The Wizard's Heir

by J. A. V Henderson

  Alik ducked into an open-air market, pulling Saria behind him, as just such a man strode past them in the street, glancing from side to side.

  “Ah,” said Saria, spotting a little shaded court with tables on the side, “over here.” She stumbled but made it to the nearest table, which was empty. Then she really did collapse. Several men and women turned their heads, and Alik caught his breath and ran back into the market, to the baker’s stand. The baker came over and leaned, half impatiently, half anxiously, over his cart.

  Alik cupped his hands and held them up and stuttered, “b...br...bread...please?”

  The baker raised a finger, turned to his stock, and broke off two sections from the loaf from which he had taken his own lunch. Then he went to the booth of the fruit lady, drew two cups of cider, and carried all of this himself to the table where he had seen Alik and Saria crash. “A friend of yours, eh?” he said to Alik, nudging Saria and then gently shaking her by the shoulder. His hands, Alik noticed, were large enough to cover her entire face.

  She faintly lifted one eyelid and he lifted her head and put one of the cups to her lips. “A little cider—not too much—should cure you...there, and a bit of bread,” the baker said. “My...now have a bit of bread. That’s a good girl.” He turned to Alik. “Have you seen Jevan, Son?”

  Alik shook his head emphatically and continued to wait.

  “I’ll get him,” the baker said. “Just you stay here, and don’t worry, understand?”

  Alik slowly nodded.

  “My boy,” the baker said. “Take care of her, and I’ll be back in a second.” He went back to his booth, rounded up one of his sons, and sent him off.

  Alik sat down opposite Saria and took a piece of bread. She did the same. “Thank you,” she said.

  A pair of musicians, one with a flute and one with a mandolin, started up a song from the platform behind the children’s table:

  Oh, the heavenly waves

  and the tropical dews

  Serve but to recall me

  my lady true

  Far over the ocean,

  far over the land,

  She silently calls me

  back to my homeland.

  Oh twi-li-li-lilly,

  twi-lilly-de-day,

  She silently calls me

  back to my land.

  A man in a dull, dark brown cloak with night-black hair, a short, shallow nose, and catlike eyes stepped through the hanging vines and satins of the market entrance and at once spotted Alik and the girl. Alik saw him and instinctively pulled his cloak a little closer about his neck. The man smiled courteously and passed by.

  At that moment there was already one man waiting for the baker but the man with the cloak was in no hurry. The baker finished the first man’s order (which seemed unusually large to the man with the cloak) and leaned over the cart as he had before. “Can I help you?” he said.

  “How much for a roll?” the cloaked man asked.

  “Mainlander, eh?” the baker said. “No charge, but you should go through the port authority next time, got it?”

  “Got it,” the cloaked man said.

  “Where you from, if you don’t mind my asking? What kind of roll would you like?”

  “That one, thank you,” he said, taking his own. “You don’t happen to know where I might find a small but sturdy ship, like for sea sailing, do you?”

  “What, you mean a yacht? Talk to the port authority. You need his approval anyway, and he is very informed about such things.”

  “Fine, fine, where the pits is this port authority?”

  “Try the port,” the baker said. “His name is Riphaelon.”

  “Thanks,” the man with the cloak replied. He took a bite out of his roll and turned to leave. Then suddenly he turned back. “Oh, by the way: who’s the boy?”

  “Who’s asking?” smiled the baker.

  “Deran,” the mainlander replied.

  “There is no boy, Deran,” the baker grinned.

  Deran spun. The boy, and the girl with him, had vanished.

  A pair of lovers, arms entwined, passed by. Deran walked casually toward the empty table. There was no trace the pair had ever been there. Deran licked his lips, sighed, and crushed the roll in his hand to pieces.

  An ancient man with a beaded beard and a wrinkled elderly man spoke in hushed tones at a back table. The mandolin player and the flutist were packing up their instruments to leave and shaking one another’s hands. Outside, the market streets were lightly populated, waiting for the fishing boats to come back in. Here and there a guardian or the assistant of a guardian made house calls or delivered groceries door to door, or a group of children played tag or shoot-the-hole, or a grandmother and grandfather sat on a patio repairing nets and humming.

  The island’s scribe, Arran Delossan, known to those who knew him as simply Jevan (“noble-of-wherever”)—the same greying, spectacled councilor who had taken upon himself to foster Alik with such little luck—was at that hour of the day just returning to the council hall from collecting purchase orders from his several charges. He was not in any particular hurry but walked briskly according to habit, taking little account of the beautiful weather or the storm-clouds forming rapidly to the north. He was dressed very simply, with soft, low-cut brown leather boots, a sandy greenish-colored tunic and pants rolled up to his knees for the heat, and a lightweight, dull grey cloak, unadorned except for a silver-threaded scribe’s badge and insignia on one shoulder, partially obscured by the way the cloak was thrown on that shoulder. A similar badge was pinned to the collar of his tunic, and there also it was partly concealed from anyone not looking for it.

  He stopped as he was approaching the doorway of the council hall, and a mousy boy of fifteen or twelve came jogging up behind him. Heao Sedhar, the son of the baker, who was one of his charges. “Good afternoon, Son,” Jevan said.

  “Hey,” the boy said. “Good afternoon to you, Sir. My father told me to tell you that your charge, Alik, was in the market, and that he had some stranger girl with him.”

  “Ah, Alik!” Jevan exclaimed. “I should come right away. Is he still there?”

  “He was when I left,” the boy said.

  “Thank you; I will be right along,” said Jevan. He was about to enter the building when he paused and added, “Have you ever been inside?”

  “Not in there!” the boy said.

  Jevan smiled and nodded for him to follow him in, and they went in.

  There was a short antechamber which was normally used only as a coatroom and was presently empty—and then they entered the ballroom. Large, open windows lined the left side of the room, and a double door on that side opened onto a series of steps leading down to the sea-patio. The sun and the sky were shining gold and bright slate grey through the clouds. The only other decorations in the room were the reliefs carved around the edges of the room into the walls, depicting many strange and beautiful scenes from myth and history which Heao did not recognize. Beyond that there was only an exit leading to the council chamber...but all of the councilors were right there in the ballroom already.

  “Jevan!” exclaimed one of the councilors, a great-big grandfatherly man with a red tunic, sandals, and a silver leaf badge on the shoulder of his cloak.

  “That is the chairman, Guardian Halaeius,” Jevan whispered to the baker’s boy. “Greetings, my dear Halaeius; and how....”

  “No time, no time,” the chairman interrupted him. The baker’s son caught his eye, and he smiled sympathetically at the boy. “The boy has commendable public spirit,” he said. “He should go far, if we pull through.”

  “I understand you then that things are urgent?” Jevan asked the chairman.

  “More so than ever: so it seems,” Halaeius answered, shaking his head from side to side.

  “We had best begin at once, then, and dismiss all formalities,” said Jevan. “I will make the record from memory afterward.” He quickly took roll call by sight and noted that Saulis, the embassy to Try
phallia, was present with the council, and that Riphaelon, the port authority, had with him an important-looking—almost pompous—middle-aged man in a Tryphallian decretal’s uniform. That could only mean trouble, he knew: the Tryphallian decretals were special envoys of the Tryphallian prince with near absolute power to enforce his will. But what was he doing on the island? Was this a power grab or a threat? Neither option presented much hope.

  Halaeius nodded. “Let us begin, then,” he declared, unreadably. “The chair recognizes Representative Riphaelon, the port authority, who has summoned this special session.”

  Riphaelon stepped forward, ever an imposing man, his huge bulk built up over years hauling crates on the beach and trimming sails, his skin as dark as a crab’s. “As usual,” he began almost parenthetically, “the Tryphallian and Ferrian traders are expecting the reward of the return contract. They are in a bit of a hurry, as weather has been spotted approaching from the north. Now, that’s my bit, and here for Tryphallia is a decretal of the prince who can speak well enough for himself.”

  The decretal, still unnamed, Jevan noted, stepped forward with a glowering look at Riphaelon. “I am here on behalf of Prince Trypho of Tryphallia to close the Western Isle to all commerce and traffic from this moment forward. I have requisitioned the captain and crew of the Snowdowne as Stage One enforcement of this decree and am authorized to use any measure necessary.” He paused for effect; then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “This council may remain in power, provided it does not hinder our interests. To this end I will personally supervise all council meetings. Moreover, if the council meets without my presence, I will take it as an act of subversion.” He stepped back, folding his arms and eyeing Marshall Hilger Wavis, the security councilor, as though daring him to reply.

  It was, however, the thin, pragmatic treasurer, Alese Tei, who first answered. “Sir, since we are apparently to continue to exist, I am wondering…in what faculty? Are we an independent state, excluding of course the restrictions you have placed upon our fragile economy, or are we to be merely an advisory committee, either to you or to the noble prince directly?”

  The decretal snorted. “You can keep your island, so long as you cooperate. Tryphallia has no interest in it.”

  “May I ask, Sir,” she pressed on, “how much time you were prepared to invest in the proceedings of this council? We meet daily, sometimes more than once.”

  “That’s fine,” huffed the decretal.

  “May I also ask, Sir,” she persisted, “whether the injunction against ships going in and out of the port applies to fishing boats, upon which the island relies for its daily survival?”

  “Fishing boats? Fishing boats! If I find so much as a candle boat leaving the island I will have it seized and all responsible punished.”

  Alese showed her shock for only a moment. “I see,” she said. “Hmm. There may be a time of no small suffering in store for us. The people will clearly need some kind of retraining or intervention program to learn how to live more fully off the land and to fish from the shore, if possible. I can try to look into that if someone will add their expertise.”

  Nevea Iskaran, the commerce secretary, raised her hand. “It seems I will have spare time to help you out with.”

  At this point Marshall Wavis did speak up. “I presume,” he put forth, “that the prince of Tryphallia understands that the king of Ferria will likely interpret the detainment of his country’s trade ship and citizens as an act of aggression, and that he will likely obtain the support of Anthirion and the other western states to secure justice. This could trigger an all-out war. Lesser acts have been known to do so.”

  “Leave the international politics to those who are able to understand it,” the decretal retorted.

  “Of course,” spoke up Kaile. Kaile, a tall, handsome, elderly woman with silver hair braided down to her feet stepped forward frailly with the help of her youngest son, Eran. The representative of the people and the oldest member of the council, she had a way about her that made everyone revere her. “We, for our part, will welcome the Ferrian crew to a special festival in their honor. It should be possible to detain them for a time in this way…and perhaps with the promise of some valuable cargo which has not yet been prepared for shipment. Beyond that…but how long should we expect this decree to maintain?”

  “As long as it takes,” replied the decretal. His tone, however, seemed to indicate a level of satisfaction with the cooperation he was receiving.

  “Beyond that, then,” mused Kaile, a strange look passing over her face, “they might be appeased by the promise of both the return shipping contracts rather than the customary one, howbeit that might upset Tryphallia’s trading interests.” Alese Tei gave a wry smile toward the decretal at that, but he apparently did not notice it. “We might even be able to gain more time by asking them to set up an agreement for the next several pairs of contracts. Beyond that, some time might be gained in negotiations and ultimatums between the two powers. Then, I expect, the decree would be forcibly challenged by the Ferrian navy. We can only pray it does not come to that.”

  The decretal grunted. He was maneuvered out of some very valuable trade contracts—but what was that to him? And perhaps that too could be dealt with at the proper time.

  “The council will flow as much of this information down to the people as necessary,” Kaile continued. “I will take it upon myself to prepare the statement. By the way, Sir,” she addressed the decretal, “should I inform the people that they remain under the judicial power of the island and that any infringements upon the decree will be dealt with by that power according to our laws?”

  “Any infringement upon the decree will be dealt with by Tryphallian martial law,” he replied, “as an act of war upon the prince.”

  “Very well, then,” said Chairman Halaeius in his grandfatherly voice. “I think we are all at an understanding of what is required.”

  “Except for one thing, Hal,” said Kaile, placing her hand on his shoulder.

  “And that is?” he asked.

  “I would recommend that Ambassador Saulis of Tryphallia here should be placed under protection in case there should be any adverse reaction from the people, considering he seems to have had no involvement in or previous knowledge of this decree.” Jevan looked at the Tryphallian ambassador, a silver-haired old man who indeed throughout the meeting had been standing in the back, his head sunk on his chest.

  “Ah,” said Halaeius. “Does the vice-chair concur?”

  “Concur,” said Vice-Chair Brynne Devis simply.

  “And the treasurer?”

  “Yes, Sir,” answered Alese Tei.

  “And the secretary?”

  “I see no other way,” said Jevan.

  “Nor do I,” added Riphaelon.

  “Nor I,” added Nevea Iskaran.

  “Hilger?”

  The security representative folded his arms and shook his head sadly. “For myself, I would say no,” he said, “but I know all of my constituents would say yes.”

  At this the decretal realized that something was happening. He drew his sword but Riphaelon disarmed him quickly, slamming him against the wall. “Is this how it will be?” the decretal spluttered. “Treason?”

  “This is not Tryphallia, so this is not treason,” Marshall Wavis grunted. He looked the decretal up and down and pulled out a knife.

  “If you kill me, you will all die,” the decretal sneered.

  “I see no reason to kill you,” said Wavis. He cut away the decretal’s carrying case, removed the papers of the decree, and handed them casually to Jevan. Jevan scanned them over and nodded. The content was just as the decretal had said. “We will, however, have to keep you prisoner.”

  “And do something about the Tryphallian privateers,” added Nevea Iskaran.

  “I’m sure the Ferrians will help when they see that decree,” Alese Tei commented.

  “Is there any indication in there what the prince wanted with us?” Halaeius asked Jev
en.

  “I see none,” Jevan replied. “It is not lengthy. There is something here about reinforcements.”

  Marshall Wavis looked up, then sighed. “Well, I guess we should have expected that. How long do we have?”

  “I do not know,” Jevan said. “It seems that the requisitioning of the Tryphallian crew was meant to be a very temporary measure, but there may be additional time as a result of the approaching storm.”

  There was a pause. “Well,” said Chairman Halaeius, “Nevea, as commerce secretary, we will send you with the Ferrian freighter to appeal for help. Alese, as treasurer, we will put you in charge of securing anything you can think of that the Tryphallians might want or need. Perhaps war can yet be averted if we can find out what they want. Riphaelon, you will need to have some ships prepared. Coordinate with Nevea. Marshall—well, I guess you know your business. Are we all in agreement?” There were general nods all around. “Very well, then; all dismissed. Everyone inform your charges as you feel proper.”

  The port authority bowed at once and rushed out of the building to discharge his duty. The others scattered quickly, Marshall Wavis and Vice-chair Devis taking the decretal into custody. Within a few minutes all had gone except for Kaile and her son and Ambassador Saulis, Jevan noted. The ancient woman shuffled over to the windows, helped by her son, and gazed out onto the darkening sea. The ambassador joined her silently. Two children of the old school, Jevan thought. What did they see out there? The suffering of the world? A sea of sorrows? Perhaps some painful hope? No: something else, far closer. He did not know. He looked out at the storm himself. It would not be long before it arrived. Already the wind was picking up in the palms and stirring up the waves. Not long.

  He thought about his own charges. He would be little use in a war, but perhaps he could serve Nevea as an embassy to Anthirion. “Young Master Heao,” he spoke up, suddenly remembering the boy next to him.