Not that he had any doubts as to the young northman’s proficiency as a sailor. In fact, the root of his jealousy was quite the opposite—Brand was such a fine sailor that he was bound to gain stature in the eyes of the Princess Alicia. Keane, on the other hand, would go on being … well, Keane.
Still, there was no question of him remaining behind. He thought of Alicia, touching the private part of his heart, the only place where he dared admit the truth. Keane had finally allowed himself to admit that he loved the princess, had loved her since she was little more than a girl. Always he had remained aloof, keeping this part of himself locked away, but he could no longer deny it. He would follow Alicia Kendrick to the farthest corner of the Realms if she set out in that direction.
Of course, Brandon Olafsson would probably be there waiting for them, Keane reflected ruefully. He came to the same woeful conclusion when he considered his other competitor. Hanrald, Earl of Fairheight, seemed like such a confident and capable suitor, and if he didn’t press his case with as much vigor as Brandon, he remained a strong and manly presence. Gloomily the magic-user pondered his rivals—if he himself could even be called a participant in that contest.
There were times when he felt that such was not the case. He thought of Alicia’s undiluted vitality. In the Palace of the Ages, she had been the one to voice the humans’ resentment of Llewyrr arrogance. He had admired her when she had challenged the Serene Matriarch, even as he realized that he could not have uttered such statements himself.
Both the other men were closer to Alicia’s age at twenty, and while Keane had a mere eight years on them, there were times when he felt three decades older. Alicia, Brand, and Hanrald were also all people of action. The two Ffolk were splendid riders, the northman a magnificent sea captain. Keane, on the contrary, felt equally uncomfortable bouncing on horseback or pitching deck.
Stop this! Angrily he rebuked himself, realizing that he might precipitate a dive into a dangerous depression. Fifteen minutes had passed since last he had dipped his quill into the inkwell! With a shake of his head, he forced himself to look at his work. Eventually the discipline that had enabled him, at a relatively young age, to master many spells that most magic-users never learned in all their lives allowed him to focus on his preparations.
Three hours later, he was done. He took another fifteen minutes to shave and don a clean tunic and trousers, arriving in the great hall just as the main course—roasts of venison and boar—was served.
As luck would have it, Hanrald had saved him a place at the head table, placing the tutor between the earl himself and Deirdre. Brigit and Alicia sat across the table from them.
“Nice you could join us,” said Alicia, her tone cool. Obviously she had expected him earlier.
“I had a little work to do … if I’m going to be ready to sail tomorrow.”
“At least we have an afternoon tide,” Brandon noted, from down the table. He leaned forward and grinned at Keane. He obviously enjoyed the mage’s exchange with Alicia.
“I’ll be ready,” Keane promised, his tone more grim than he intended. He saw Alicia looking at him curiously. Was that concern on her face or annoyance?
Servingmaids brought more pitchers of ale and a few bottles of Calishite rum. They drank toasts with the latter and washed down the rum with the former.
As they talked and ate, Keane found his eyes drawn to Brigit. The elfwoman was mostly silent, speaking only in answer to questions, and then in a soft tone that precluded further discussion in the crowded hall.
She really is beautiful, he realized. For once, the sister knight did not wear her silvered plate mail. Her petite form, clad in a gauzy dress, seemed almost frail by comparison to the robust, though hardly large, Alicia. Both of them had light-colored hair, but Alicia’s was tinged with red and long, carelessly bound with a scarf that left many rogue strands free to tickle her cheeks and sweep across her shoulders. Brigit’s, on the other hand, curled softly in a much shorter cut. When she wore her helm, none of the thin strands, as yellow as spun gold, were visible. Though the elfwoman didn’t bind it in any visible way, her hair lay soft and lightly curling against her scalp, hiding the tips of her pointed ears and accentuating the delicate shape of her features.
Brigit joined Alicia for each toast, and as the evening wore on, the two females grew louder and more boisterous. Gradually the sister knight’s elven reserve dropped away, and when she and Alicia joined Tavish for a ribald chorus of “The Murderous Maid,” the whole hall resounded with cheers.
“Humans!” cried Brigit, slowly stifling her laughter as she settled back into her chair. “I wouldn’t have believed it, but your festive spirit is catching!”
“Obviously,” murmured Deirdre, too quietly for anyone but Keane to hear. The mage cast a quick look at the princess, who had been silent during the course of the dinner.
“You should try it,” Keane couldn’t resist pointing out.
Deirdre looked at him frankly, her lip curling into a faint sneer. “Some of us have more important things to do.”
Keane looked at his former student with concern. The chaos of the banquet was not the place to talk with her. Tomorrow, he told himself—before we sail—I will speak with her. She hasn’t listened before, but perhaps …
“… when the firbolgs saw the Sisters of Synnoria ride over the hill, their faces dropped into every expression of astonishment you could imagine.” Keane looked up, realizing that Queen Robyn was relating the story of the battle of Freeman’s Down, the first time she and Tristan had fought with the aid of Brigit and the sister knights.
“It was a costly day,” continued the queen, her voice dropping sadly. “Many brave Ffolk perished at the ditch, and one of the knights, fell, too. But we held them.”
“Just as we’ll hold them now,” concluded Alicia softly. “May the goddess protect our efforts!”
* * * * *
Through the mirror of scrying, Talos watched the development of the humans’ plans. Many options existed for thwarting those plans. Naturally the one he selected called for the use of his favorite avatar. Coss-Axell-Sinioth, now dwelling as master of the Coral Kingdom, would again serve his god in Corwell.
The command of Talos penetrated the depths of the sea, tickling the evil brain of his avatar as Sinioth lolled among the coral pillars of his submarine grotto. The giant squid oozed upward from the bottom, into the pale green of the shallows, as if here it could better absorb the message of its evil god.
“Arise, Coss-Axell-Sinioth, and hear the words of your master!”
“Speak, O Awesome One, and I obey!”
“You will again don the guise of a man,” ordered Talos. “And quickly. You must go ashore in Corwell. There is a task you must do for me there.…”
When Sinioth heard the wishes of Talos, he could only gurgle in appreciative glee.
9
Corwell Town
The streets of Corwell were dark and generally abandoned at this late hour. A few guardsmen marched about, spending most of their time lingering beneath the occasional oil street-lamps, while late-night revelers stumbled from this inn to that tavern, seeking a little more entertainment before giving themselves up to the night.
Of course, every decent Ffolk was home in bed—at least, that would have been the opinion expressed by any city guard one bothered to ask. And for the most part, the man-at-arms would have been right.
This was especially so in the case of one dark side street, and a particularly ill-lighted tavern at the blackest end of that dingy lane, a place frequented by the lowest class of sailors and anyone else lacking the few copper pieces necessary to find better accommodations or entertainment.
In short, The Black Salmon was the seediest dive in Corwell Town, and so it attracted the kind of customer one might expect. Now, in the predawn hours, most of these derelicts had fallen asleep in pools of spilled beer, or staggered off to the common sleeping room or their lodgings elsewhere in town.
The exceptions
were few: a painted harlot, alone for the night; a pair of young Ffolkmen spending their last night ashore before embarking, as crewmen, on the trading galleon in the harbor; and two northmen sailors, one profoundly drunk and the other only halfway so.
The fire grew dull, but the grease-stained innkeeper did nothing about it. A few candles guttered and dripped on some of the tables, casting wavering shadows around the room. The barely coherent northman broke the silence abruptly by calling out for two more mugs. The innkeeper poured stale beer from a leaking keg and examined the copper piece he received as if he were a master jeweler assessing the value of a princely ransom.
But even that dullard’s eyes widened as a shadowy form moved through the door. One of the sleeping men snored loudly and then started awake. All conversation ceased, and the two pairs of men watched, the drunken northman rubbing his eyes in an attempt to see more clearly.
But nothing could form that shape in the doorway into other than a murk. It was no natural fog that rolled in from the street, sapping the feeble light from the room and bringing with it a chill from the sea … or beyond.
Then the haze dissipated, and a man entered the Black Salmon. The stranger was a tall fellow, dressed in black trousers and tunic, with hair and beard to match, and gleaming boots of midnight-dark leather reaching to his knees. He smiled around the inn, flashing white teeth, though his eyes remained hooded by carefully lowered lids.
Then he stalked across the common room to the table where the two northmen sat, pulling up a chair and seating himself without waiting for an invitation.
“Barkeep!” he shouted, a sound that jerked all of the others upward like marionettes seized by frantic puppeteers. “Bring us a pitcher of that … ale?” He regarded the contents of a half-filled mug with distaste, but then shrugged and tapped his fingers impatiently while the innkeeper filled a tall jug from his keg and hurried over with it.
The stranger flipped a coin to the server, and silver flashed briefly in the candlelight. The greasy little man seized the coin from the air and scampered back to the shelter of his grimy bar.
“On me, friends,” said the newcomer, smiling with his mouth only. The two northmen still gaped at him as if he had two heads or three arms.
“Who are you?” demanded the less drunken of the two, finally recovering his voice.
The stranger blinked. “Call me … Malawar,” he said after a moment. “Malawar of Alaron. And you, if I’m not mistaken, are men of the north.”
The two sailors, with their long blond hair tied into twin braids, drooping mustaches, and fur-lined tunics, could hardly have been anything else. Nevertheless, they both nodded and assented seriously, as if a question of great import had been asked.
“That’s a sleek ship in the harbor,” the stranger continued. “Sailing on her?”
“Soon now,” said the one who was still coherent. “With the afternoon tide, tomorrow. We just wanted to sample a little more of the local treasures before we go!” The sailor concluded with a chuckle that grew into a long, ale-flavored belch.
The stranger grimaced at the sight of the amber liquid in the pitcher, with its slight film of white foam. Nevertheless, he reached over and refilled the mugs of each northman. His own glass stood before him, barely touched.
“Did you sail here on that pig scow?” asked the northman, gesturing to the door. The indication of the great galleon was not lost on the one called Malawar.
“No—I’ve been on Gwynneth for some time now. I came to Corwell across the road from Kingsbay.”
The northman shook his head. Why would someone travel from one side of an island to the other on land? “D’you know ships?” he demanded belligerently, then slumped back into his chair, not waiting for an answer. “That ship out there—the Princess! She’s the finest boat ever to put to sea from Gnarhelm. That means she be the finest from anywhere in the Moonshaes, y’ unnerstan’?”
The black-haired man nodded easily, and the sailor talked while his companion slumped deeper into coma. The trio passed an hour thus. The conscious northman was named Roloff and proved quite loquacious, telling ribald tales of life in Gnarhelm and revealing that the destination of their morrow’s voyage was being kept a mystery by their captain, who was none other than the Crown Prince of Gnarhelm!
Eventually the harlot and the two young seamen left, and the innkeeper coughed and tapped his foot, then started to clean up. The black-garbed man took note and squinted at his companions.
“Are you men staying here?” asked Malawar, rising to his feet. When the coherent one nodded, the dark figure’s lips creased into another pale smile. “I have a splendid suite of rooms up the street at the King’s Copper. Why don’t you join me? There’s plenty of room for the two of you.”
The northman blinked suspiciously, but another silver piece flashed as Malawar paid off the innkeeper. The sailor had walked past the King’s Copper and knew that it was a splendid place. Also, the rash he had acquired from the straw mat in The Black Salmon’s sleeping room was still with him. The thought of real accommodations was too good to ignore.
“Aye,” he grunted. “Give me a hand with Luge, here, and we’ll take you up on that!”
Without appearing to strain, Malawar took the drunken Luge’s shoulder and bore a great portion of the man’s weight. They moved out the door and along the darkened street. It was many hours past midnight. Their route took them along the waterfront, beside the black waters of Corwell Harbor, water that extended still and placid toward the firth and the Trackless Sea beyond.
When they reached the King’s Copper, Malawar alone carried Luge, bearing him full across his shoulders, hauling him like a sack of potatoes through the deserted common room and along the darkened hallway to his room.
The northman called Roloff was nowhere to be seen.
* * * * *
Alicia stood amid a bustle of controlled chaos on the Corwell waterfront while northmen sailors rowed the Princess of Moonshae toward the quay for loading. Brandon stood beside her, his hands on his hips, his eyes scrutinizing every move of the graceful vessel’s slow progress.
“Easy there!” he shouted, unable to control himself. “Take her slow! Now—come about! Watch it!”
The Prince of Gnarhelm paced in agitation, though the vessel was clearly in no danger. At the rudder stood the fiercely scowling figure of Knaff the Elder, as experienced a helmsman as ever sailed the Sea of Moonshae, and the longship, propelled by a half-dozen oars, barely crept through the water.
“Easy!” cried Brandon as a tublike fishing vessel raised sail a hundred paces away from the Princess.
“Can’t hear myself think out here!” grumbled Knaff, loud enough for his voice to carry to shore.
“He can bring it in safely, don’t you think?” suggested Alicia with a laugh. “You’re like a proud papa getting his first look at his little boy!”
The captain grinned sheepishly. “You’re right,” he admitted. Brandon forced himself to keep his mouth shut, but his eyes studied every move of the sleek vessel, and he couldn’t help but flinch at each change of course or speed.
At last the longship touched the wharf, very gently. Ropes made fast her stern and prow, and the crew quickly began loading aboard the crates of food and barrels of drinking water to provision a possibly long voyage.
Hanrald and Brigit carefully crossed the gangplank, each carrying a bundle containing polished armor. The two knights stowed their packages beside the mast.
Some distance down the dock, Alicia saw another northman she recognized—gigantic Wultha, a hulking, well-muscled specimen of a warrior. He stood with several of his crewmates, and for a moment the princess thought, oddly, that they were fishing. Then the big man waved to his prince and Brandon walked over to them. Alicia saw them talking seriously, saw Brandon’s brows suddenly tighten into a scowl.
Concerned, Alicia started toward them, joined by Robyn and Keane. The Prince of Gnarhelm met them halfway, Alicia’s disquiet mirrored in his own fro
wn.
“They found the body of one of my men in the harbor,” Brand announced grimly.
“Was he hurt? Murdered?” wondered the princess, deeply disturbed by the news.
“I don’t know. Something’s not right, though.”
“Who was it?” inquired Keane.
“A fellow named Roloff. He’s a notorious drinker, but he holds it better than anyone I know. It’s not likely he’d fall in on his own.”
“Was he attacked or injured?” Alicia pressed.
“Not as far as we can tell. At least, his body had no wounds. He appears to have drowned.”
“ ‘Appears?’ ” Robyn heard the suspicion in the northman’s voice. “You’re not convinced?”
“No. Roloff was too sensible a sailor—and too good a swimmer—to suffer that fate. And then there’s the expression on his face.”
“What was it?” Alicia felt a dull sense of menace. This seemed like a bad omen for the start of a dangerous voyage.
“His eyes were wide open and staring, fixed that way when he died—as if something scared the stuffing out of him, and he never recovered even after he fell in the water.”
“When was he last seen beforehand?” inquired Keane.
“His best friend, Luge, drank with him last night—apparently quite a bit, since he doesn’t remember much past midnight. From the look of him this morning, I’d say Luge’s memory won’t be of much use to us.”
“Does he remember where they were?” pressed the mage. “Perhaps someone else saw something there.”
“No good,” said Brandon with a shrug. “Luge doesn’t even remember where they went.”
“Ill luck for the start of a voyage,” observed Tavish, with a shake of her head. “Let’s hope that means this is the worst of it!”
The others found it hard to shake a sense of unease, but Brandon reminded them that the tide turned even as they talked. They carried their small bundles of personal baggage aboard, then returned to the docks. There the Earl of Corwell and Princess Deirdre stood to see them off.
The Coral Kingdom Page 14