought just one dog he wouldn't have to keep chasing the strays.

  He thought about the way Syliva had looked at him when he had spoken harshly to Jonn. He should have told her that he didn't want to say things like that to his son, that the drought conjured devils out of him. He felt like a mountain pressed down on him, like a giant held his head, its grip getting tighter each day. Think and think as he did, he found no answers within himself. Syliva could not, or would not see past the next few months. She couldn't look to the next winter when they would have no fodder for the animals, when they would have to slaughter the entire flock for food, and then, even if the rains came the following spring, they might be too weak or sick to work. They would die before any harvest could come.

  As he approached the first hillock, the stray goat jumped and darted into the trees, then another movement: the shadow of a beast following swiftly.

  Aksel broke into a sprint. Stopping at the edge of the woods, he heard terrified bleating above a thrashing sound, then a muffled animal scream. He charged into the dusky thicket, holding his staff like a spear. The goat was trapped in a dense tangle of barbed vines, a shaggy beast lunging and snapping at its neck with a fang-lined muzzle.

  Aksel slid to a stop. It was no kind of wild dog. It was a fenwolf, a big one, nearly eight stone. The fenwolf lunged again, but it seemed to be only a clever feint designed to drive the panicked goat deeper into the bramble. It wanted its prey to become fully ensnared, easy to kill.

  Shouting, "Hayah-hah," Aksel struck the ground in front of him with his staff, thinking the scavenger would turn and flee. Instead the fenwolf charged, its yellow eyes ablaze, and when Aksel thrust at it the creature dodged past the tip of his walking staff and closed its jaws around his ankle. Surprised, Aksel twisted, swinging the staff hard into the fenwolf's flank. The fenwolf yelped, releasing its
grip, springing away as Aksel wildly swung again and lost his balance, falling back into the tangle of vines where the bleating goat still struggled.

  He jumped to his feet, sharp thorns raking his knees and forearms and face. The fenwolf was gone.

  Best not to wait around here bleeding though, those things usually hunt in mated pairs. He quickly picked his way out of the barbed vines, soothed the trapped goat, and cut it out of the bramble with his skinning knife. The animal was unhurt, not a nick on it. That was good. He lead it back to the herd.

  Later, by the light of his campfire, Aksel found tooth marks on his boots, but none that had punctured the inner lining. He carefully examined his ankle — a few tiny bruises, but no broken skin except for a long deep scratch on his lower calf, just above the boot top. It had to be from a thorn. He rinsed his lower leg in fresh water anyway. You couldn't be too thorough after a brush with a fenwolf, the filthy, disease-ridden beasts. One bite caused a fever that brought madness and death.

  3rd INTERLUDE: Solicitations

  Ephemeris adjusted his hat and bent the absurdly long peacock feather so that it drooped over his left shoulder. Ridiculous costume — brocaded jacket, shirt of pleated taffeta, silk leggings — and hot, too, on a summer evening. He looked again out the window of the carriage and saw that the front of the large, columned building stood quiet now. Most of the guests had already arrived.

  He called up to the driver, "I am ready now."

  The driver clucked and the polished two-horse carriage rolled down the cobbled street and into the driveway of the Royal Library. The footman opened the door and Ephemeris stepped out, trying to affect a look of boredom. As he approached the entrance a pair of uniformed men bowed and opened the wide double doors. He went past them thinking how easy it was if you just looked the part, when a well-dressed young man intercepted him in the foyer.

  "The reception for the Royal Historical Society?" he asked.

  “Yes," Ephemeris said with a patient smile.

  "The grand hall, right through there, sir."

  "Thank you, ah, what is your name?"

  "Joffa, sir, assistant librarian."

  "Have you lived here in Mira-Delvin a long time, Mr. Joffa?"

  "Yes sir, all my life."

  "And are you personally acquainted with Airen Libac?"

  "Why yes I am. I've helped him in his research a number of times."

  Ephemeris looked around casually. No one was there. They were standing still. Perhaps he could touch this fellow's mind with the Eye. Not that he truly needed young Joffa; he could surely just walk up to Libac and introduce himself. But an introduction from an esteemed librarian would look very good, and getting Libac alone would be difficult without it. Besides, Joffa might prove to be a valuable informant in the days to come.

  "You have? Then I would very much like your opinion about a small artifact I found in the city of Xanxin." He took out a small piece of glass quartz and held it up in front of the young man's eyes. Sharply angular, with many facets, it threw fragments of light onto his face. Ephemeris had spent a month of long nights in the Sardonyx Tower cutting it just so and imbuing it with glamour.

  "If you look deeply into this, you can see three ancient hieroglyphs in the center."

  The young man stared at the crystal, and Ephemeris looked through it and into his eyes. He could feel Joffa sliding into a kaleidoscope that washed away certain fears and painted the blank space there with new feelings. A brightness. A kind of faith.

  Now he had him. It only remained to close the trap.

  "The glyphs represent three ancient words," he said softly, for here was the fix of the rune, "Yaskarr, Omfinir, and — "

  "There you are, Joffa," came a high, piercing voice.

  Joffa looked up at once, breaking the spell. A very tall man, almost emaciated in his thinness, stood in a doorway at the far end of the foyer.

  "I need you right away, if you please."

  Joffa looked at Ephemeris, uncertain about what he had been saying. "Excuse me, sir," he said with a polite nod, "I must take my leave."

  Ephemeris watched him go. He had only needed another second. No matter, he thought. No matter at all.

  Inside the grand hall the Royal Historical Society had just finished making some sort of presentation, and now the lords and ladies mingled in their finery, accepting goblets of wine from waiters in powdered wigs. Ephemeris asked a young woman to point out Mr. Libac, and at last he got a look at the renowned treasure hunter. Like Ephemeris himself, the man had a rather plain appearance: a little pudgy with a receding hairline. Put him in commoner's clothing and you would never pick him out of a crowd.

  As Libac bowed away from his present conversation, Ephemeris began to move toward him, side-stepping through the social melee. He lost sight of the man for a moment, then saw him again as Libac stepped out a side door. Walking as fast as he dared, Ephemeris got to a window in time to see him disappear into a small outbuilding.

  Had to go to the privy, eh? Ephemeris smiled as he hurried to the same side door. Maybe he would get more from this than simply meeting the man. He stepped outside and ran the rest of the way to the low stone building thinking that if anyone noticed, at least it wouldn't seem suspicious.

  He slipped inside silently. A plush entry provided coat racks and basins of water with towels, but no attendant. Excellent. He listened at the curtain, sensing no one there besides Libac. He looked back outside and found that no one was coming. He waited.

  When Airen Libac stepped out from behind the curtain, Ephemeris closed the door behind him, like he had just come in. "Good evening, sir," he said, bowing curtly. He started to slide past into the privy when he let his eyes widen with recognition. "You are Mr. Libac, are you not?"

  "Yes I am."

  "How fortuitous to run into you. We've never met, but I know you by reputation, sir. My name is Orez."

  "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Orez."

  "I have a favor to entreat of you, sir," he said, holding up the small piece of fine quartz. "I found this in a ruin near the city of Xanxin. If you look deeply into its center, you can see three ancient glyphs."

  The moon had set just after twilight, and Ephemeris walked the docks in the full black of night. After the reception, he had told the carriage driver to drop him at a seaside hotel. He wanted no one, not even a hired driver, to connect him to a felucca from the east. He peered ahead at his ship, seeing it dimly, carved from darkness by the light of a single lamp that hung from the rigging.

  The mate stood waiting for him at the top of the gangplank.

  "There's somebody here," he said softly, nodding toward a bearded man in a green coat sitting beneath the awning. "A customs official. Tryin' to squeeze a little juice from us. I would've paid him off and sent him on his way already, but he wants half a crown. I thought I'd better wait for you, Captain."

  Ephemeris shook his head wearily. "I must begin some important work very early tomorrow. I'm going to my cabin, just pay the swine." He took one step then froze, his face stiffening.

  "No, wait." he said icily. "Bring him in to see me. You and Malor."

  He marched to his cabin, a little hut built onto the deck just in front of the tiller. He hurled the peacock-feathered hat aside with a snarl, sat behind his small writing desk and waited. A moment later they brought the man in, his smile wide between thick black whiskers and a bulbous nose.

  "Ah, there you are. If you will allow, I am Ferra Petrasco, customs inspector," he said, extending his hand. "It is pleasant to meet you, Captain . . . er, ah."

  Ephemeris sat motionless, staring at him. Sensing their Captain's mood, the two sailors flanking the customs man kept very still, and Petrasco quickly became uneasy that they had not been dismissed. The mate was not of slight build, and Malor, a huge man with arms that could crush a hogshead, stood so tall that the ceiling forced him to stoop.

  "I go to bed early, so I will skip the pleasantries," Ephemeris said, snipping off the end of each word. "You w
ant what, something like ten ducats from me? That is, ah, too much tax."

  "Well sir, like I was telling your first mate here, you've failed to report your cargo to the customs house."

  "This is a private ship. We carry no cargo."

  "I think that would be difficult to prove, Captain. I mean, this ain't exactly the kind of ship anyone would use for a yacht. With your low freeboard and shallow draft this ship has to be a nightmare in a storm. And only this tiny cabin for yourself? I've seen more luxuries on a slave galley. No, this is a sailor's vessel and a rough one at that. And something else caught my eye. You're riding too low in the water to have an empty hold."

  "I told him," the mate said, looking at the customs man, "that we carried over a ton of foodstuffs as well as five hundred gallons of fresh water."

  "This is absurd," Ephemeris said, "one of your agents already inspected the hold, before we ever touched shore."

  "That's so," Petrasco crooned, "but I could come back in the morning with a boarding party for another look. And I'm ever so certain that I would find some heinous little thing, such as — "

  "Shut up!" Ephemeris said savagely, coming to his feet. "There will be no more out of you, you filthy pig."

  The stunned customs man, his face screwed up in indignation, opened his mouth but Ephemeris cut him off, saying to the two sailors, "Hold him." Before he could move, they had his arms pinned behind his back.

  Ephemeris came around the desk, and the customs man actually barked out a short laugh.

  "Oh, now you've done it. Now you have made a real mistake. This one will cost you more like a hundred crowns, if you ever get your ship back." A troubling thought crossed his mind, but he voiced it defiantly. "Unless you mean to murder me."

  "No," Ephemeris said, drawing from under his jacket a curved dagger, its handle made of human bone. "I mean to do much worse than that."

  Petrasco looked at him and saw the truth of it in his eyes. "Help!" he screamed, struggling wildly so that even Malor strained to hold him still. "Murder! Help me!"