Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar

by Frances Mason

  “When did you find this?” Javid interjected.

  “It was…a week or so...”

  “The night of the full moon?”

  “Why, yes. It was.”

  “Ten nights ago then. Interesting.”

  “Why?” asked Jared.

  “The night the air cleared.”

  “What has air clearing got to do with a sword?” Alex asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Allow me, brother,” Javid said, then to Alex, “unsheathe it and lay it on the stones.”

  Alex was reluctant. “You don’t want me to draw it.”

  “Why ever…? Ah! Of course. Brother, let’s stand back a moment.”

  The twins backed away and Alex carefully drew the sword and lay it on the stones. Javid stepped forward and knelt by the blade. He inscribed a rune above it with his finger tip. The rune hung like fire in the air. At first nothing else happened, then the stones trembled, water beaded in the gaps between them, and rolled, as if dripping down a wall, though from all different directions, toward the blade. The opaque blade became transparent, and began to flow in a circuit, hilt to tip back to hilt.

  “It did that in the blacksmiths’ shrine.”

  “What?” Javid said, blinking, “Blacksmiths?”

  “Some kind of weird ritual. They dipped it into lava, then dipped it into water and chopped up a statue of Saruthra.”

  “You stole this from the blacksmiths’ guild? Their cult shrine? You said you took it from a necromancer’s tower.”

  “I didn’t steal it from the blacksmiths, they stole it from me. I only took it back.” He thought it best not to mention any unimportant details, like the dead blacksmith.

  “And they used it in some ritual, which did this?”

  “Well, more than that. It had writing all along its length, like...”

  “Fire.”

  “Well, yes. Fire and water. You saw through the gem. You just showed me.”

  “No,” said the mirror image, “I showed you, through this gem.”

  “What?…which of you is?”

  “It can’t be,” Javid said.

  “It can’t be what?” Alex asked.

  “No, no. I can’t be sure. I need more information. I can’t decide, but if it is…one of the divine artefacts…”

  “Of which there are many,” Jared said.

  “When the lost are found…,” Javid said.

  “…the old age will end,” Jared completed.

  “What are the lost?” Alex asked.

  “No,” Javid said, “it must be something else. There are many magic swords.”

  “But what do you think it is?”

  “I need access to the Codex of Metma. Within are the runes I need for my research.”

  “To tell what the sword is?”

  “Uh…yes. That’s right.”

  “You hesitated. You really want this codex. You’re making a deal.”

  “You’re a smart lad.”

  “You don’t grow up on the streets without knowing a hustle when you hear it.”

  “Well…?”

  “And then you’ll tell me?”

  “And then I’ll be able to tell you.” Javid smiled.

  “And what makes you think I can get this codex for you?”

  “Well, you are a thief.”

  “I…I’m as honest as any man in Thedra.”

  “That’s not saying a lot.”

  “Ok, ok. I’m not saying I am a thief, but…”

  “You’ll…borrow…the codex for me.”

  “You’re pretty shifty yourself, old man.”

  “With age comes wisdom.”

  “You mean cunning. Ok, I’ll borrow this codex for you. Who is going to kindly lend it to me when I don’t ask him.”

  “Not a man, a place. The Labyrinth of Leaves.”

  “The labyrinth? You can’t be serious. I hear they flay thieves…not saying I’m a thief…they say they use…um, borrowers’…skins as parchment.”

  “Lies.”

  “What makes you so sure? I don’t want to become someone’s psalter, even if they do illustrate my bum with pretty pictures and gold leaf.”

  “They’re rumours that have been spread over generations to keep thieves away. I researched the history of the Labyrinth, among other things, when I was a Brother of the Leaves.”

  “We both were,” Jared said, “but they’re too caught up in empty disputation there. We’re more practical men. Well, I am, anyway.”

  “My star-way rises higher day by day.”

  “And if it goes far enough you’ll fall on your head on the moon.”

  “At least I’ll have gotten somewhere if that happens. You, on the other hand, will never reach the stars.”

  “But I’ll know them, and knowledge is the greatest of goods.”

  Alex interrupted the sibling rivalry. “If you’re both practical men you’ll understand my practical needs.”

  “Practical needs? Oh, you want to be paid in gold?”

  “If I wanted your gold…,” Alex left the rest to their imagination.

  “Yes, I believe you would. What do you want then?”

  “Directions.”

  “Ah!” Javid slapped his forehead. “Of course. I’ll have to give you detailed instructions.”

  “A map would be helpful.”

  “I think I can help,” Jared said. He took out another gem. It was circular, almost flat and black as darkest night, nearly large enough to cover his palm, and faceted on both faces with a symmetrical precision that seemed beyond human craft. “I haven’t used this in a long time,” he sighed in a nostalgic tone, “it’s a gem of far seeing which I modified when we were still monks. Made it into a map of the labyrinth. It’ll guide you. I’ll target it to where the codex lies. Be sure to bring it back. I can see the library from the walls here, but we have none of the privileges of the order anymore. This is one of the few reminders I have of its interior. And in case you’re thinking of stealing away with it,” He narrowed his eyes with comical suspicion, “if you don’t bring it back I’ll turn you into a frog.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I’ve never tried. The spell could go terribly wrong. Especially at a distance. Who knows what might happen to you.”

  “You’ll have to be careful in there,” Javid cautioned, “in case they’ve laid traps.”

  “You said they don’t flay thieves.”

  “They don’t, but they don’t invite them either. And they could lock you away in one of the oblates’ cells.”

  “For how long?”

  “Oh, until you can’t tell anyone that the story about flaying is false.”

  “You mean until I’m dead. This is sounding more and more like a raw deal.”

  “But you love a challenge,” Javid said slyly.

  That struck a nerve. The old man was right. He did love a challenge.

  “And if they lock you up in an oblate’s cell, a boy with your skills wouldn’t remain there for long, would he? Even if they could catch you in the first place. And you made your way to the top of the necromancer’s tower. You told us yourself. And stole…took back the blade from the shrine of Fulkthra. How difficult could navigating the labyrinth be for a thief…I mean a negotiator of enriching transactions…as talented as yourself?”

  “You’re too cunning for an old librarian. Sure you weren’t a thief in your youth?”

  “Quite sure, unless you call me a thief of knowledge. To that I’ll confess my guilt every day.”

  “Here comes our patron,” Jared said.

  “The Duke, and…” Surprise spread across Javid’s features, almost like the first infatuation of a boy, “Eleanor of Navre!”

  “I wonder what she’s doing in the capital. She hasn’t been here for many years.”

  Alex looked over his shoulder at the approaching worthies, then turned back to the twins. “You mean…The Duke?” He quickly picked up the sword, sheathed it and girded it.

  “Duke Relyan,
yes.”

  “Your patron?” Alex hissed.

  “And a very generous one at that.”

  “You mean…?”

  “He funds our researches. Such work requires resources.”

  Alex was worried. He had not known they were The Duke’s creatures. The Duke had eyes and ears across the city. It was said there was no secret in Thedra, whether high or low, great or small, that The Duke did not know; that if a political advantage might be found in the shadows he would hold it. And it was whispered in some quarters that he could even command the arkon of Nethra, god of death, to unleash the assassins of the city on any but the monks of the god of war. Alex thought that was probably a lie, but behind every false reputation is a grain of truth.

  The twins bowed to the duke and dowager duchess. Close behind the duchess two pretty and fashionably dressed young ladies politely waited. Alex executed an extravagant bow as he had seen it performed in the theatres, first to the duke, then to the duchess. Seen close up there was something about the duchess that seemed familiar, though he could not say what. She had an elegant figure, both shapely and slim, almost like that of the beautiful teenage girl she must once have been, and was about his own height. Her eyes were dark brown but bright with intelligence. Her hair was also brown, without a single white strand. And although her face was deeply lined, the lines seemed to add dignity to her beauty rather than efface it.

  “Your Grace truly honours such lowly scholars with your presence,” Jared said, kissing the ducal signet ring.

  “And Your Grace,” Javid said, trying to mute the grunt as he knelt on cracking knee before Eleanor, “it is too many years since Thedra was last blessed with such beauty.”

  “It’s many years since I was beautiful, but it is true I once turned eyes at court.”

  “No eye of the court could drink deeply enough,” Javid flattered, though Alex suspected the flattery was tinged with honesty, for even in her age he could see the lineaments of that once youthful beauty.

  All through the courtly flattery of the scholars Eleanor’s eyes rested on Alex. He felt uncomfortable under her keen eyed observation. He was more accustomed to avoiding attention than attracting it. Kneeling before her, he lowered his head so as not to return her gaze, which, despite his discomfort, he sensed was kind rather than cruelly calculating.

  “Are the followers of Wisdom and Learning so given to ignorance?” the duchess asked.

  Alex looked sideways at the twins. Both were puzzled by her statement.

  “Will you not introduce me to your friend?” she clarified.

  “Our friend?” Jared asked, absentmindedly.

  Javid elbowed him in the ribs and looked meaningfully at Alex.

  “Oh, our friend. The…um….”

  Before Jared could find an adequate euphemism for “thief”, the duke said, “Alex, the son of a beggar.”

  Twins and thief all started, gaping with surprise at the duke. Alex wondered how he knew, and then, with a shudder, feared how much else he might know. Perhaps this man’s reputation was closer to the truth than he had imagined.

  “A beggar!” the duchess said, and Alex realised before he looked into her face that the duchess was crying. He had seen the compassionate empathy of some noble ladies before, and always considerately took advantage of it when the opportunity arose, but he had never seen quite so emotional a reaction. He began calculating how best he could profit from this turn of events.

  “Poor boy!” she said tearfully, “and your…father…” she almost choked at this point, but quickly regained some measure of composure. A purse hung loosely at her side. How to get near enough to it without a crowd to distract her? She stepped forward and lifted him to his feet; then, before he could react, threw her arms around him. “Poor boys!”

  He could see the twins staring at this scene with amazement, as did the pretty young ladies, but the duke was impassive, even calculating. Calculating eye met calculating eye. What advantage did that powerful courtier gain from the duchess’s compassion? The duke’s eyes slid away from Alex’s, seemingly staring into the distance.

  He was not so surprised that he forgot how to cut a purse. It’s not every day that a rich lady hugs you so tightly you can be sure she won’t notice a thing. The angle was right to block the view of the duke’s too sharp eyes, and his fingers were quick enough in the poor light to avoid the notice of the two ladies in waiting. The duchess’s sobs made it both easier and trickier than it would otherwise have been, shaking his own body because she clung to him so closely, but making it less likely she would feel anything as he cut the cord from which the purse hung with the tiny blade secreted in the loose sleeve of his cloak. Without looking he knew he had gained much with little effort. The weight of the purse told him there was little gold or silver in it, but the feel told him there were many small gems. She stepped away from him, and dried tears from her eyes as the purse disappeared into his cloak sleeve with the tiny blade.

  “And your father…”

  “Is dead,” he said with sad gravity, playing the mourning orphan to perfection, since that was sure to distract her attention from any subtle difference in the weight hanging from her side.

  “Dead. Yes.” Her shoulders slumped. She wiped tears away, and said, “we share something. I too have lost much.”

  Jared whispered to him: “Her husband and her eldest son were lost at sea, two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I lost my father six years ago. He was a good father. Only beat me when I was slacking off, not begging. Taught me how to live in this world. I wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t learned so much from him. I suppose that’s not the same thing, but.”

  “I feel your loss.”

  “It was a long time ago. I was only a little beggar then or, as my father used to say, ‘a little bugger’.”

  “A beggar!” Alex thought she was going to cry again, but she just repeated, in a trembling whisper, “A beggar!”

  “Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea. It’s an honest profession. Not with the ones that fake a broken leg or the falling sickness, and I’m not saying my father was one of those, but with the really honest beggars who just ask enough to eat and have a bit of fun.”

  “Without the bother of work to earn it,” muttered Jared disapprovingly.

  “I can’t agree with that. A beggar works as hard as any craftsman for his bread, and a lot harder than some monks.” He looked significantly at the former monk. “It’s not easy to get a man to give up what he’s got without stealing it. Not that I would do anything like that, but there are people, you know.”

  “I know,” Jared said sardonically.

  Alex squatted and pretended to pick something up off the ground. “You seem to have dropped this, Your Grace,” Alex said, handing her the purse he had cut.

  He didn’t know what had come over him. It wasn’t like him to give back what he’d filched without being threatened. It was probably that he hoped to be invited to her palace someday, where he could rob her properly, rather than enjoy quick, less extravagant spoils. That was it. That was definitely it. Yet, he couldn’t deny he liked the old biddy. There was something so familiar about her, like when you meet a stranger and you’re sure you’ve met them before. Something about her face. She was a lot cleaner than most of the old women he’d known though, and a lot older, given that most of them died before they got that wrinkled. She seemed to have good teeth too. He’d never seen an old woman with good teeth. He wondered whether that was her own hair or a wig.

  Chapter 34: Jasper: Vrong Veld

  Jasper strode to the end of the pier, dropped to his knees, and touched the welcome earth.

  Along the quay the ships were being hauled into dry dock. There the wide doors in their sides, through which the warhorses had been led into the lower decks, would be un-caulked and opened, allowing them to be brought out. Marcos likewise knelt to touch the solid ground, as did many of the Crimson Monks who followed.

  “The s
ea is for fishes,” Jasper said with disgust, and more than one of his brother knights grumbled their agreement. They would need time to recover before the march west, as would their horses. Vrong Veld was the seat of power of the Crimson Monks in Ropeua, though the master of the order led a small chapter in the capital for the sake of political influence, and the protection of the order’s interests, if need be by force. Their ties with this duchy’s dynasty stretched back centuries. In this city they could relax and recuperate. The Crimson Monks never forget discipline though. They formed ranks and marched in good order toward the town.

  A small man in the gold, emerald and white livery of the duke ran up to Jasper. The column halted behind him in good order and he leaned down to take the sealed message. He cracked the seal, impressed with the hart of Vrong Veld, and unrolled the small scroll.

  “Anything important?” Marcos asked.

  “The duchess.” He turned to the messenger. “Tell your mistress I’ll join her as soon as my men are quartered.” The messenger nodded, and ran back along the docks toward the causeway. They continued their march.

  Behind them the narrow causeway which defended the port from the sea and naval attack extended to the small island above which towered the ancient ducal castle, with its series of concentric curtain walls separated by dry moats and cramped killing grounds. The outmost curtain wall was flush with the cliffs, which fell precipitously on three sides from the high plateau. Ballistae and mangonels and trebuchets were arranged along its thick, high battlements, ready to defend with destruction anyone foolhardy enough to attack from any direction, whether land or sea. It was said the castle was so well sited and defensible that one hundred could hold out against ten thousand, and Jasper, for all his experience of sieges against mighty castles, was inclined to agree. No page of history or tale of bard told of its ever having fallen. It was the administrative centre of the town and the duchy as well as the bulwark of the port, and countless generations of dukes had been born in its massive, ancient keep or the elegant modern halls of the inner bailey.

  As the Crimson Monks marched down the several piers to join their ranks, the port quarter bustled with its usual trade: drunken sailors looking for a fight but not foolish enough to take on so many professional soldiers; pock marked whores hoping for business, hanging out of second storey windows, baring breasts with dye darkened nipples and leering suggestively, their yellowed eye whites warning wary customers of disease, running their wet, pink tongues around cherry reddened lips while panders touted at open doors below; opium dens with wizened old habitués slouching in their doorways, from which wisps of smoke floated out to pungently scent the air; beggars truly crippled or hiding sturdy limbs in ragged folds of robes, holding bowls out in dirty hands, trembling with palsy or pretence.