by C A Oliver
‘For a long time now, the great galleys of Nellos have done little fighting but they remain the supreme symbol of the Westerners’ power and of their ceaseless ambitions,’ thought Camatael.
As the small merchant ship approached its destination, all those aboard could see a flurry of activity on the docks. Curubor could not refrain from expressing his astonishment.
“Many years have passed since I last came to Mentobraglin, but I never imagined that such a change as this could be possible. The Westerners have built a great harbour for their galleys, a harbour like we have never seen in the Islands. They have also made strong towers to defend it. This demonstrates their true nature. They truly are conquerors at heart, rather than the fair companions they pretend to be for the moment. They are preparing to seize and loot the entire Elvin kingdom.”
Camatael agreed. “I recall how the Westerners took delight in our masonry. After the Pact was signed, their craftsmen often came among us, in the masons’ guild of Gwarystan. I noted at the time how they were being taught precious skills, especially those which required fineness of handiwork. No wonder they now surpass their teachers. Look to the northern embankment. That is where they have concentrated their guilds, to smith a great hoard of weapons and construct their galleys.”
“I can only imagine the fear that shall fall upon the Elves of Gwarystan when they next see this formidable fleet emerging out of the sunset, its colourful masts covering the sea like a field of flowers,” Curubor replied thoughtfully.
“Wherever they dwell,” Camatael explained, “the Westerners strive to prosper. First, the cunning Men engage in trade, offering gifts to their hosts, wishing to be seen as benefactors. It is, however, a wicked strategy, by which they gain crucial knowledge from their partners. Their wealth grows and grows, thanks to their efficiency in organization and the new skills they have acquired. At first, all will benefit. The Men of the West always devise new techniques, improving the crafts of their hosts. But, eventually, when they have been admitted into the circles of power, they will inevitably demand positions of great authority. When they are given such power, they reveal their true nature: fierce tyrants and Men of war, who had always planned to subdue and, eventually, to enslave. This is how they built their maritime empire across the shores of the Mainland and became masters of so many Men.”
“Each sea hierarch considers himself to be next in line to the throne,” acknowledged Curubor.
Still examining the eastern embankment, where the sea hierarchs’ castle stood, Camatael observed.
“Look at that boatyard. It is empty. The stone shelter there is of a different design to others I know in Elvin ports. With its deep-water access, it can be used as both a wet and a dry dock.”
“Some say the sea hierarchs lack softwood lumber for their shipbuilding guilds, and that they now save Tar-Andevar’s boatyard for another purpose,” commented Curubor, now grim and preoccupied.
“What other purpose?” asked Camatael, eager to know more.
“There are rumours that the sea hierarchs are breeding monstrous marine creatures, captured by their great galleys from the ocean’s depths.”
Camatael could not suppress a shiver. The vast seas contained many monsters which could now be lurking in that boatyard: Giant Gars, Sea Wolves or even Dragon Turtles.
On the other side of the river’s mouth, the residential districts built on the western bank of the Sian Ningy had a bright and cheerful atmosphere. The music of minstrels could be heard at every street corner near the docks. Shops of all sorts offered goods from across the Lost Islands and beyond. Noisy and dirty taverns abounded, out of which sprawled large crowds towards the port. Looking out upon the commotion, the two Elves felt as if they were about to enter a permanent, ever-evolving festival, as if the Men of the city were constantly finding something new to celebrate. Finally, the small coaster from Tios Lleny came to dock alongside the wharf of the western bank.
‘The Sian Ningy is filthy,’ Camatael noticed, ‘dark like a putrid sewer, as if a million crawling creatures have been disturbing the muddy riverbed.’
Those who worked around the pier day in, day out, stopped what they were doing and stared out, curious about the small Elvin merchant ship sailing under the kingdom of Gwarystan’s colours. A large gathering of bystanders was forming on the pier. It was not uncommon to see Elvin ships in Tar-Andevar’s port, and indeed more and more were coming from different parts of the Archipelago.
But trade was not the only reason to visit Nyn Ernaly during the summer. Elves from distant royal dominions came to this island for an important spiritual reason too. These Elvin pilgrims were setting out to witness the Veil, that mystical manifestation of Eïwele Llyi’s power. Each year, to carry instructions, grant favours and deliver revelations, the Deity of Beauty and Arts would send forth the Veil, a vast congregation of butterflies whose colourful flight could restore hope into Elvin hearts and inspire artists and poets.
That afternoon, however, the Nellos commander who came aboard with his troop to inspect the small coaster quickly understood that its passengers were anything but pilgrims. He asked to check the official documentation from the royal administration which would attest to the Tios Lleny coaster’s right to trade in Tar-Andevar. The Elvin ship’s captain was not used to coming to this great harbour of the Westerners, and he was struggling to find the paperwork that was required. Eager to remain unseen, Camatael and Curubor took advantage of this distraction and descended into the hold, in order to bid farewell to a third Elf, who had so far remained in the darkness of his cabin.
“We will meet again around midnight,” said Curubor, hovering at the threshold of the stranger’s cabin, “in the wine cellar marked on the map you have been given. That secret cavern is deep underground, far below the old Braglin tower. You will have to navigate mazes. You must follow the instructions written on that scroll to the letter,” the ancient mage insisted.
“And if you yourselves fall before you reach our meeting point, I will at least have many fine wines to console me,” the Elf replied ironically.
He was wrapped in a long black cloak. Neither Camatael nor Curubor could make out his face through the gloom, from their position by the stairs.
“Rest assured, when we meet again, we will have the crucial information we seek. You will not have travelled so far in vain,” Camatael declared.
His voice was firm, though the extent to which he genuinely cared seemed somehow uncertain.
“Then all is well, and I shall enjoy a few sips of the finest vintages while I wait for you. I wish you a safe day,” concluded the Elf, his tone nonchalant.
Before heading up to the deck, the two lords returned to their respective cabins, both wrapped themselves in large hooded robes, each a different shade of unremarkable brown, and slung cheap leather satchels over their shoulders. Meeting again in the hold’s stairway, they could not resist smiling at each other’s appearance. They did look rather like a couple of wine merchants from Tios Lleny. Camatael took the cloak and fastened the brooch. Once on the deck, he walked directly towards the gangway where the Nellos commander stood with his customs officers. Surprising the Man with his sudden appearance, Camatael uttered a few commanding words.
“I suggest you let us pass, Commander, our royal passes have already been verified.”
The Westerner hesitated, before he briefly caught the Elf’s gaze: full of power and disdain. Without stalling a moment longer, now avoiding looking Camatael in the eye, the Man bowed respectfully, and let them go without a word. The two Elvin lords were out on the docks in an instant, among the crowd, those humble people who together formed the backbone of Westerners’ towns.
Amidst the laughter, cries and accusations, the town of Tar-Andevar was bustling, passionately and greedily, with life. The two Elves looked around at the sprawling parade of Men, all from different origins and classes: some were tall and dark-skinned, some were small and pale. There were arrogant merchants, rude thugs, idle drunkards a
nd wicked criminals. Before their eyes and walking all around them, almost grabbing at them was the powerful flow of human life: chaotic, turbulent and unstoppable. Their path led them to the oldest borough, whose narrow pathways, overrun with wild vegetation and bordered by small wooden buildings, formed a complex maze. They walked down a blind alley and found themselves surrounded by ancient houses built on steep slopes. Camatael turned to his mentor for assistance.
“We’re nearing our destination. I ask that you please protect me while I ensure that everything is in order.”
Curubor acquiesced, as though expecting the request. He stepped to one side, ready to intervene should any threat arise against his protégé. Meanwhile, Camatael selected one of the street’s dark doorways, just wide enough to accommodate a single Elf. His hood covered his face. He began muttering words in lingua Hawenti, and soon his eyes turned white. The young lord was suddenly elsewhere; his breathing ceased. A few moments later, the likeness of a sapphire gemstone, as large as a fist, appeared beside him, suspended in the air. Curubor was unperturbed by this apparition and maintained his vigilant guard. The sphere then quickly moved down the street, disappearing through the closed doors of a cooper’s shop. The exercise lasted for some time, before finally ending when Camatael broke out of his spell into a coughing fit, gasping desperately for air.
“The way is clear,” Camatael announced once he had recovered from his effort.
The two Elves were heading towards the door of the cooper’s shop when a feminine figure, in a beautiful, deep-green robe, walked out of one of the alley’s gateways. Curubor was unsurprised and seemed to have been expecting the encounter. Calm and respectful as ever, he presented his companion to the charming newcomer.
“My dear Camatael, may I introduce you to Drismile, a talented and highly skilled artist. She is also praised for her silence and obedience.”
The graceful Elvin lady responded with a smile. She greeted the two lords ceremoniously, an innocent look upon her face. Her hair was arranged in a wild, effortless style. It partly shrouded her face in a seductive, sulky glow. Camatael, who for his part was somewhat surprised by the encounter, examined Drismile with precision, feasting his eyes upon her lace dress before lingering in contemplation of her delicate gloved hands.
‘It was ever thus,’ he thought to himself. ‘The beautiful flowers, the delicious forbidden fruit, will always spring forth in the wild, never out of pot.’
Inside, the workshop had been set up according to tradition. The cooper was absent, and there was no one else amongst the empty wooden vessels. Camatael examined the artisan's handiwork, inspecting the various casks, barrels, buckets, and hogsheads. Curubor disappeared into the back room. Camatael remained with Drismile in the workshop. There was a silence. The young lord’s gaze was once again drawn towards her elegant dress, which brought out the sensuality of her feminine form. He considered her for a moment, wondering what it was that made her so acutely attractive. His attention was suddenly captured by a precious silver bracelet about her wrist, in the shape of a snake. He was somewhat startled and decided to ask more.
“You’re no ordinary lady, are you? You are dressed like the finest courtesan of Gwarystan. Your elegance suggest you are more familiar with the royal court than with this filthy harbour neighbourhood. I am surprised it is here, under these odd circumstances, that we are making each other’s acquaintance. Where do you come from?” he asked roughly.
“I take that as a compliment, my lord,” replied Drismile, smiling timidly. She went on, her voice brimming with innocent charm. “I was born in Yslla, in Nargrond Valley, but I cannot say that I have a home… I do know Gwarystan; back there, I used to follow orders at the royal court. I had to bow to earn my living. Here, in Tar- Andevar, I have no master and no tutor. I write my own story. There, I survived. Here, I live.”
Camatael examined her with even more attention; he found her fascinating and could not turn his eyes away.
‘Yslla, so that’s it,’ he thought. ‘She must be a Night Elf. I should have known. Her exotic beauty makes her… interesting.’
“How will you let our guests know that we have arrived?” asked Camatael regaining his self-control.
“I have written a scroll to that effect. I ask that your lordships seal it with your personal runes. The children will take it to…your ‘guests’. As the king’s ambassadors, they dwell a high tower, which is still under construction. It is a round keep, covered in arrow slits, one league north of Tar-Andevar. Some say it will one day be the tallest edifice on the island, and that the top, when it is completed, will be designed to resemble an open hand with six fingers.”
“How dreadful! Evidently, we do not share the same taste in architecture… You mentioned children. Why would you rely on them for such an important mission?” Camatael asked.
“There are many poor, abandoned children in this large town of Men. They can prove efficient agents and, more importantly, their minds are easily corrupted. Their memory can be worked at will.”
“Ah, I see…”
Camatael did not have time to elaborate further. Curubor returned, satisfied by his inspection of the back room.
“All is in order. We can proceed as planned.”
Drismile withdrew the scroll from her pocket and presented it to the two lords. Camatael read the text closely. The writing was that of a consummate scribe, well versed in lingua Hawenti, which none but a few scholars practised across the Lost Islands any longer. The careful wording met all the requirements of Elvin trade agreements. This letter was a proposal; it offered to grant the distributor exclusive rights over Llymar goods across the Archipelago. Camatael was visibly pleased with the work.
“This is perfect. If they have the brains to understand these numbers, they will soon work out what this secret trade monopoly would be worth. Though Llymar Forest and the kingdom of Gwarystan have a tense relationship, we are not yet enemies.”
“I agree. This should be tempting enough for them to come and meet us. At heart, these royal servants are courtesans, who will always strive for that extra ounce of power or gold,” Curubor concurred. “You have worked with diligence, Drismile. It’s almost as if you have carried out all these calculations for your master’s benefit,” he added, with a smile on his lips.
“I am glad that your lordship praises my work,” answered the charming lady simply, her head down.
Curubor then sealed the missive with his four rings. Camatael took the breastpin that held his cloak and left his own mark: the image of the racing unicorn, symbol of his house. Once the formality was completed, the elegant Drismile was on her way. Before exiting the artisan’s shop, she turned one last time.
“I wish you farewell, Lord Curubor and... Lord Camatael. Perhaps we shall see each other again.”
Drismile bowed, fully conscious of the myriad fleeting emotions she had kindled in the Dol Lewin’s mind. After inspecting the main workshop, the two lords decided to withdraw into the back room, where they still had much preparation to do. Neither talked, for both were focussed exclusively on their tasks. It was a large room, albeit with a low ceiling. There were no windows, for this section of the building had been carved into the rock of the hill. Flickers from the fire danced upon the walls, and the corners of the room were shrouded in deep shadow. In front of the hearth, on a dusty rug, was a wooden table, surrounded by eight comfortable-looking chairs. Two were facing the room’s only door, while the other six had their backs to it. Camatael felt confident.
“The room is the perfect size for what we have planned.”
“It is small enough, yet we will not be overcrowded,” agreed Curubor.
He paused to pass his gaze over where their guests would sit, imagining their positions. His eye hardened. When the last of the sunlight was gone, the scene was set; now, it was only the actors who were missing. The two lords lit candles and sat at ease, enjoying the silence in the comfort of their armchairs.
*
Night had reig
ned for some hours when voices were heard at the workshop’s main entrance. Until that moment, the alley outside had been remarkably calm, as was to be expected in this remote part of town, particularly along a path that led nowhere. As the voices became more distinct, the two lords realized that the commotion did not come from any of the cooper’s neighbours. Soldiers were taking position and orders were being shouted. The small shop was completely surrounded. They heard several great crashes as the doors of neighbouring houses were forced open before the screams of protest from their occupants as they were violently dragged away. The two Elves judged from all the noise that a full battalion of the city watch must have been rallied to arrest them.
Their attention was then drawn to the roof above their heads in the backroom, above which they could hear footsteps breaking tiles. It was then that the wooden door of the main entrance to the shop was shattered into pieces by a great, fiery explosion. They were soon struck with the smell of burning wood, and moments later smoke started infiltrating the backroom, seeping through the gap below the door. Strangely, the cloud of smoke seemed to grow denser in the air, before it took the form of an Elf’s face, with two burning red eyes.