Dark is the Moon

by Ian Irvine

  Everywhere he looked there were thorns. Blood ran in rivers down his arms. He wriggled, sank a little further down then stuck fast. No matter what he did it had no effect.

  His brief flight had shown that the brambles extended all the way along the base of the wall and down the slope as far as could be seen. They were old, vastly intergrown, with evil hooked thorns and brittle powdery gray leaves that shook down with every touch. Their dust itched abominably.

  By concentrated effort Mendark managed to twist the pack off his back, but when he reached inside, his bread fell out and the water bottle nearly followed it. The vertical sun beat down like the heat of a furnace, but the breeze did not even stir the leaves down here.

  Mendark tied the nearly empty bottle to his belt. He felt around carefully for his knife, mindful that if he lost it he would never get out. Still hanging like a bat he hacked hopelessly at the wrist-thick bramble canes that enclosed him on all sides.

  A day went by. Mendark lay still. His body had failed him. He could feel it coming apart inside. He longed for death, but not this humiliating failure that would undo his life’s reputation. The Histories could not show him like this—he would not allow it!

  One last cast! he thought. Dare I try to renew myself one final time? Even in the best of circumstances renewal was hazardous. But here, with no food or water, no support, no tools or devices, the consequences could be hideous.

  But I must! For myself and for Santhenar. Slowly, painfully, he began the rejuvenation spell for the last time.

  28

  * * *

  OFFICIAL

  CORRUPTION

  Fifty days!” Tallia said. “Well, that gives us time to look for Stiletto, and I can visit my family too.”

  Osseion, Tallia, Rustible and Pender were taking breakfast together in the shade of a sail, for the sun was up before they were and it was already hot. Beautifully hot and sticky, the climate she’d grown up in. Osseion was carving pieces from a whole fish cooked in a fiery red sauce, a splendid specimen that from blue lips to rainbow tail stretched the width of the table.

  “Not at the breakfast table,” said Pender with a shudder as Osseion reached for the eyeball.

  “It’s the best bit,” said Osseion. He popped it out with his thumb, held it up between thumb and finger then flicked it into his open mouth. He chewed for a while, took the eyeball back out, examining it ostentatiously, licked off a bit of red sauce then rolled it along the back of his hand. Pender gagged on a piece of bread and boiled egg.

  “Stop teasing him!” Tallia laughed.

  Osseion allowed the eyeball to fall through the gap made by the missing finger, caught it neatly in his other hand and popped it back in his mouth again.

  Even Rustible, stolidly packing away the fish as if it was his last meal, gave an amused snort. He was a messy eater, his shirtfront spattered with red sauce and strands of fish intestine.

  Pender, who was drenched in sweat, turned his head away. He had not been surprised by Mendark’s disappearance. “He’s a secretive one, eh!” he said to Tallia, recovering enough to spoon down half a dozen soft-boiled eggs. They had been living on hard tack for weeks but the spicy fare of Crandor did not agree with him. “Well, I’ve got plenty to do this month if you haven’t.”

  Tallia raised an eyebrow.

  “While you were busy in town yesterday I had several approaches,” said Pender. “Cargoes down the coast of Crandor as far as I want to go. I also have some private dealings that might make both our fortunes.”

  “As long as they aren’t the kind that could lose our heads!”

  Pender rubbed the bristly stump that joined head to body, looking unhappy.

  “How far do you want to go?” Osseion interjected, mopping sauce off his plate with a slab of bread as long as Tallia’s forearm.

  “Roros, Guffeons, Gosport—perhaps even as far as Maksmord if the winds are with us. There’s buckets of money to be made here, and a cargo to be found for the journey back home.”

  “I’ll go as far as Roros,” said Tallia, “where my mother and father dwell. I wouldn’t advise you to go much further, Pender, or you’ll never get back in time.”

  While Pender’s crew loaded cargo—spices, coconut, smoked clams and a miscellany of other freight—Tallia went back to the Customs House to enquire about the five remaining boats on her list. After lubricating the tongue of a junior clerk with a few silver coins, she confirmed that three had home ports in Crandor—Ivory Cutter, Cutlass and Stiletto—though a quick flip through the docking records did not show any of them calling here in the last half year.

  “I’d be careful if I were you,” said the customs clerk, an earnest, spotty youth.

  “Oh!” said Tallia.

  “It may not be too healthy to ask too many questions.”

  “Why is that?” asked Tallia, but then the Customs Master returned from lunch. A great, wallowing woman with sagging dewlaps and tiny eyes, she looked like a born bureaucrat.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she bellowed. “Those records are confidential.”

  Though Tallia knew that was not the case, she did not argue. The woman wanted a bribe, a much larger one than she’d already paid to no avail. Not planning to waste any more money here, Tallia merely bowed and went out. That turned out to be a mistake.

  Next morning they continued south down the coast, stopping at several small ports on the way to Roros, capital of the rich southern province of Crandor. Roros was a rich old city, larger even than Thurkad. Draped between two hills across a meandering floodplain, it was a city of canals and a thousand bridges, with a waterfront that stretched for a league. After some trouble, for it was also festival time here and the waterfront was packed, they found a berth. Pender hired a team of divers to scrape down the bottom, which was covered in weed and barnacles. They waited for customs to come aboard, leaning on the rail, watching seagulls feeding on scraps in the water.

  “I wish they’d get a move on,” said Tallia, impatient to see her family.

  The customs inspection was brief and efficient. Immediately afterwards Tallia went down to the Customs House to continue her search. She met with a friendly reception until she mentioned the boats she was looking for.

  “We guard our privacy here in Roros,” said the officer. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m looking for a sailor,” Tallia replied, “on behalf of his daughter, who is from Thurkad.”

  “Sailors!” sniffed the woman. “I would advise you to look elsewhere.”

  “I’m a citizen of Crandor and I know my rights,” Tallia persisted. “The docking records are public information.”

  “Not in Roros!”

  Tallia patted her pocket, the first step to offering a bribe, usually the quickest way in her country. “Perhaps we can discuss this privately,” she said in a low voice.

  To her amazement the officer reacted aggressively. “Are you trying to bribe me?” she said so loudly that all the clerks looked up.

  “Of course not,” Tallia said hastily. “I just… never mind. Thank you.”

  Back at The Waif she told Pender the story. “I don’t like it either,” he said, munching a sandwich gloomily. “There’s something funny going on here.”

  There was a lot to do, so the crew went on with their work and thought no more about it. Tallia went into the city. At dawn the next morning a long sleek boat with a yellow sail cruised past, its captain scanning their vessel with keen interest. Poniard was written in gold letters across the stern.

  “He seemed to like what he was looking at,” said Osseion.

  Pender spat over the side. “Corsair or sea robber, or smuggler,” he said. “Don’t attract his attention—he’s as fast as us; maybe faster. How are your family, Tallia?”

  “Well, apparently, though they’re all out of town on a family holiday.” She sighed heavily.

  Half an hour later the same ship came back. This time there was no doubt that the skipper was inspecting them
carefully.

  “I don’t like the look of him,” said Rustible.

  “Cheeky devil,” Pender said. “I’ll have to take extra precautions. There goes my profit. No wonder shipping costs are so high here.”

  “Are we… carrying anything special, Pender?” Tallia asked carefully.

  “Soon won’t be,” he muttered.

  Just then a customs officer reappeared, checked their papers carefully, cocked an eye along the vessel and said, “Come with me if you please, captain.”

  Pender waddled off behind him, sweat bursting out of the back of his neck. Before they had finished their breakfast, another customs officer, a woman almost as tall and dark as Tallia, though rather meatier, appeared on the gangplank.

  “Tallia bel Soon?”

  “I am.”

  “I would be grateful if you would accompany me to the Customs House. Please bring your papers and seal, if it is convenient.”

  Despite the politeness, Tallia was alarmed. It was an order and would be enforced ruthlessly if she did not cooperate. But then, this was her country, and she knew the procedures well.

  She gathered the required articles and went down to the Customs House. “There is an irregularity?” she asked.

  “We take our duties seriously in Roros,” said the woman, which might mean anything or nothing.

  Pender was sitting across a table from the first official, the ship’s papers and cargo manifests spread out all around. Tallia sat down beside him. He was sweating profusely.

  “Black Opal is on our list,” said the man. “She is known to have been a smuggler of illegal substances.”

  Pender gave Tallia a reproachful glare. She knew exactly what he was thinking. I told you Black Opal was trouble, eh! Told you that we would be harried and hindered and maybe put in gaol just because this boat has a bad name.

  “That was long before our time,” said Pender. “We bought her legally from customs in Ganport. She is The Waif now. Look, the papers are signed and stamped. The change of name has been properly registered. Here is the seal of customs, and here, that of the Ganport Harbor Master. Everything is in order.”

  “We have never heard of Ganport,” said the woman. “And papers are easily forged, a matter that we will come back to later.” She stared coldly at Tallia. “You admit that this vessel was once the Black Opal?”

  “Ganport is a fishing port about a hundred leagues north of Thurkad,” Pender said, answering the first question.

  The woman consulted a huge register of stamps and seals from all over the known world. “I can find nothing for Ganport.”

  “Surely customs comes under the Registry of Trade, in that country?” said Tallia.

  The two officials whispered to one another, consulted various charts and maps of ports and turned more pages while Pender sweated. Eventually they agreed that the stamps were valid. Then another difficulty arose.

  “Tallia bel Soon! I recall that name in a dispatch,” said the customs man.

  More searching through papers. “I knew it!” cried the man, running his finger across the page. “Tallia bel Soon, arrested for forging papers that were used in the purchase of Black Opal.”

  “What alias?” the woman asked.

  “Jalis Besune.”

  She almost had a fit. “Besune is my father’s name!” In a great flurry of excitement, everything was examined again. Tallia thought Pender was going to have a heart attack.

  “I admit the forgery,” said Tallia calmly. “However, it was done to escape from the war! It is not illegal to use another name in Meldorin, or in Crandor, so long as no crime or fraud is involved. I have a right to use the Magister’s seal.”

  “Easy to say; not so easy to prove. Produce the seal.”

  Fortunately Tallia had it with her, and a warrant from Mendark which was genuine. Introducing his name into the affair caused more complications, for Mendark was known in Crandor, not entirely favorably. But on the other hand, his was a more powerful name than they cared to deal with on their own authority.

  “Mendark must come here in person and explain his business.”

  Tallia answered that Mendark was not even in Crandor. The officials held another whispered conference. For a while it seemed that they would be kept in custody until he could be brought to account, for Tallia wasn’t going to tell where Mendark was or what he was up to. She was already anxious about him, all alone.

  “Hold on,” said Tallia. “Mendark is not an owner of this boat.”

  “He was when the papers at issue were signed.”

  “And we have not even started on the transfer papers from him to you two,” said the other.

  “Really!” said Tallia icily. “This has gone on too long. I call for an arbitrator, as is my right. I will claim that you exceed your authority, to the hindrance of free trade.”

  “You have the right,” said the woman. “Name your arbitrator.”

  “Dacia bel Rance,” said Tallia, crossing her fingers in case she was no longer alive. It had been more than ten years.

  The register fell closed with an immense clap. “The Deputy Governor!” The woman stared at Tallia, then at her fellow official.

  “My aunt,” Tallia said coolly. “And I may claim that you are harassing me to cover up your own corrupt dealings.”

  “We must consult,” said the woman. The two officials disappeared through the door behind the counter.

  “Pity you didn’t speak up as soon as we got here,” said Pender, wiping away the sweat.

  “I didn’t know Aunt Dacia had risen so high. Besides, using influence in Crandor can be a blade with two edges. It must be done delicately, at just the right moment.”

  Eventually the officials came back and the matter was settled but they were still not free to go. All the manifests had to be examined in excruciating detail, the duties paid. Finally they returned to a very worried Osseion, and the ship was searched with commendable thoroughness. Nothing illegal was found, but a day had been lost.

  A few minutes later the corsair’s boat came past for the third time.

  “I don’t like this at all,” said Osseion. He stood up, staring at the sleek ship. “A poniard is a sneak’s weapon. What kind of a person would give a boat that name?”

  “A dangerous man,” said Tallia.

  Pender was not a brave man. “No!” he said when Tallia proposed that he make enquiries about Poniard and her captain. “I value my skin far too much to draw attention to myself in a strange city. We don’t know who to trust.”

  “I don’t trust anyone here,” fretted Rustible, coiling yellow hair around a finger.

  “I can ask my family,” said Tallia, “when they get back.”

  “I’ll go,” said Osseion. “There are ways of finding these things out.” It did not take him long; the boat was known in every waterfront bar.

  “Poniard is owned and captained by Arinda bel Gorst. A clever and charming man; also ruthless and violent. The boat has a nasty reputation though no one would say anything specific. He’s a smuggler, probably a pirate too, but it seems no one has lived to bring evidence to court.”

  “Why would he be interested in us?” asked Tallia.

  “A fast ship, not from these parts,” said Pender. “Perhaps he thinks we’re in the same business, or trying to take his. If we disappeared no one would ever miss us. Black Opal’s reputation seems to have been everywhere.”

  “More likely his agent in customs told him about our cargo,” said Tallia. “Just what are you carrying in those locked crates, Pender? Silver bars? I noticed you kept the manifests from me back there.”

  “Nothing illegal. I’ve learned that the fewer who know, the better.”

  “I’m your partner, remember,” she said sharply.

  Pender looked a little nonplussed. “Much better than silver,” he said. “Liquid metal. Twenty flasks of quicksilver, each your weight and worth a fortune here. I’ve invested all my profit in it.”

  “Enough to kill us all a hun
dred times, if a flask tips over in a storm,” said Tallia angrily. “You should have told me! Well, get rid of it and get the money into the counting house before our friend bel Gorst comes for it.”

  “I can’t,” he said gloomily. “It goes to the Alchemical Academy at Twissel, two days down the coast. Osseion, better go out and hire some guards; and make damned sure that they aren’t pirates too.”

  “I think I’ll make a few more enquiries about Poniard while I’m out,” said Osseion.

  “Better hurry. If he gets the cargo I’m ruined.”

  “If he gets it,” said Rustible somberly, “we’re dead!”

  It was a hot, still, sticky night. Everyone was hoping for a storm but it hadn’t eventuated. They slipped out of Roros port under cover of darkness, making their way up the winding channel among the rocks and reefs.

  “Are you sure that this is a good idea?” Tallia asked before they had gone very far. Waves could be seen breaking on reefs in every direction.

  “It’s a bad idea,” Pender replied, “but not as bad as losing ship and cargo, and probably our lives as well, to that pirate, eh! I spoke to the pilot and bought the latest charts. The channel’s not my biggest worry.”

  They were moving slowly forward under a rag of sail, Rustible at the bow with a lead line while Pender paced back and forth, sniffing the breeze.

  “The wind?” asked Tallia.

  “It’s just a land breeze, shifting all the time. It’ll die as the night goes on. But if it turns around to the east we won’t be able to get out.”

  “Let’s go back. Better not risk it,” Tallia advised.

  Pender pondered. He stared at the sky, rubbing his bristly jaw. Tallia could hear the rasping sound from the other side of the boat. “I think the land breeze will get us out.” He shouted for a bigger sail.

  The night passed with agonizing slowness; then, at midnight, the breeze suddenly died away and the sails hung limply from their poles.