Flight of the Nighthawks

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Back at your house, sleeping it off.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “They haven’t had enough time to get that drunk.”

  He held up the whiskey bottle. It was nearly empty. “When they just tossed down five double portions each in fifteen minutes, it does.”

  “Well, at least they won’t be troubling Grame and Ellie,” said Marie.

  “Or us,” Caleb said with a smile.

  She said, “I don’t care how drunk they are, Caleb, if they’re in the house, then you’re not.”

  He grinned. “I already have a room at the inn. If we head over there now, no one will notice you come upstairs with me.”

  She slipped her arm through his. “As if I care what people think.

  I’m not a maiden trying to catch a young suitor, Caleb. I’ll grab happiness where I can, and if anyone cares, it doesn’t matter.”

  Caleb pulled her close to him and said, “And those who do matter don’t mind.”

  They skirted the edge of the crowd and made for the inn.

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  Flight of the Nighthawks

  * * *

  Their lovemaking had an urgency to it that Caleb had not experienced before, and afterward, as they lay with her head on his shoulder, he asked, “What troubles you?” She knew that one of the reasons why they had been drawn to each other was his ability to read her mood so accurately. “Tad asked me if we were going to wed.”

  Caleb was silent for a moment, then he let out a long sigh. “If I were the marrying kind, Marie, it would be you.”

  “I know,” she said. “But if you won’t stay, marry me, and be a real father to the boys, you have to take them with you.”

  Caleb moved out from under her and levered himself up on his elbow. Looking down at her, he said “What?”

  “You can see how it is for them, Caleb. They have no future here.

  I had to sell the farm and that coin won’t last forever, even if I grow most of my food in the garden. I can make do alone, but feeding growing boys . . . And they have no one to teach them farming, and no guild to teach them a craft. Every other lad was apprenticed to a farmer, trader, sailor, or guild two years ago at the Choosing, but my boys stood alone at the end. Everyone likes them, and had they means to help, Tad and Zane would be apprenticed by now, but there just isn’t enough work here.

  “If you don’t take them with you, they’ll become layabouts or worse. I’d rather lose them now than see them hanged for robbers in a few years.”

  Caleb was silent for a long moment. “What would you have me do with them, Marie?”

  “You’re a man of some stature, despite your homespun garb and leather hunting togs, or at least your father is. You’ve seen the world.

  Take them with you as servants, or apprentices, or take them to Krondor and find them work there.

  “They have no father, Caleb. When they were little a ma was all they needed—to wipe their noses and hold them when they were scared. We did a lot of that after Zane’s folks were killed in the troll raid. But at this age they need a man to show them what to do and what not to do, to knock some sense into them if need be, and to 2 9

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  praise them when they do well. So, if you won’t wed me and stay here, then at least take them with you.”

  Caleb turned, and sat with his back against the plaster wall. “What you say makes sense, in a way.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to, but yes, I’ll take them with me.

  If my father doesn’t know what to do with them, I’ll take them to Krondor and see them apprenticed with a trader or placed in a guild.”

  “They’re like brothers now. It would be a crime to split them apart.”

  “I’ll keep them together. I promise.”

  She nestled closer to him. “You’ll come back from time to time and tell me how they’re doing?”

  “Yes, Marie,” said Caleb. “I’ll make them write to you often.”

  “That would be grand,” she whispered. “No one has ever written to me before.” She sighed. “Come to think of it, no one’s ever written to anyone I know.”

  “I’ll see that they do.”

  “That’s lovely, but you’ll have to teach them to write, of course.”

  “They don’t know their letters?” Caleb couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

  “Who would teach them?”

  “Don’t you . . . ?”

  “No, never learned,” she said. “I can make out word signs a bit, because I’ve heard them at the shops, but I’ve never really had a need for them.”

  “Then how will you read what they send you?”

  “I’ll fi nd someone to read them to me, I just need to know that they’re doing well somewhere.”

  “You’re a rare woman, Marie,” he said.

  “No, I’m just a normal mother worried about her boys.”

  Caleb settled back into bed and let her return to the crook of his shoulder. Silently he wondered what he had gotten himself into.

  3 0

  TWO

  C o u n c i l

  Pug held up his hand.

  He was a short man who looked no more than forty years old. He dressed, as always, in a simple black robe, and his dark eyes surveyed all the people who stood before him. His eyes were the one feature that betrayed the extent of his power. Otherwise he was, to all outward appearances, a very average looking man.

  The cave on the north side of Sorcerer’s Isle had become the traditional meeting place for the Conclave’s leaders. It had a narrow entrance, with a low ceiling. It was dry, free of moss and lichen, and from time to time, it was dusted to provide a modicum of comfort for those who met there.

  The cave was almost bare, save for two stone shelves and a few rocks which offered the only resting places. Light was provided by a spell that Miranda employed—an en-

  Raymond E. Feist

  chantment that caused the walls themselves to glow faintly. Only one feature of the cave was unnatural: a bust of Sarig, the putative God of Magic rested upon a pedestal against a wall.

  Over the years, Pug had slowly come to understand more about the way in which the gods “died.” Sarig was lost, and had been presumed dead since the Chaos Wars, yet Pug was coming to the conclusion that he still existed in some form and still had a hand in things.

  The bust flickered as the features of the icon shifted constantly, occasionally resembling Pug, or one of Pug’s companions. Its changing countenance illustrated the theory that all magicians were avatars of the god in one manner or another.

  Pug pushed his chronic curiosity over that artifact away, as he looked from face to face, seeing his most trusted advisors. All but two of them were former students. Those two—Miranda and Nakor—stood quietly to one side. Magnus, Pug and Miranda’s son who had recently returned from the world of Kelewan, stood behind his mother. Pug caught a glimpse of resemblance between them in the faint light and smiled slightly. Magnus and Caleb were unmis-takably brothers, save for their skin tone and hair color—Magnus was pale with white hair while Caleb’s skin was tanned and his hair dark brown—but neither looked especially like their parents. There were hints and glimpses of similarities from time to time, but Pug had wondered more than once whether the boys might carry the look of one of their paternal grandparents, neither of whom was known to him.

  Miranda had not changed since Pug had first met her over fi fty years before. Her dark hair held only a fleck of gray and her eyes changed color with her mood—dark gray, to green, to brown -fl ecked hazel, to dark brown. She had high cheekbones and a determined set to her mouth that at times could undermine her regal beauty.

  To Pug, she was always beautiful, even when he was angry enough to strangle her. It was her strength and passion that made him love her.

  Katala, his first wife, had possessed the same qualities in her youth.

  Pug’s eyes locked with his wife’s for a moment and the
y exchanged the silent communication they had shared for years.

  Nakor settled down on a rocky ledge, and Pug wondered again if 3 2

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  he would ever truly understand the strange little man. Nakor refused to accept the traditional concept of magic, always insisting that it was just tricks, the deft manipulation of some kind of mystical stuff that underpinned all things. There were moments when the bandy - legged little man drove Pug to distraction with his abstract musings on the nature of things, but at other times Nakor could provide insights into and had a grasp of magic that stunned Pug. The Isalani was also, to Pug’s mind, potentially the most dangerous magician in the world.

  The newcomers to the Conclave’s inner circle sat waiting for Pug to speak. They were: Rosenvar, a middle - aged magician from Salmater, and Uskavan, a mindmaster from the world of Salavan.

  Uskavan looked human but his skin had a decidedly magenta hue if you were close enough to notice. Pug had made contact with his homeworld a decade before, via the Hall of Worlds, and had agreed to let him study with the Conclave in exchange for sharing knowledge of his mind - magic. Uskavan could produce illusions so vivid in the mind of a subject that they could cause physical reactions—he could conjure phantom blades that could cut, or imaginary fl ames that could burn. Pug also found his alien perspective useful.

  Uskavan had taken the place of Robert de Lyse, one of Pug’s best students and a valuable servant of the Conclave of Shadows. Robert had died peacefully in his sleep the year before, though he had been less than seventy years old.

  Pug began, “I have spoken to each of you separately and now want to share some intelligence, so I’ve asked you to join me today to sum up what we know regarding two issues of great importance.

  “The first is the matter of the Talnoy.” He glanced at Magnus, who stepped out from behind his mother.

  Magnus’s face was set in a concerned expression. “The Tsurani magicians are as baffled as we are by the nature of the magic used to create these things.”

  The Talnoy were artifacts from another circle of reality, created by a race called the Dasati, and were extremely dangerous. They were suits of armor powered by the imprisoned souls, or spirits, of the Dasati, and as such they were almost impervious to damage, immune to pain, and mindless in their obedience. According to what Kaspar of 3 3

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  Olasko had told the Conclave when he had brought the fi rst Talnoy to their attention, “Talnoy” was Dasati for “very hard to kill.”

  Magnus continued, “They agree that any major incursion into our level of reality, for lack of a better term, would be catastrophic.

  As such, they are endeavoring to discover as much as possible about the wards we disturbed when we first discovered the Talnoy reposi-tory in the cave.”

  He glanced at Nakor, who said, “Nothing new to report, I’m sorry to say.” The self - proclaimed gambler, who refused to admit that he was a magician, paused as he considered his words. Finally, he continued, “Our girls and boys”—he referred to all the younger magicians on Sorcerer’s Island as girls and boys—“are trying very hard to understand these things.

  “The one good thing,” he said with a grin, “is that I think we have found a way to ensure that only we can command them should it come to a confrontation with the Dasati.”

  Pug said, “That’s something, at least. Ten thousand Talnoy under our command is nothing to be taken lightly.” He ignored the impulse to add that against the hundreds of thousands of Talnoy controlled by the Dasati, that number would amount to very little. “But I think our interests are best served if we can discover how they remained hidden for so long. In other words, if we can stay hidden from the Dasati, then we will have accomplished the most important task we have before us.

  “Our other task is hunting down Leso Varen.”

  Miranda said, “Have we any idea to where he might have fl ed?”

  “I have agents keeping alert for anything out of the ordinary concerning magic.”

  Miranda’s dark eyes narrowed. “He’s gone to ground for years at a time.”

  Pug said, “But this time I think he will be anxious to reestablish his presence. He knows something important is out there, even if he has no idea what the Talnoy represent or how he might use them to his advantage. If nothing else, he will want to deny us something that powerful.

  “His attack on the island and Elvandar last year proved that he 3 4

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  has grown bolder, and whatever tendency he had for stealth is gone.

  He remanifested his powers quickly after his host was killed by Talwin Hawkins. I think it’s safe to assume we’ll hear from him again, and soon.”

  Rosenvar said, “Pug, what is it you’ve not told us?”

  Pug smiled. He had chosen Rosenvar to join the inner circle because the man had keen insight and an almost intuitive ability to pry answers from very scant information. “It is nothing specifi c, really.

  Just some troubling dreams, and bad feelings.”

  Uskavan’s black eyes were wide as he said, “Never ignore dreams, Pug. My people believe that parts of our minds are always at work, always seeking to understand things. Dreams are often the means by which some parts of the mind communicate what is about to become conscious thought; especially when the emotions are strong. Our races are not that different; when it comes to the workings of our minds we have much in common.”

  Magnus glanced at the alien magician and Pug could almost read his son’s thoughts: few humans, including Pug, Miranda, and Magnus, could even begin to approach the mind - discipline of a novice of Uskavan’s order. Salavan minds were far more complex than human ones, despite Uskavan’s insistence this was only because the Salavans were an older race and had been practicing mental arts for thousands of years.

  Pug nodded, a slight expression of resignation on his face. “Indeed. I fear my dreams may be portents of coming disaster. Or, they may simply be a manifestation of my concerns over the Dasati.”

  Magnus said, “Father, we must prepare as if they are coming.”

  “I know.” Pug looked at each member of the inner circle of the Conclave. “Send word to our agents who are placed in all the royal courts. I want to know about every ambition, plot, or intrigue, and any situation that could be turned to our advantage. If we must, we shall bribe and threaten to secure help in such a confl ict.”

  Pug fell silent for a minute. He remembered the Riftwar; for twelve years, while the Tsurani had fallen upon the Kingdom and the Free Cities, Queg, Great Kesh, and the lesser kingdoms to the east had watched with keen anticipation, seeking any opportunity to 3 5

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  advance their own cause at the Kingdom’s expense. “Should the Dasati come, we must have friends in high places who will argue that every nation needs to respond quickly, no matter where the invasion strikes.”

  Magnus said, “Father, that is all well and good should an attack happen in Triagia—all the monarchs on this continent have some sense of vulnerability; should aliens set foot on close by soil all would be equally vulnerable and will unite, but what if the beachhead is some deserted shore of the Sunset Islands, or down in the grasslands of Novindus, or the high plateau of Wynet?”

  “A more difficult task, then,” said Pug. He looked at his council, pausing a moment to study each face. Miranda seemed as enigmatic as any stranger. She often kept her own counsel and took matters into her own hands. They had fought more than once over the years about her putting agents into the field without consulting him or giving orders that he disagreed with. He smiled slightly. As long as his wife was involved, Pug could never be accused of ruling the council of the Conclave of Shadows. She nodded slightly and returned his smile, and he knew this time she was in full agreement.

  Rosenvar’s lined face looked as if it were fashioned from sunburned leather. His reddish hue was accentuated by a shock of unruly blond hair, now rapidly tur
ning white. “It seems to me,” he said,

  “that we might be well served if we started leaking a rumor or two.”

  Pug was silent for a moment. “To what end?”

  The magician from Salmater smiled and Pug recalled the fi rst time he had met him, sitting in the corner of an alehouse, dispensing sage advice, minor charms, and outright lies with equal abandon to anyone who’d stand him the price of a drink. Since coming to the island, he had stayed relatively sober, and his drinking bouts were few and far between.

  “Rumors are wonderful things, when employed correctly,” said Rosenvar. His voice tended to rumble as if it started somewhere deep within his bowels and slowly worked its way up through his throat.

  “I’ve seen entire cities turned on their collective ear by the right rumor, Pug. Rulers distrust official reports and credible witnesses, but a juicy rumor . . . ah, that’ll set them running around like turkeys 3 6

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  in a storm, heads turned upward with mouths agape, trying to drown themselves in the downpour.”

  Pug chuckled. He enjoyed Rosenvar’s turns of phrase. “Very well, but what rumors?”

  Rosenvar lost his smile. “Word is Duke Erik is ill, perhaps dying, in Krondor.”

  Pug nodded. “So I have heard.”

  Miranda said, “He is the last.”

  Pug knew what she meant. He was the last survivor of Calis’s company of “Desperate Men,” those prisoners given their freedom in exchange for making the journey down to Novindus at the start of the Serpentwar, and the only man of rank still serving who had survived the conflict. Erik knew what distant dangers could mean.

  “Then we start in Krondor?”

  “It seems wise,” said Rosenvar. “There are a couple of rumormongers who have various highly placed officials of the Western Realm among their clients. If we start something vague enough to not cause an immediate response, but something familiar enough to Lord Erik that he’ll feel obliged to warn the Prince of Krondor . . .