Wandervere, too, was a stranger to the area. In fact, he reported, he’d never been more than a league inland in his life.
They dined on the quarterdeck under a canopy of stars. Quarrel maintained a steady pace of twenty beats, even during the changeover when the first rowers were relieved by a second set. At this rate, they would reach the fork in the river around daybreak. The eastern branch was navigable only to the foothills of the Aegis Mountains, the narrow range of peaks that shielded Daltigoth on the west. Ordinarily, Tol would have disembarked there and ridden the rest of the way to the capital, but a canal had been cut through the mountains. It connected the upper Thorn to the Dalti River. If the maps from Lord Tremond’s library were accurate, Quarrel should be able to drop anchor in the heart of Daltigoth’s canal district.
Before turning in, Tol warned Wandervere of the possibility of attack from his nameless enemy. He explained briefly the unnatural perils his party had faced on the journey from Tarsis.
To his credit, Wandervere remained unmoved, merely remarking, “I thought that squall before the river mouth was strange.”
“This enemy of mine may strike again at any time. We must be on constant watch.”
Wandervere showed his neat white teeth. “Vigilance will be maintained, my lord. We’re pirates, after all. Our lives and livelihood have long depended on sharp eyes and keen senses.”
Reassured, Tol went below to the small stern cabin and slept better than he had in days. The only thing that disturbed his rest was an odd dream; he thought he heard Miya’s voice, bargaining hard for a jug of cider. It seemed so real he got up and checked the passage outside the cabin. All he saw were the rowers, bending their backs to the oars.
He went back into the cabin and lay down again. He obviously missed his Dom-shu companions even more than he’d realized.
Barely a hint of dawn was showing in the eastern sky when Tol woke. He dressed and went up on deck. Wandervere was there, one arm draped over the tiller, a floppy hat on his head. The galleot plowed along, still at a steady twenty beats per measure.
The half-elf pushed his hat back and hailed his august passenger. Tol asked if he’d been on duty all night.
“Many sailors boast they can guide a ship in their sleep,” Wandervere replied. “I actually can.”
Tol couldn’t decide whether he was joking or not; the half-elf’s expression seemed serious enough.
They had left the swampy delta country behind. On both sides of the smooth, silver river was a great forest, the trees beginning at the very shoreline. This was the wilderness of Hardtree, in ancient times a haven for dragons, centaurs, and other non-humans. The wars of Ackal Ergot and his successors had purged the forest of most of these inhabitants, but rumor had it some still lingered. Peering into the dark ranks of trees, Tol found it easy to imagine all sorts of creatures lurking within those shadows.
The river was broad and slow here. The galleot had the water to itself. River boatmen habitually tied up for the night, and none were stirring yet. Aside from a few sailors dozing, Quarrel’s deck was as quiet as a farmyard in the gray predawn light.
Tol had been surveying the eastern shore, off their starboard rail. When he turned toward the bow, he saw something that brought his hand to the hilt of his sword.
“Who is that?” he hissed. “There, on the bowsprit!”
Wandervere straightened and looked where he pointed. Sure enough, a gray-wrapped figure stood far out on the bowsprit, although the spar was a simple pole no thicker than the calf of a man’s leg.
The half-elf whispered, “No hand of mine could stand on the ’sprit like that!”
Drawing his saber, Tol rushed to the bow. Quarrel was flush-decked, so there were no steps to climb. A few paces from the bowsprit he halted.
“Come down from there!”
The apparition did not respond. Tol had an impression of two shining eyes staring out at him from under a loose — fitting gray cowl. He repeated his demand, but still the stranger did not comply.
Gould this be yet another attempt on his life by his unknown foe? The thought filled Tol with fury and he rushed at the phantom.
“My lord, take care!” Wandervere called.
At the foot of the bowsprit Tol sheathed his sword. Turning, he made his way out along the narrow spar, sliding his hare feet sideways. The closer he got, the stronger grew the sensation the apparition was watching him, waiting for him.
The river was calm enough, but the forward motion of the galleot caused the bow to dip and rise in time with each stroke of the oars. It took a great deal of concentration for Tol to keep his balance. The stranger seemed to hold his place effortlessly.
A pace away from the figure, Tol halted. “Who are you? Why do you plague me?” Silence was his only answer. The slight breeze that dried the sweat on his neck did not ruffle the watcher’s dark cloak.
Tol’s temper snapped. “Very well! I have an answer for you!”
He drew his saber, managing to maintain his wobbly equilibrium. The flash of naked metal stirred the apparition at last. It raised its hands in a very ordinary way, as if to ward off the blade. The growing light of dawn showed Tol a strange detail: the phantom’s hands were different colors. One was pale, the other dark.
“Trouble me no more!” Tol cried and thrust Number Six at the stranger.
When the tip of his saber touched the apparition, the gray-cloaked figure vanished, completely and instantly. Off balance now, Tol lost his footing and pitched forward.
The bowsprit hit him in the chest and he rolled off one side. Clutching his sword in his right hand and the spar with his left arm and leg, Tol dangled above the galleot’s streaming bow wave. If he fell, the ship would plow him under, its ram cleaving him like a soft clod of earth.
He was wondering whether he’d have to drop Number Six when a voice called out, “Hold on! I’m coming!”
Someone shinnied out onto the bowsprit. Strong hands grasped his left thigh, then his sword belt, and Tol was dragged along the spar toward the ship.
“Give me the sword!”
He held his arm back, and the dwarf-forged blade was taken from him. Several pairs of hands grasped his jerkin and hauled him roughly to safety. Sprawled on his back on the damp deck, Tol finally saw the faces of his rescuers.
Miya was breathing hard from her exertions. Standing beside her, still holding Miya’s belt, was Kiya.
“How did you get here?” Tol demanded.
“There’s gratitude for you,” said Miya, giving her sister a disgusted look.
“We’ve been aboard the whole time,” Kiya told him. “We signed on as rowers.”
Wandervere joined them, and Tol got to his feet. Ignoring the captain, Tol glared at the Dom-shu. “You disobeyed me!”
“Aren’t you glad we did?” Miya grinned and slapped him on the back, staggering him.
There was no denying it, and trying to maintain his outrage was pointless. He hooked a hand behind each sister’s neck (having to reach up to do so) and gave them a hearty shake.
“Next time you disobey me, I’ll have you bound in irons,” he growled.
Miya laughed. Kiya did not. She knew he meant it.
“My lord,” Wandervere said. “The apparition-did you see its face?”
Tol hadn’t. He did not mention the mismatched hands. An odd detail like that might prove important, if the phantom crossed his path again.
Quarrel reached the Dalti Canal as the sun cleared the horizon. A hodgepodge of small craft was queued up to enter the waterway from the river. The canal was closed at night by a massive boom of timbers anchored on either shore. A stone roundhouse, manned by a contingent of territorial soldiers, guarded the boom. Tol was surprised to see the boom still blocking the way. The canal usually was opened promptly at dawn.
The galleot moved like a dragon among the barges and flat-boats. Boatmen frantically poled their craft out of the way. Wandervere backed oars, stopping the galleot’s ram just short of the boom. Trumpe
ts blared, and the small garrison filled the battlements of the roundhouse.
Wandervere watched the Ergothians’ reaction with amusement. Had he wished, he could have charged the boom and broken it asunder. As it bobbed peacefully in the slight current, Quarrel’s friendly intentions should’ve seemed obvious.
Kiya was below, rowing, when they reached the canal. Miya, who was on a different rotation, was on deck with Tol.
Cupping hands to his mouth, Tol called, “Halloo! Captain of the guard!”
After some scrambling, an officer with a crest on his helmet appeared on the roundhouse parapet.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “What are your intentions?”
“This is Tolandruth of Juramona! I am summoned to the capital to attend upon the new emperor! Open the boom!”
The officer visibly started. “Lord. Tolandruth? Draco Paladin! Stand fast, my lord!”
Tol had little choice, short of ramming imperial property. With the blare of more horns, the garrison turned out on the stone quay below the little fort. The officer, followed by two aides, walked out on the catwalk that ran along the top of the boom. He halted below the prow of the ship and saluted briskly.
“It is you, my lord!” he exclaimed.
“Of course it is!” Miya said. “Who were you expecting? Pirates?”
The officer ignored her. “If my lord would come ashore, I shall explain!”
Though he chafed at any delay, Tol nodded. Wandervere’s sailors dropped a rope ladder over the bow and he climbed down to the catwalk on the boom. Miya followed.
The officer bowed. “My lord, my name is Nazik. You won’t remember me, but I served under Lord Urakan in Hylo. I was with you when we beat the Tarsans at Three Rose Creek.”
Tol did not recall him, but he extended a hand and clasped Nazik’s forearm. “Why is the canal still closed?” he said, bringing his host back to the matter at hand.
“Orders, my lord. All traffic heading for Daltigoth is to be thoroughly checked.”
“Checked for what?” asked Miya.
Nazik blinked. “Anything treacherous or seditious.”
Tol and Miya exchanged a quick glance. “There’s no cargo on Quarrel but my party,” Tol said. He gave a rapid account of his journey from Tarsis to Thorngoth, omitting completely the incident with the Blood Fleet, then asked, “May we proceed?”
Nazik snapped his ironclad feet together with a clank. “Certainly, my lord! My apologies for detaining you!”
“Never apologize for doing your duty.”
Tol returned to the galleot. Behind him, Nazik bawled for the boom to be opened.
The heavy timber structure moved slowly back. Great oiled ropes, as thick as a man’s thigh, slid over wooden tackle as the boom swung away from the ship. Wandervere called for a speed of eight beats, and Quarrel ghosted ahead. Its wake sent waves surging back among the waiting river craft.
While the half-elf tended to shipboard duties, Tol and Miya stood alone at the bow, watching the rich farmland of central Ergoth glide past them.
“Sounds like the new emperor is afraid of something,” Miya said.
“Amaltar was always afraid,” Tol replied in a low voice. “Assassins, poisoners, plotters-he kept me in Daltigoth for years to ward off imagined dangers.”
“Only imagined?” Miya had lived in Daltigoth long enough to know how full of intrigue were the lives of Ergoth’s rulers. Plots and counterplots were like meat and drink to them.
“A change of rulers is an especially dangerous time,” Tol admitted.
“Well, they can keep their crowns and palaces. Someday I will put this all behind me and live like a real human should, in the woodland of my ancestors.”
Her words surprised him. Sixteen years the Dom-shu sisters had been by his side, and not once had either of them expressed any desire to return to the Great Green. Miya was two years older than Tol, and Kiya three, and they always seemed to take each new experience in stride. Wonders that left Tol speechless barely turned their heads. To the tribes-women, everything outside their verdant home was equally strange and unnatural-whether it be the glories of Daltigoth, the splendors of wealthy Tarsis, or the terrors of the battlefield.
“Leaving any time soon?” he teased.
“Once you marry a real wife, you won’t need Sister and me around any more.”
“What real wife?”
“The one you truly love. Valaran.”
Hearing her name, and in such a matter-of-fact tone, was like a blow to the face. Tol turned away, pretending to stare at the passing scenery.
The vagaries of fate had made the Dom-shu sisters partners in his romance with Valaran, after she had married the crown prince. For the three years Tol had lived in the imperial capital, Kiya and Miya helped him keep his secret trysts with Valaran.
After a long pause, he said, “Valaran is an imperial wife. She is beyond my reach now.”
“Could she be the next empress?”
It wasn’t likely. Valaran wasn’t the highest born of Amaltar’s eight wives, nor was she his first wife. Tradition dictated the new emperor choose his first wife to be his empress. Failing that, he would designate the mother of his chosen successor.
That thought gave Tol a pang, equal parts pain and curiosity. He didn’t even know whether Valaran had children with Amaltar.
Being empress was certainly the highest of honors but not a pleasant life. The Empress of Ergoth lived in total seclusion. No one was allowed to see her save the Consorts’ Circle, some servants, and the emperor. Anyone else caught in her company could be arrested and executed.
This total seclusion had its roots in the time of the first emperor, Ackal Ergot. His empress, Balalana, had been the wife of one of his chief enemies, the Lord of the Western Hundred. Ackal killed his rival and took Balalana for himself. To insure his successor would be of his own blood, and to prevent her first husband’s supporters from using her to foment insurrection, he kept his empress in the heart of his ancient fortress, where she saw no man but him. Later, the isolation of the Empress of Ergoth became entwined with the worship of the goddess Mishas. The empress was titular high priestess of the important and popular cult of the goddess of healing, and her purity and honor were held to be sacred.
It seemed ridiculously complicated to Miya, but she approved of Ackal Ergot’s directness.
“If you love the woman and she loves you, just make her yours!” she said, and her pointed look told him she wasn’t speaking only of Ackal Ergot and Balalana.
Kiya appeared on deck, soaked with sweat. Miya went below to take her stint on the oar, and Kiya headed aft for a dipper of cool water.
Watching the green fields unfurl before the galleot’s prow, Tol pondered Miya’s words. Years ago, he had wanted to make Valaran his, but she had resisted. Her duty, she said, was to marry Amaltar and further the fortunes of her family. She didn’t love the prince, and he didn’t love her. Theirs was a family alliance, but one did not insult the honor of the imperial dynasty with impunity. If she’d refused his proposal, her entire family would’ve lost honor, and all their fortunes would have declined. Harsher emperors were known to murder or enslave the families of women who refused them.
Now, after a decade of silence from Daltigoth, Tol had no idea whether Valaran even remembered him, much less still loved him. Whatever his accomplishments, as a warrior and a general, he was no Ackal Ergot, to slay his lover’s husband and take her for his own.
Chapter 9
The Champion
Quarrel pressed into the heartland of the empire. At times the canal was so clogged with traffic the galleot could make no headway. Small boats, rafts, and barges loaded with produce, livestock, or trade goods plied the canal, all heading for Daltigoth. When Quarrel was forced to halt, Wandervere stood on the bow, shouting at the boatmen to clear the way, but there was nowhere for them to go, and the galleot languished.
The many bridges crossing the great canal also were obstacles to the tall, seagoing vessel
. Sailors had to unstep both of the galleot’s masts in order to pass under the bridges. Even so, it was a close thing. At Raven’s Crossing, the arch of the span was so low, all on deck had to lie flat. The oars were run in, and Quarrel cleared the underside of the bridge by little more than two handspans. When the galleot emerged on the other side, travelers on shore gave a spontaneous cheer.
The day, which had started fair, darkened as they made their way slowly up the canal. A seemingly solid mass of gray clouds filled the sky from horizon to horizon. It became apparent they would not reach the city before nightfall.
Kiya suggested they raise the imperial flag, blow loud trumpets and bull their way through the congestion, plowing under any who failed to get out of the way. Wandervere declared himself willing-their agonizing progress was wearing on his nerves-but Tol ignored their frustrated discussion.
At dusk, the sun dipped below the ceiling of clouds for the first time since late morning, and golden light suffused the valley. The surface of the stagnant canal took on the sheen of molten gold. The land, which had been gray in the failing light, glowed anew. Rich green fields, harrowed straight as a mason’s rule, ran to the horizon, girded by bands of leafy trees. A flock of starlings circled the verdant fields. Tiny, sun-gilt figures of men and horses moved across the landscape.
Kiya and Tol stood at the rail. Wandervere joined them. “Merciful Phoenix,” the half-elf murmured. “Is this a vision?”
The highest towers in Daltigoth had appeared over the rolling valley floor. Sunlight flashed off pinnacles sheathed in purest gold.
The great height of the towers was deceptive. Daltigoth seemed near but in fact was still many leagues away. At its present pace, Quarrel would not reach the capital until long after dark.
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