The galley glided into dock. Lines were thrown down and a gangplank extended. A weary and somewhat ill looking princess staggered down the gangplank on wobbly legs, smiling weakly at Julian and waving at the crowds. Trumpeters sounded their horns and a herald stiffly announced, “The princess Alyssa of Relyan,” then the princess doubled over to vomit all over the pier. The townspeople gasped, though the liveried gentlemen and herald politely did not notice while the trumpeters covered the sound of retching with an elaborate flourish. Her ladies shielded her from the crowd as much as possible, and lifted her skirts so that the contents of her stomach would not be worn on her hems, but her off colour face soon bobbed up again between them, like an apple in a barrel of water, still forcing a smile. The crowd cheered and Eleanor did not have to direct her son to step forward and offer his arm. The princess gave him a grateful, rueful look, but as she slowly recovered as they walked along the dock toward the waiting carriage, Eleanor noticed Alyssa looked up with more and more admiration at her son’s considerate face. He, like all men, most vulnerable when a lady in distress seemed to need his strength, could not hide his own admiration. He said that the sea was made for fish, not men, and that he dreaded sea sickness every time he sailed, though his mother knew he had the best sea legs in the archipelago. Soon the betrothed were leaning their heads together, whispering to each other in that way lovers have, as if the whole world were made of the two of them alone. In fact, they were so taken with each other that Eleanor thought she should leave him to show his soon to be duchess the sights of her capital. Given how intently the princess watched his face, she wondered how much of the town she would see. Given his own expression, she expected the landmarks of most interest would be Alyssa’s eyes.
Eleanor hummed with satisfaction as she returned to her apartments, not realising at first that it was the song the minstrel had played for her in the entrance hall earlier that morning. So many memories of Thedra! And more than memories. Her heart ached for the loss of more than mere youthful beauty.
When she saw the tiny metallic grey bird perched on the balcony balustrade with a delicate ring glinting in the sun she dismissed her ladies. She took the slender silver ring from the bird’s beak and examined it. It had a dolphin in relief for house Navre on the outside and the mermaid of Sol, her father’s emblem, engraved on the inside. She looked curiously at the bird. It was clearly alive, but it did not breathe. It whirred. Like clockwork. Its tiny amber eyes stared blankly at her, then, as she slipped her ring onto her finger, tiny runes appeared in the eyes, glowing like contained fire. The bird tilted its head, opened its beak, and a voice spoke. It sounded more like the grinding of cogs and the ringing of tiny bells than the hum of a human voice or the song of a bird. “That which was lost has been found.” Then the runes faded. There was another whir of clockwork, and the wings fluttered. The bird shot into the air and flew north, toward the mountains of The Dividing Range.
Eleanor heard several melodic voices behind her. “Didn’t I say to leave me?” she said irritably as she turned, puzzled that her ladies would enter singing, and angry that they had returned at all without being summoned. But it was not her ladies. Eleanor realised the language was not Ropeuan, or Kemetese or Vrongwenese or Seltic or Fikish either. Also, the voices came from one woman, not many. Surprisingly, she was completely naked. Despite the musical character of her words she was not singing. The words sounded very like a harmony, at once beautiful and impossible for human vocal chords to produce. The woman had the tired, harassed appearance of a dissatisfied middle aged mother. She did not have the slim, almost girlish, shapeliness that Eleanor had almost miraculously retained through many childbirths, but was, nonetheless, voluptuously beautiful. Her face showed clearly that she was as puzzled and irritated as Eleanor. Eleanor decided that her bodyguards would have to be reprimanded. It would not do to have strange, possibly mad, naked women wandering into her quarters unannounced. She called out to them. The woman was still talking, her eyes blazing with anger. The language was not entirely unfamiliar, and suddenly it dawned on Eleanor what she was hearing. But she immediately dismissed the thought. She could not believe this was that language. That was impossible. But despite Eleanor’s denials, she understood what was being said. The woman was asking a question, repeatedly, and in the haughty tone of an angry noble. She looked regal, but like no queen Eleanor remembered ever having seen.
Two of her bodyguards, large men in splint armour, with short swords at their sides and spears in their hands, stepped into the doorway, concern on their faces. “Yes, Your Grace?” They both scanned the room and as much of the balcony beyond as they could see, but were careful not to cross the threshold without an explicit command.
“Can you explain the presence of…”
The woman had disappeared. Eleanor looked all around.
“Your Grace?”
“Never mind. Return to you posts.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” They withdrew.
She searched the room, went out to the balcony and looked over the edge, then returned to the room and searched it again. Nothing. Not a trace. “It must be the stress of the wedding. I swear I’m going mad with the preparations.”
She could not leave before the wedding, but she was distracted throughout. She had longed so long for Augustyn’s news from Thedra. The splendour of festive spectacle, usually so pleasurable, was only a blur of colour at the periphery of her attention. At the feast she hardly ate and even the minstrels, usually her favourites, could not inspire her. Julian thought her ill, and Alyssa worried over her like a dutiful daughter.
Her son looked worried when she told him she must go. “But Alyssa has only just arrived, and she wants you to show her the country.”
“She wants you to show her, and speaks kindly of me knowing it’s the way to your heart. It’ll be better for both of you if I’m not here. Besides, the preparations have been made.”
“But...”
“I have felt a sudden aging in my bones. I’m old and don’t know how long I’ll last. I must make a pilgrimage to The Temple in Thedra, before I die.”
He looked at her sceptically. “Aging bones? Before you die. You’re as strong as ever, Mother. You have many years left to you, though you did seem ill at the banquet.”
“I was, and I fear it’s no passing illness. Time is an unyielding creditor, and I feel it all too ready to close my accounts.”
“We have healers as good as any in Thedra. Stay here and let them tend to you.”
“I must make the pilgrimage. It has been too many years since I’ve seen the holy sites and touched the holy relics.”
He knew she was not telling her everything, and she knew he knew, but he also knew that when her mind was made up she could not be convinced by any but her own arguments. “Will you at least spend some time with Alyssa?”
“I will make sure she doesn’t mistake my urgency for lack of regard. It wouldn’t do to have her think her mother in law was dissatisfied with her.”
When she had explained herself as well as lies could manage, and the princess had made a respectable attempt at detaining her, she packed a minimum of belongings, directed the porters to carry a single travelling chest to the docks, and departed in a caravel. She would not take her ladies with her. The quarters on the caravel were too cramped, and she would need all the space, and privacy, they could afford. Her ladies would follow at a more sedate pace. Despite the protestations of the flotilla admiral, she would have no escort. He said he would not risk her safety to the predations of pirates. She told him that with her son on land she had no fear of pirates. He laughed for a moment before it struck him that he was laughing about his own duke. His face became serious again. “But the northern seas are dangerous, Your Grace, even in summer.” “Fear not, admiral, if I’m lost my son will have the pretext for adventure he craves. He would reward you well for providing him the chance to behave less like a duke and more like a buccaneer.” “The gods forbid.” They laughed together at th
e thought, but she would not be delayed.
The captain of her caravel asked where they were headed as the palace and colossus of Navre shrank behind them. “The capital.”
“You mean?”
“Thedra, yes.”
“A galley could navigate the Selta more swiftly. We have no oars.”
“Don’t worry about oars.”
“Without the winds behind us sailing upriver is no easy task. The tides will only help near the river mouth.”
“The winds will be behind us.”
“Ah, Your Grace, if only I could command them they would be, but winds are more fickle than the moods of women.” He looked suddenly embarrassed, and said, “no offence.”
“You’ll have your winds. Be ready for them.”
He looked at her with the pitying look of a man speaking to a woman who knows nothing of his manly trade. “I will do my best, Your Grace, but I can offer no miracles.”
“I ask nothing more, other than that nobody disturb me in my quarters.”
“No one will disturb you other than to leave your meals.”
“Not even for that. If I have need of anything I will send for it. See to it.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Carefully sealing the door to her quarters, she rolled back a plush rug decorated with a dolphin soaring over a sea of stars at one end and a mermaid on a sea of gold at the other, the ducal arms of the houses of Navre and Sol. She drew a runic circle on the exposed floorboards with a block of charcoal. Then she stepped into the circle, knelt, and softly muttered the spells of summoning. The four winds were fractious sisters, never agreeing, but with the right enticements some might rest while the others played. Eleanor’s words flattered and cajoled, seducing the goddesses in their own language, the first language, of which even the greatest human sorcerers know but the smallest fragments. But with those fragments which Eleanor knew she pleaded. It had been many years since she had spoken the language of the gods, and at first her speech was halting. But soon her fluency returned. She could feel the shift in the air, and saw the substance of the world shivering about her, for the language of the gods is the language of creation. A mortal must be careful with creation, knowing so little of what the gods know, but with care changes could be wrought, the shape of reality bent to the will, the ears of the gods opened to one’s prayers.
A cook passing her door thought he heard the boards creaking and cracking as though speaking, and though they were beneath decks the air gusted about him, lifting his hair and whispering in his ears. He fled back to the galley, and when the scullion asked him what was wrong, only looked frantically around him, at the walls, at the ceilings, at the floors, at the pots and utensils and sacks of potatoes, as if anything might be about to come to life and attack him.
Above decks the captain was amazed at the sudden change in wind, but yelled at the men in the rigging. The unfurled sails caught the wind, and the galley skipped quickly across the water.
Chapter 9: Alex: Thedra
Lamps lit by Navralese olive oil flickered on the tables. Rogues whispered over mugs of watered down ale or sour sack. Cheap whores with their breasts hanging out and the marks of the pox on their faces and eye whites which might be yellow from the lamplight or from sickness, lolled against merchants’ sons inviting them upstairs for a roll in the sack and a probable dose of the clap. An adventurer from the archipelago of Kum, or a braggart from the land of liars, loudly told an actor who wrote blank verse plays that he had seen cities so magnificent Thedra was like a muddy village in the Norwalds by comparison. The actor, middle aged, with long hair balding at the crown, scribbled as he listened, knowing that a convincing lie is every bit as good as truth for a play. Four carters, smelling of the rubbish they carted from the streets of Thedra to the collection points where they dropped it to the barges on the lake below, drank mugs of ale while playing Fool’s Jack, a popular card game.
A fop with bleary eyes, and a large stiff ruff above a colourful, intricately embroidered doublet, and a teenage boy of small build, dressed in dull brown clothes – loose sleeved cloak over doublet, tunic, breeches and hose – and with his back to the open door had been dicing, but now the fop staggered out of his seat and reached for his rapier hilt, with its elaborately wrought, gilded hand guard. Alex raised one bushy eyebrow at the fop’s bravura performance, but rose from the opposite bench on which he sat, stepping sideways and backwards then behind the bench in one fluid movement. He also was drunk, though less so than the fop, and despite the world being entertainingly fuzzy, his movement was catlike in its relaxed dexterity.
The problem with North Bank, Alex reflected sadly, was that everyone was a scoundrel, whatever his appearance. You spent a lifetime learning how to fleece the innocent, only to find out that you were the sucker. The evening had started innocently enough. Alex had won a few silvers from the fop. Not that it was about the money. He had acquired so much gold from the necromancer’s tower, mostly safely stashed where no one would dare to look, that he did not need to fleece anyone; he could even have gone into honest business, if he had had any such perverse inclination. No, it was only for the pleasure of fleecing a fop foolish enough to stray into North Bank in search of excitement. Alex was happy to provide the excitement of a cozening. So he had been surprised when the cony, his intended victim, had accused him of using loaded dice. It was an unfair accusation. He had swapped the loaded dice for the original fair dice in his sleeves long before the fop had realised anything was up. He had won the last throw fair and square. Perhaps he should not have demanded the jewelled snuff box as collateral when it turned out that that aristocratic blood really was nothing but dandified clothes and affected mannerisms. But what else could you do when you were trying to cheat a man with no gold? He should have known better. The lack of silver had been clear enough evidence that the fop was no more honest than a bloody thief.
Now the fop had drawn his rapier, and was yelling a lot. Some people have no sense of fair play. The others in the room watched with mild, bleary curiosity. If the man skewered Alex with his sword that might be entertaining for them. But Alex was not going to let his death be more fun for anyone else than it was for himself, so he gave the snuff box back. Its jewels were really coloured glass anyway, and the powder inside was low quality, a tiny portion of Penya pollen mixed with so much crushed grass seed it would hardly get a baby mouse high. Unsatisfied, the man now shoved the rapier point right up to Alex’s throat. Alex still had the bone sword, though it was wrapped in cloth and under his cloak, but he had no skill with swords in real combat. He had survived to this age by being quick enough to avoid most fights, and hardy enough to survive an occasional bruising, not by killing people. He doubted this fop had much experience with real fighting either, but the sword was already at his throat. He stepped back and sideways, toward the open doorway, but the fop’s feet were suddenly steady, and the rapier point followed Alex’s throat as if connected to it by an invisible thread. At the moment Alex stopped moving the fop started swaying again.
Alex thought of dropping and rolling backwards through the doorway, running as his feet touched earth, and not stopping till the tavern was far behind. It was as good a plan as any he could think of in the heat of the moment. But the instant he readied his muscles he became aware of the men who had at that very moment blocked the doorway. He also noticed many of the tavern customers and whores getting up from their tables and making for the door behind the bar, despite there being no dirty, lice and flea infested beds out that way for them to rut on. He reached into one of his pockets and threw the silvers he had won on the floor. The blade dropped and he ran for the stairs. But there was a coughing, stinking shadow at the top, and he knew it was not accidental. The room was completely empty now except for himself, the fop and the men who had blocked his exit at the door.
Turning back round he saw them now. Randy bloody bastard, who else? and two other guild manglers. Now he knew who the stinking coughing man at the top of the sta
irs was. What he was. The fop scrabbled in the sawdust on the beaten earth floor for the silver, blocking the path of Randy and two others. Alex vaulted over the banister onto the end of the bar and ran along it, but before he reached the end he saw a shadow in that door too, and it was not the bartender.
Alex cursed himself. If he had not been drunk he would have noticed the stink of his nemesis’s rotten breath and rancid sweat before he even reached the door. Before he had blocked the door. He made a note to himself: don’t get wasted in North Bank, there are plenty of inns across the bridge in Thedra, a city full of pretentious suckers. He looked back. The fop swayed unsteadily on his legs, apparently not sure how to threaten men who might fight back. Eventually he struck on the idea of quoting a character from a recent vendetta play. “Remove thee from mine exit, thou rotten gallows fodder, or my sword will show your belly the shape of death’s smile,” he said, and raised his still drawn rapier. They listened to his words with obvious amusement and looked at his sword with affected terror, then mock respectfully bowed and let him pass, applauding him as he passed. They did not make enough room for Alex to dart out. Two of the men at the front door continued to block that way out while Randy stepped forward.
“Now why don’t we talk about this like honest rogues,” Alex said, with his most charming grin.
The manglers laughed. Randy advanced on him, his mouth black with rotted teeth. “I told you I’d get you one day, you little fucker.”
“Ok, you’ve got me, I’m a fucker. I can fuck a woman without raping her.” Randy stopped at that, and grinned broadly, looking around at his associates. “Who would want to fuck a woman who wants it? What are you, a pervert?” The others all guffawed their sinister approval. “I don’t approve of perverts. What about you, boys? What do we do to perverts?”
They growled, maybe, Alex thought, because they had no human faculty of speech, but he assumed the growls could roughly be translated as, “we want to stomp you, pervert.” Since they had wanted to do that anyway that did not change his situation very much.
Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar Page 11
