by Chris Bunch
A signal ran to the masthead of the lead guard vessel:
WHAT SHIP? WHAT NATION?
“Make a signal back,” Gareth said. “Sir Gareth, Lord Newgrange of Saros. With gold for the king.”
“Aye, sir,” Nomios said with a grin, picking banners from the flag bag, attaching them to the halyard and sending it aloft into the snapping breeze.
The passage had taken two slow months, sailing within days from the ruins that had been Cimmar. The surviving Kashi swore they’d not rebuild and occupy the city, but leave the rubble as a signal to the Linyati to never more venture up the Mozaffar. But in case the Slavers were slow learners, the Kashi would maintain guard posts a day’s travel upriver, ready to ambush any slaving ships that chanced the passage.
And so, with tears for the dead and promises to meet again in the future, Gareth’s four ships had set sail for the north.
The Linyati ships were pigs at best, but they held an enormous amount of cargo. The four were filled to the gunwales with the Slavers’ treasure.
They’d sighted Saros’s most southerly reach just at dawn, and as they closed on the homeland, there’d been a lively discussion on the quarterdeck.
“I think,” Thom Tehidy said, “I’m going to buy a title to go with my new prominence. Perhaps marry Myan. And maybe we should rename Newgrange N’b’ry, if you see fit, Gareth.”
There was a sad silence for a moment.
“I’m going to continue my studies,” Labala said. “But this time, the wizards’ll come to me. If I decide they’re pompous asses, I’ll double their fees and pitch them in the river.”
“I,” the helmsman said, unbidden, “am going to throw the world’s biggest drunk.”
“Which, m’boy,” Nomios put in, “will eat up, oh, the hundredth part of your single share. What’ll you do with the rest?”
The helmsman pondered for a minute, trying to figure what could be done with money beyond his avarice, then brightened: “After that, I’ll throw the world’s second biggest drunk.”
The lookout aloft called down, “Sail ahoy, hard on the port tack,” and a moment later, “Three sails to port. I have them clear. Flying the Sarosian banner.”
Now the lead guard ship was close enough for Gareth to see real turmoil on its quarterdeck. Another, longer signal went up, letter by letter:
IS LADY COSYRA OF THE MOUNT ABOARD?
“Send back affirmative,” Gareth said, and looked at Cosyra, who made a face.
“I guess they figured out where I went, hmm? I’m grateful we’re bringing back enough treasure to blind even the king, or we might both end up in a cell in the Great Dungeon by tomorrow.” She sighed. “I guess my great adventure is over and I’m back to being chained to society, forever more twinkling through life.” She put her arm around Gareth. “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”
Gareth thought of Knoll N’b’ry, and hundreds of others, rotting in unmarked graves in a strange jungle land. But they’d chosen to go, had they not? And didn’t all men have a death due, sooner or later?
“It was,” he agreed.
“Sir,” Nomios said. “The strangest reply to my signal. They sent back one word — Hallelujah, letter by letter — and requested permission for their captain to come aboard.”
“Strange. Since when do the coastal guard need permission to board any vessel but the king’s?” Gareth said. “Of course they can. Order a heave-to.”
The three guardships lowered their sails as they closed on Gareth’s ship. A boat was launched from the lead ship, and rowed rapidly across to the treasure ship’s boarding port.
The guard captain came up the ladder in a sprightly manner, even though he was a gray-haired, pudgy man.
Gareth went to him, extending his hand.
The officer saw Cosyra, ignored Gareth, and went to his knee.
“Thank Megaris and all our other gods,” he said. “You live, Your Grace.”
Gareth was astonished to see tears in the man’s eyes.
“Uh … get up, man,” Cosyra managed. “And what’s this Your Grace nonsense?”
The man remained on his knees.
“Then I have the greatest honor of my life, Your Highness, in telling you that you are now the queen of all Saros.”
Someone behind Gareth uttered a shocked obscenity that sounded like a prayer.
“I said get up, man!” Cosyra said. “And what’s this queen business?”
Finally the guardsman obeyed.
“Ma’am,” he said. “When you left, with Lord Newgrange here, Alfieri still … still sat the throne. But not a month after you were discovered to be missing, he fell from his horse, riding along the waterfront. Some said he was looking for you.
“He never regained consciousness, and I can promise you, his rites were the finest any historian could discover that had ever been held in the kingdom.”
“You are taking a very long-winded way through your explanation,” Cosyra said, and Gareth could feel her heldback anger.
“When his testament was read out, milady, it announced that you were his daughter, born … well, out of marriage, but now acknowledged as his rightful heir.”
“Son of a bitch,” Cosyra said thoughtfully. “So that was Mother’s great secret.”
“Yes, my lady,” the guardsman said, obviously not understanding. “All Saros went a little mad, realizing their new ruler was not only out of the country, but in the heart of enemy seas and lands as well. Especially since relations with the Linyati have worsened, and we’re very close to war.”
“So,” Gareth mused, “when Quindolphin the snake heard about your running away with me, he immediately told his allies, who went after you either to hold as hostage or to use as their puppet. Explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
Cosyra didn’t answer, but turned and looked out at the dim line that was Saros.
“I shall be dipped,“ she murmured, and the guardsman hid a wince at her language.
“I think,” Gareth said, fingering the sea eagle he still wore about his neck, “we might be in for some interesting times.”
Cosyra turned back and put her arms around him.
“You’re telling me,” Cosyra, Lady of the Mount, Queen of Saros, said thoughtfully.
“Interesting, indeed.”
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Text Copyright © 2001 by Chris Bunch
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Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5341-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5341-7