The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  He pouted at her, but she didn’t try to pick him up again.

  Ligea was still speaking to Cord. ‘Now will you get us out of here?’ she asked. She cut off her power, and they stared at her, limbs still twitching in reaction, faces white with shock and terror. ‘I didn’t want to have to do that, but I’ll do it again if need be.’

  Someone screamed on the dock below, and an animal snarled. Arrant looked over the side in time to see the sedrani bounding along the wharf. A loin-clad sailor in its path took a flying jump from the dock to seize the bowsprit of the neighbouring ship. He dangled over the water, his face purple. The animal took no notice. It raced up the gangplank and made straight for the mast. Within seconds it was at the top, where it teetered precariously. Several sailors jumped off the ship to the dock. The man on the bowsprit fell into the water and splashed his way to a piling.

  This time Cord didn’t hesitate. ‘Cast off,’ he croaked. Arrant still wasn’t sure whether to be scared or excited. He hoped Ligea wouldn’t give the sailors pain again. He didn’t like that.

  She glanced down the wharf. ‘Make it quick, Cord.’

  ‘Move!’ he roared and the crew moved. Then he looked back at Ligea, having second thoughts. ‘But we have an incoming tide and I haven’t ordered tow-rowers.’

  ‘You have your own rowers.’

  ‘Two pairs? That’s not enough against the tide! We’re not a bloody liburnia with a bank of oars, we’re a fisher. The oars are just for emergencies. And my men are fishermen, not bloody galley slaves!’

  ‘If they want to stay that way, they’d better move. Get the sail up. You’ll have a following wind.’ As the ship moved sluggishly out from the wharf it seemed unlikely that there’d be any such thing, but no sooner had the sail been unfurled than a breeze came out of nowhere to fill it and send them wafting down the canal. Arrant let out the breath he had been holding. The sail was pretty: leather strips formed a pattern of squares across the flax cloth. Four of the fishermen ran out the oars, another manned the bow steering oar while Cord took the stern sweep. Arrant knew all about oars and sweeps and sails from watching the other vessels on the River Tyr when they were on the barge.

  He looked back at the docks. The sedrani was still on the mast of the other ship and a crowd was gathering to look at it. No one was interested in the departure of the Fisherdream.

  His mother smiled down at the slave boy. ‘Now, lad, let’s see to that arm of yours, shall we, hmm?’

  Arrant stared, jealous, while she set and strapped the boy’s forearm, using his torn tunic. I’ll bet he doesn’t know about oars and sails, he thought.

  She must have taken away the boy’s pain because he did not complain. He was so much in awe of her he could barely speak, but she did find out that his name was Palin and that he was indeed Kardi. Having extracted that much from him, she sent him down into the below-decks with Narjemah. She looked across at Arrant. ‘You behave yourself, young man,’ she said. ‘No more nonsense, or you will be below decks, understand?’

  He nodded solemnly. And felt bad. He wasn’t supposed to be naughty when they were in trouble. He was supposed to be a soldier and obey orders. That’s what Gevenan had told him.

  She turned her attention to the ship.

  At the stern, Cord kept glancing up at the sail as if he couldn’t believe the wind was so obliging. Ligea gave him a bland smile when he caught her eye. Her skin glowed, so Arrant knew she was still using her cabochon magic. Still, they made slow progress through the ships using the tangled network of interlocking canals. It wasn’t until about an hour later, when they came out into the main river, that the ship heeled a little in the wind and picked up speed. Cord ordered the oars shipped.

  ‘Are we safe now?’ Arrant asked.

  ‘Possibly,’ Ligea said. She sat down beside him and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘But that lady back there on the docks? I heard her making a ruckus about us after we left. And the slave who was watching us—he will report our departure to the man who owns him, the Reviarch. If the Reviarch thinks I’m going to be caught anyway, he might go straight to Rathrox—he’s an important man here in Tyr who doesn’t like me—to tell him we are on board this ship. That way the Reviarch gets the credit for something he thinks will happen anyway, and the moneymasters will end up smelling as sweet as the Exaltarch’s roses no matter what. I think that was what Arcadim was trying to tell me: that Javenid sometimes feeds Rathrox information to keep the Brotherhood happy.’ She looked down at him ruefully. ‘And you really don’t know what I am talking about, do you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter. To answer your question: are we safe? Not yet.’ She pointed downriver. ‘Between the city and the sea there are paveways, which means that orders and soldiers can move quickly. And on the banks of the river there are forts like the Stronghold, one on each side, and booms which block half the river.’ She shrugged. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

  She turned to Cord. ‘Get your men back on the rowing benches if the wind dies.’

  He nodded, still white-faced.

  She looked across at the buildings on the far bank. ‘Take a good look, Arrant. It could be your last glimpse of Tyr.’

  He did as she asked, then glanced back at her uncertainly, not knowing what she expected of him. There was an odd expression on her face; she wasn’t looking at the temples, or the roofs of the palace, but up at one of the hills overlooking the river. Her features softened with a gentle sadness.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘Do you see that white villa on the crest of the hill there?’

  He tried to enhance his sight and, after a few false starts, finally saw the place she meant and pulled it into focus. He still couldn’t manipulate the picture correctly, though; it was much too large, with the result that he could only view the villa one small piece at a time.

  He supposed it was pretty. It had a wide terrace with columns carved like ladies, who supported the roof on their heads, but he couldn’t see much else. He waited for her to explain.

  ‘Bator Korbus’s chief trade adviser lives there now, and I believe he’s laid down carpets,’ she said, her voice heavy with disgust. Then she added, even more confusingly, ‘Arcadim sold it right under Rathrox’s nose…’ She dropped her cabochon away from her eyes with a sigh. ‘It was once the Villa Gayed, Arrant. That’s where I lived, when I was your age.’

  Rathrox salivated, as gleeful as a child on a feast day. It was worth being dragged away from his siesta and down to the harbourmaster’s office for this. He was finally going to catch that numen bitch.

  He mentally ran through all the orders he had just given after talking to the Reviarch and the harbourmaster, checking to make sure he had covered everything. Legionnaires with whirlslings were on their way to the fort on horseback. The harbourmaster was also on his way by chariot. A messenger had left even earlier, with orders to close the booms and stop all ships. Legate Valorian and Seamaster Mescades had been alerted, and the Exaltarch informed. A chariot had been ordered for himself and Clemens.

  Gods, how he wanted to see the end of this woman who had given him so much trouble…whoever she was. The Reviarch swore he didn’t know. All the moneymaster’s informants had told him, he said, was that a Kardi female with a scarred face, accompanied by two children and a servant, had boarded a vessel in the port, and that the boat had sailed. The harbourmaster had confirmed the sailing of a single fishing vessel. Only one, because the tide was rising, not ebbing, and no one in their right mind would try to leave—unless they had numen magic.

  All the forts had to do was stop one ship. And they had catapults and war galleys. Ideal for sinking a numen witch.

  Vortexdamn, I hope this really is the woman we have been hunting.

  The bitch had been ravaging the country from one side to another with her golden light and her damnable whirlwind. Slave holding pens and slave auctions had lost their merchandise; wayhouses along the paveways all over Tyrans had bee
n raided again and again, losing their horses, slaves, supplies and money; tax collectors went out knowing there was a good chance they’d be robbed; legionnaire barracks had been raided for weaponry and burned to the ground. Whole wagons of tin and copper ore had vanished en route to Tyr, although the gods only knew how that was possible. There seemed no end to her depredations. The helots she commanded even had the gall to use the paveways themselves, passing along in the night and vanishing by day. Slaves gave her information, and the ordinary lowborn citizen looked up to her as a goddess or an immortal, and knelt when she passed by instead of informing on her!

  Every time they’d sent legionnaires to search out her hiding places in the mountains, they’d lost men and horses and equipment, while the rebels melted away unseen only to regroup elsewhere. By comparison, legion successes had been tiny. A few helots killed. A few abandoned buildings found which may or may not have been used to repair weapons.

  Ocrastes, grant that today I get my hands on her murdering neck. He would slaughter a bull for Ocrastes at the God of War’s temple if he were successful.

  ‘Magister?’

  He looked up. ‘Ah, Clemens, at last. The horses are ready?’

  ‘Yes, Magister. But—but—’

  He stared at his assistant in surprise. The man was white-faced. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a woman to see you. She also says she saw the numen woman at the docks. She says she recognised her.’

  ‘She recognised the woman with the scar?’

  Clemens nodded and beckoned to someone outside the room. ‘This is Midwife Merriam of Istia,’ he said as she entered. ‘Tell the Magister all you know, woman.’

  ‘And my reward?’

  ‘You’ll get your reward if your words prove truthful,’ Clemens growled at her.

  The elderly woman met Rathrox’s stare with a steady gaze of her own. Lean and mean, he thought. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘The scarred woman came to see me when she was pregnant, some years ago. I informed Compeer Clemens of this. I thought I had seen her before, but couldn’t think where. Today I saw her again, and remembered. I was down on the docks to buy myself a cheap slave and she was there. Domina Ligea Gayed. I didn’t recognise her before because of the scar, which was still fresh then. It has faded now, and she is not as gaunt. It is her. I am sure of it.’

  Disbelief flooded him. ‘That can’t be true! Ligea is still in Kardiastan. The Governor sends reports from Madrinya about her doings. These Magoroth women, they all look alike. Besides, when Favonius last saw her, she had no scar on her face—’ His protestations faded and died.

  Ligea. He had trained her in deception. He wouldn’t have fallen for the very same tricks he had taught her, would he?

  Ocrastes, no. He couldn’t have been so stupid…

  No. No. Please let it not be so.

  Ligea?

  ‘Domina—’ Cord, hesitant and much more deferential than he had been, gestured ahead. ‘The signal flag raised above the forts means all ships leaving are to be searched. Shall we—?’

  She laughed. ‘No, Cord. Not unless you relish the thought of the Cages and want to see your beloved lady broken up for firewood. And I’ve heard say that torture is commonplace in the Cages since a certain Brotherhood Compeer was sent to Kardiastan.’

  ‘Domina, if we don’t come into the wharf, they will use the catapults and she will be just that—firewood!’ He was close to crying.

  ‘Slip through the booms under cover of the mist.’

  ‘Mist? What mist?’

  ‘There will be a mist by the time we get there. The wind will drop then, though. We will have to go through with oars, or drift through. Has the tide turned yet?’

  ‘No, still an hour before the turn. But the flow is slackening.’

  ‘Head for the centre of the channel while the wind lasts. As soon as the mists block both forts, veer to the left-hand side, as close as you can to the end of the boom on that side. The catapults will be aimed at the middle of the channel.’

  ‘Master!’ Cord had sent one of the fishermen up the mast, and he was yelling down to the deck in a panic. ‘They are launching galleys! From both sides!’

  Ligea swore. ‘I guess they know who we are.’ She turned to Cord. ‘Get the oars out.’ Then she looked down at Arrant again. ‘Time to go below.’

  He shook his head, panicking. ‘I don’t wanna.’

  ‘It will be safer. I don’t have time to worry about you, Arrant. Narjemah will look after you.’

  But he was stubborn, fearing the darkness below decks, fearing that if the ship sank he would be unable to get out. Fearing, most of all, the unknown. On deck, he could at least see what was happening. He put on his most ferocious face.

  She suppressed a sigh, found him a place between the mast and the hatch to the fish stores and sat him down. ‘You stay right here, promise?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m going to build a ward around you.’

  ‘Won’t we leave it behind as we sail?’

  ‘I will attach it to the ship, so it will move with us.’

  He nodded again, but felt a twinge of guilt. Warding him meant she was diminishing her power. He was being naughty, and he wasn’t supposed to be naughty when there was a war…

  In the centre of the channel, the wind dropped. Arrant could not see the galleys yet, but Gev had told him about galleys. About how fast they were over short distances, how quickly they could manoeuvre, how they had fighters on the top deck. Fighting meant deaths. And he knew now that it hurt when people died. It hurt him and it hurt them. He hated fighting.

  The fishermen on Fisherdream began to row as the vessel slowed. Arrant tried to work out what Ligea was doing. She stood in the prow, glowing gold, concentrating. At the same time as he saw one of the galleys, still just a smudge against the blue where the river widened out beyond the forts ahead of them, mist began to creep across the water like a soft blanket of pallet-cotton. It came in from the sea and crawled up onto the banks of the river on both sides. But it was so slow.

  Fear clenched in his belly. He knew about catapults, about hand-held ones for birds, and this kind too, that sat on the ground. Gev had asked the carpenter on First Farm to build him a toy one. Narjemah had been angry because he lobbed stones at the chickens to make them squawk. He looked up at the real forts and imagined stones sailing out over the ramparts to land on the ship.

  When he looked at the water, he saw a floating fence of logs, protruding from each bank under the forts, but not quite meeting in the middle. The channel between the two anchored ends was a narrow passage of smooth water. Each of the forts had a catapult on the flat roof of the tower, just waiting for the moment when the ship sailed between those logs. The galleys were coming closer, but they were rowing through the edge of the mist now, their oars stirring up tendrils of dampness like smoke curling from a fire. Even if Cord did manage to guide the ship through the booms, they would still have the galleys ahead of them.

  A shiver crept down Arrant’s spine and raised the hairs on his arms. Fear and excitement mingled in equal parts. He wanted to sneak down the steps and crawl into Narjemah’s arms, but it was too late now. He was trapped inside the ward.

  And then everything happened at once. The forts disappeared behind a wall of white, and so did the two galleys. The Fisherdream swung hard to the left. A wind hustled up from behind to billow out the sail so fast that the mast creaked and bent. The gust blew on past the ship, pushing a narrow mist-free passage ahead of them. Cord gave the order to ship oars.

  The vessel fell quiet, slipping through a sea wiped clean of ripples by the dampness of the mist. The bow split the calm surface cleanly, silently. No one on board moved. Cord, leaning into the sweep, kept his eye on both sail and the left-hand buoy, just visible at the edge of the mist wall.

  And then, with heart-stopping suddenness something sailed out of the mist above their heads, crossed above the ship and disappeared into the whiteness on their right. A
brief moment later, they all heard the splash. Ligea fell to her knees in the bow, exhausted. Arrant tried desperately to call his cabochon to life. If he had power, he could help her…

  Golden light spluttered ineffectually in his palm. He looked up just as the ship slid past the boom and another rock came spinning out of the mist, low. It would hit them, Arrant knew. There was no time to do anything. They were all going to die. Like Timnius. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

  In the split second left to them, Ligea poured everything she had into the wind. A bubble of moving air burst against the sail. The squares of flax blossomed, straining against the leather strips; the mast bent still further. Cord gasped. And the rock—about to hit amidships—suddenly wasn’t there, but behind. It came down on the sweep with a sound like a thunderclap. The oar splintered, littering the wake with wood chips. The spume of water was close enough to splash the deck. Cord just managed to save himself by letting go of the shaft in time; as it was, he was hit on the head by the longest surviving piece of wood. Sprawled on the deck, he looked at Arrant, dazed. Blood dripped from his scalp. People onshore, hearing the sound of the impact, cheered.

  Arrant watched wide-eyed. Petrified. Ligea lay on the deck, sapped of strength. The ward over Arrant’s head wavered and vanished. And someone was looking out through his eyes. Again.

  He couldn’t cope. He began shaking. He wanted to crawl to his mother, but fear nailed him to the deck. Cord scrambled to his feet, fingering his head. Blood ran through his fingers. He staggered, then bellowed into the rowing deck, shouting at the fishermen to bring out the spare sweep. The sailor with the shorter steering oar at the bow strove to keep the vessel on course, but the Fisherdream yawed as the sail flapped uselessly. The wind had vanished. Ahead somewhere in the mist were the two galleys with their legionnaires on the deck…

  Ligea crawled to him. ‘Arrant—?’

  He’d never seen her so helpless. His fear burgeoned, wisping his thoughts into incoherence. The mind that was not his watched. He tried desperately to push it away, to get it out of his head.