by Janny Wurts
‘His inner guidance is Lysaer s’Ilessid?’ Luhaine whispered, a voice suspended in shadow. ‘If so, the maternal gift of s’Ahelas talent gives rise to an ill turn indeed.’
‘I witnessed the transmission,’ Sethvir said, bleak. ‘Cerebeld can send, and hear in reply the prompt of a master he believes to be god-sent. His presence this afternoon carried more than just chilling conviction. He did not lie when he claimed to speak as the word of true Light on Athera.’
‘A misfortune to raise armies and provoke vicious bloodshed, if Cerebeld should acquire a circle of gifted collaborators.’ The shade of the Sorcerer concluded that thought with uncharacteristic brevity. ‘Then you fear as I do?’
The sparrows took flight, a flurried storm of small wings, and the beggar looked up, his gaze soft as rubbed antique turquoise. ‘I fear any landfall, even for provisions, will jeopardize Arithon’s safety. Time becomes his deadly enemy, for Cerebeld is no fool. He will certainly go on to appoint his hierarchy and successors by the criterion of his own precedence. He’ll have no one admitted to the inner circle of his priesthood who cannot discern the unfailing, true word of the man he has named Blessed Prince.’
The posed possibility of instantaneous communication between the far-flung factions of the Alliance bespoke dire odds for the future. Sethvir’s broadscale awareness tracked events well beyond the flight of his game flock of sparrows, who wheeled and alit upon the snow-frosted roof of the cupola set at the center of the circular plaza.
‘We’re not going to get the reprieve that we’d hoped for, to gain insight against Desh-thiere’s curse. Nor will those restless free wraiths left on Marak hold their peace if they bridge themselves passage while we’re torn to shreds by the dangerous momentum of a holy war.’ The vortex that marked Luhaine’s presence surmised, morose, ‘You’ll return to keep vigil at Althain Tower?’
‘That seems for the best. Warning of this new development can be sent most easily from there.’ Sethvir arose, dusted crumbs from his sleeves, and adjusted the fall of the blanket that mantled the wind-snagged, white aureole of his hair. His unseen colleague kept pace at his shoulder, and while yet another party of armed searchers plodded by, Sethvir paid them as little heed as the previous ones.
‘I’ll require a diversion, if you wouldn’t mind,’ Althain’s Warden requested. ‘One that won’t draw lasting notice.’
Luhaine whisked ahead in derision. ‘Be glad it’s I, and not Kharadmon, at your side to mask your departure.’
‘A pity,’ Sethvir disagreed, tracking pigeon-toed prints toward the center of the plaza. His grin came and went like the moon through the cloudy mass of his beard as he stepped over the barrier chain on the stair to the raised platform where the minions of Light dispensed shadowbanes to the poor every noon. ‘Cerebeld and his ilk were all raised on sour milk, to have matured with no sense of humor. Kharadmon’s style would quite likely bait them to a fatal fit of apoplexy.’
He ducked through the railing rather than trouble to round the staged landing. There, a forlorn figure with the threadbare hem of the blanket trailing, he paused beneath the pillared cupola. The stone underneath the raised dais was far older, laid down in past ages by the great centaur masons. Their work had framed the focus for a power circle neither time nor mortal building could erase.
Standing in the brittle, cold breeze with the blanket slipped to his shoulders, Sethvir heard the imprinted echoes of their song. The notes twined a descant like spun silver through the actinic static that marked the flow of earth’s lane force. He clasped stockinged hands, closed his eyes, and lapsed into what looked like innocuous contemplation.
Luhaine, nearby, could sense changing resonance thrum through the focus like a sounding board. He judged his moment with fussy precision, and incited two lurking mongrels to chase someone’s cat down an alleyway. A twist of false sound made them appear to turn on each other and engage in a snarling fight.
Shutters clapped open. Outraged citizens cursed the racket and hurled basins of water to quash the yapping disturbance, while the flared pulse of light raised for Sethvir’s departure came and went in an eyeblink. Unremarked in the pale swirl of snow, the Warden of Althain tapped the lane-fired energies of a star at the zenith and left Lysaer’s royal city of Avenor.
One by one, the sparrows that had comprised the energies of his ward of concealment blurred and faded from the onionskin roof of the cupola. They vanished away into thin air, leaving no trace and no track behind them.
Midwinter 5654
Twins
While deep winter’s blizzards howled in whiteout gusts over the northern passes, the soporific perfume of citrus rode the southland breeze that rustled glossy leaves of the merchant’s gardens in the Shandian trade port of Innish. Yet tonight, other scents warred with the fragrance wafted through the cracked window of Fiark’s cramped garret office; his twin sister, Feylind, leaned on the sill in her slops. Her presence admitted the distinct bite of ship’s tar and a robust, smoky fug carried out of the seedier shoreside taverns.
‘That’s a ripe crock o’ bilge, and you know it.’ Arms folded over her breasts in black temper, Feylind bore into her argument. ‘To Sithaer you don’t know the names of his contacts, and the place he makes landfall also.’
Fiark tallied the last line in the ledger and fastidiously blotted his pen nib. Unfazed by rank language and accusations, he laced his hands above his head and stretched the kinks from his back. Clean fingers and unstained lace cuffs gave sharp contrast to his sister’s chapped hands and the sweat-stained string of the turk’s-head bracelets worn for luck by most blue-water sailors.
‘Whose contacts?’ he inquired, his disinterested reference to her nameless subject no less than a jabbing provocation.
‘Well, damn you for a spoon-fed liar!’ Feylind sprang off the windowsill, her long, yellow braid wisped silver at the ends from overexposure to strong sunlight. ‘For that, I should plow a fist through your jaw ’til your teeth greet the nape of your neck! You never kept secrets before this.’
‘Before this, there weren’t sword-bearing fanatics lining up to swear undying service against Darkness.’ Fiark regarded her, his hands clasped at the brass-buckled cuffs of his knee breeches, and his eyes tranquil blue in sincerity. ‘I see sunwheel talismans sprouting like mushrooms for each galley lost to a clan raid. The knowledge you ask for holds fatal stakes, and Prince Arithon swore his oath for your safety. You can’t reward the gift of his care without staying mindful that danger dogs every rumored move that he makes.’
His sister returned a spectacular, balked scowl, fists cocked on the belt which hung her man-sized cutlass. ‘Damn him to slow death on Dharkaron’s Black Spear! I was eight years old at the time of that pledge, and besides, his word was given to our mother!’
‘He’s still in the right.’ Fiark laughed in the irresistible way that made shreds of her need to stay angry. ‘You’re no whit less wild now that you’re grown, and anyway, eighteen’s not considered your majority. Not by the tenets of old charter law, which Prince Arithon is charged to uphold by crown obligation.’
‘You talk like a foppish, mealymouthed lawyer. And dress like one, too,’ Feylind grumbled. She paced, her agitation intractable as a caged lioness, while the clomp of her seaboots across the bare floor raised a bellowed complaint from the downstairs tenant.
Fiark closed the boards of the ledger and locked its bronze hasp fastening. ‘You know, you’re disturbing honest folks’ sleep.’ When his sister refused to abstain from her racket, he returned her spirited sniping. ‘Also, on the subject of clothing, you’re nobody’s walking example. You’d have trouble courting a draft ox, done up as you are like a sailhand on course for a tavern bash.’
His sister regarded the toes of her boots, her grin wicked, and her laugh deep and rich with enjoyment. ‘I need the brass caps to fend off randy suitors.’ For effect and demonstration, she stamped on the floor, which intimidated the disgruntled downstairs tenant back to meek suffering and s
ilence.
‘You won’t be excused by changing the subject, forbye.’ Feylind cast herself into the battered leather armchair, her boisterous energy riffling the weighted stacks of lading lists piled over her brother’s desk. ‘Arrange me a cargo for the port where he keeps contact, and let my Evenstar carry the dispatches.’
‘I can’t,’ Fiark said, apologetic. Before she could embark on another spate of guttersnipe’s language, he handed across a scrap of correspondence written in neat, ciphered script. ‘His Grace gave the orders. Evenstar’s to be nowhere near the party who’s sent to make rendezvous. That’s for his own safety, as well as yours. He says the Koriani witches watch everything.’
‘But not here?’ Feylind snorted her frank disbelief. ‘That’s an excuse so brainless a baitfish won’t buy.’ She flicked back the paper, deflated by the fact the handwriting was recognizably genuine. Arithon s’Ffalenn remained the only living spirit she consistently failed to outwit or bully to gain her way.
‘Keep your boots off my desk,’ said her brother, aware of her intent in the fractional second as intention took form in her mind. Her time spent at sea had not changed the unspoken understanding between them. They still shared thoughts as though loomed from one thread, which made sustained argument difficult.
‘The warding was Dakar’s?’ Feylind asked. The capitulation Fiark had waited for, that had nothing to do with uncouth habits or seaboots, arrived with no fuss appended; Feylind twisted in the chair and unhooked the belt which hung her black-handled weapon. She drew a thick packet of letters from a pouch tucked underneath her man’s jerkin.
Fiark accepted the bundle with apology rather than triumph. ‘The spellbinder wrought a protection so strong, some days I find just crossing the threshold sets me into a cold sweat.’ He settled the packeted documents into a locked drawer, then dealt his twin sister the leveling honesty that kept their inviolate trust. ‘There’s everything at risk. The Shadow Master all but lost his sanity at Riverton, which is why you’ll collect no more unsolicited correspondence in Tysan, and also stop plaguing me with dangerous, prying questions.’
‘I’ll do that, perhaps.’ Feylind poked her cheek, thoughtful. ‘But only if you’ll shed your fine airs and fop’s clothes and share beer at the Gull and Anchor.’
‘That dive!’ Fiark raked exasperated fingers through his neatly trimmed golden hair. ‘You have the bar keeper there in your pocket. He’d spike my drink out of gallantry just to weigh the odds in your favor, and anyway, getting me drunk will damned well not loosen my tongue far enough to spill the secret you’re craving.’
‘Bet on that?’ Feylind’s freckled nose crinkled to her wide grin. ‘Drink or cards, brother. I’ll see you under the table or beggared.’
‘Witch.’ Fiark laughed, rising. ‘You never could.’ Grown unfamiliarly fastidious since their beginnings as mackeral shack urchins in Merior, he tipped his crockery jug of goose quills and fished out a candle snuffer. Gone were the days when he would black his fingers pinching out wicks, or cause a careless spatter of wax on his employer’s lading lists.
‘You’re coming?’ Feylind prodded, and flung him the mantle he kept on a hook by the doorway.
‘Oh, I’ll share your shore liberty, you ungrateful wench. But not at a den as notorious as the Anchor. We’ll sup at the Halfmoon.’ Fiark thumbed through his keys for the one that secured the hasp lock on his office. ‘That way, I haven’t very far to stagger home, and you can pass out where you won’t find yourself tucked in some oily galleyman’s bed come the morning.’
‘Halfmoon’s for milksops who can’t hold their liquor,’ Feylind retorted, impatiently starting her clumping descent of the stair. ‘The landlady there’s a damned child’s nurse.’
‘Oh? Say that to her face, fat Moirey will fell you.’ Fiark caught up and matched her long-strided energy with the effortless grace of old habit. ‘Two silvers says you don’t dare.’ On his way past the second-floor tenant’s shut door, he paused, then grinned at the abusive threats the matron yelled from inside. He elbowed his sister before she could retort. ‘Don’t be a pest. The couple have children. Your thoughtless noise could set them crying into the wee hours of the morning.’
With a shrug that reflected no shred of shame, Feylind answered his challenge. ‘Two silvers is ant’s piss, to brangle with Moirey. Do you want dinner, or a front seat to watch me get drubbed with a meat mallet?’ They reached the ground-floor landing; Feylind spun with a flourish and showed off her new trick, a neat, chest-high kick that tripped up the bar on the outside doorway. ‘I still have a fiends-plagued dent in my leg from the time the trull hit me with her fire iron.’
‘She did that?’ Fiark trailed into the narrow, brick-paved alley, rising with pleasure to the lively challenge of an evening in his sister’s company. ‘What was the offense? You pick a fight with one of her pimps?’
‘Drink or cards?’ Feylind persisted, a demented enjoyment setting a whetted edge to her grin. ‘Choose one or the other. You want every scrap of my sordid gossip? Then you’ll earn the right through a winning stake that proves you’re not the mim-faced town dandy you seem by the sissified cut of your clothes.’
‘Let it be cards,’ Fiark settled. ‘But if I win, the stake that I claim will be your promise, made on his own name, that you solicit no more news on behalf of his contacts. Nor will you try any other sly tricks that will lead to your knowing his business.’
‘I can’t give that promise,’ Feylind said in a sudden, desperate honesty. ‘You’ve seen for yourself how bad things are turning.’ She lowered her voice, lest the echoing sound of their passage carry too well down the alleyway. ‘Too many enemies are finding their way to the council tables. The Alliance’s cause has been tailor-made to further the townsmen’s entrenched hatreds. The hour could all too easily arrive when my role as Evenstar’s captain becomes the one cipher that could spare Arithon’s life.’
Plain facts, and a truth that cut with razored pain to the heart; Fiark found himself wordless. ‘All right,’ he agreed, when at last his dark thoughts loosened enough to let him speak. ‘No promise, but your given intent that you honor his Grace’s wishes where your personal safety is at stake. He lost Caolle to the dark machinations of the curse. If your careless misadventures ever came to break his personal bond to our mother, I don’t want to share in his anguish.’
Feylind drew breath, and Fiark interrupted in the same vein of brutal sincerity. ‘You didn’t see the damage wrought by Caolle’s death. Nor will you, if the Shadow Master’s fate resolves kindly. Wish for nothing else, Feylind. To do less would not be the act of a friend, but an axe blow to further the frightening cause of his Alliance enemies.’
Late Winter 5654
Foray
Parrien s’Brydion, next oldest brother to the Duke of Alestron, paced the decks in bad temper. That morning had brought his family’s state galley into the overcrowded port city of Southshire. Across the merle chop of the harbor’s pale waters, he could already see that the dockside berths were jammed to the point of insanity.
The lighterman he swore at dutifully shouted back. ‘We’ve got moorings still available. But only through making the proper application, with the fee paid in full at the harbormaster’s.’
‘May Dharkaron’s Black Chariot shear a linchpin and drop a wheel foursquare on the heads of the dolts in this city!’ Every bit as volatile as his youngest brother Mearn, but built with the shoulders of an axeman, Parrien snarled on in distemper. ‘Just what’re we expected to do meanwhile? Row in pissing circles while yon simpering, overdressed clutch of officials quibble and suck on their pen nibs?’
With gauntleted fists hooked on his studded sword belt, he glowered askance, and then raised another ranging bellow, this time addressed to his crewmen. ‘Damn you all for a pack of mincing laggards! Quit fiddling with whatever part’s itching and sway out this gilt tub’s excuse for a shore tender!’
The war captain and five mercenaries who strapped on their weapons to go as
hore watched, resigned, since the shortage of dock space at this time of year was altogether predictable.
Two months past the solstice, the rag ends of winter still closed off the northshore ports. While howling white blizzards cast snowdrifts like nets over the mountain passes, the wharfside dives on the south coast of Shand enjoyed their peak season of prosperity. What trade moved at all in the months before thaws must pass by the southern sea routes. Since no man could predict when the ice packs would break, or the high peaks shed their mail of slurry and ice as spring rains sluiced open the roadways, the blue-water captains drove their vessels in a cutthroat race to seize profit. Each year, ships vied to complete one last run east or west before the premium price of their cargoes could be undercut by the first overland caravans.
The month before thaws, every harbor in Shand held a maze of anchored vessels. Having zigzagged an oared course through the crisscrossing traffic of lighters to gain the docks, Parrien clambered onto the sun-bleached boards, steel studs and weapons flashing. Bystanders and longshoremen scattered from his path. With his cadre of mercenaries trailing, he stalked to the sanctum of waterfront authority.
‘Wait here until I come out,’ he commanded, adding a flicked signal to his captain. Under a graceful, tiled arch and the puckered bliss of a spouting nymph, Parrien rammed through double doors that led into the stuffy, paneled foyer of the harbormaster’s office. There, he made his s’Brydion presence felt in blustering language. The three scurrying stewards strove to placate him, then flushed red to the ears and gave in.
A servant swiftly ushered him into the main office in vain hope of keeping him quiet.
