“He believes the islands in the mid-ocean are the hidden secret that enabled Den Fellaemion to reach Kellarin,” Casuel said reluctantly.
Temar bit his lip. “Suthyfer?” It was a measure of his concern that he used the mercenaries’ everyday name for the islands, not the fanciful Garascisel he’d decreed.
“Is that possible?” Ryshad looked from Temar to Allin who was looking distressed.
“Has the vessel come to grief?”
“I don’t know.” Temar chewed a thoughtful knuckle.
“Just because something hasn’t been done, doesn’t mean it can’t be.” Halice had other concerns.
“Ships nowadays are sturdier than the ones Den Fellaemion used.” Ryshad looked apprehensive. “Mariners are more used to sailing the ocean, with the growth of trade up to Inglis.”
“Half the noble Houses in Tormalin want a taste of the Kellarin trade,” I pointed out. “They’ll be sticking down their own colonists without so much as kissing your hand if they can get away with it.”
Allin shook her head emphatically. “Cloud Master Otrick himself always said it would be impossible to cross the ocean unaided.”
“Did he say the same after he learned about Suthyfer?”
Halice studied a map. “If a ship could reach the islands, take on fresh water, take bearings on the right stars and check the sun from solid land, that would set them fair for the second leg of the journey.” She looked at Allin. “Did Otrick factor that into his calculations?”
“I don’t know.” Allin faltered with sudden self-doubt. “The Emperor has decreed that any land grant must have my seal,” Temar insisted but he looked worried.
“We’re going to throw people back into the sea, when their prince has sent them here on the promise of a new life?” Ryshad said dourly.
“Tadriol’s going to sail up and down the coast to enforce his writ in person, is he?” I chipped in.
Halice jabbed an emphatic finger at Temar. “What about people who don’t recognise Tormalin writ? Land hunger’s been a goad in the Lescari wars for I don’t know how long.”
“Let’s not go begging for trouble.” Temar was scowling. “If the ship is lost—”
“—we’d best look for wreckage or survivors.” Ryshad completed the thought.
“Could you tell us where currents might have carried them?” Temar looked to Allin.
“The Tang will discover its fate.” Casuel spoke over her with irritating condescension. “Naldeth’s on board. I warned him Den Harkeil’s arrogance would doubtless lead to disaster.”
“The Tang? Den Castevin’s ship set sail?” Temar waved everyone else to silence. “When can we expect that?”
Casuel looked affronted. “They left on the 37th of For-Spring.”
“Just before the full of the greater moon.” Ryshad narrowed his eyes. “They should make landfall any time in the next ten days.”
“The lesser at dark won’t have been a problem, not with a mage aboard.” Halice was doing her own calculations.
Allin didn’t look so sure. “Naldeth’s affinity is with fire, not air or water.”
“Parrail’s on board as well.” Casuel’s dismissiveness made my palm itch to slap him. “One of Mentor Tonin’s pupils. He has sufficient Artifice to assist.”
“Thank you for this news, Esquire D’Evoir, and for your time. We need keep you no longer.” Temar nodded to Allin who snuffed the candle with a prosaic puff. Casuel’s obsequious farewells dissolved like the thread of blue smoke unravelling from the wick.
Temar rubbed a hand through his close-cropped hair, leaving it in unruly black spikes, his blue eyes haunted. “Dastennin forgive me but I could almost hope Den Harkeil’s ship has foundered.” He wasn’t invoking the god of the sea out of habit or hypocrisy.
“They knew the risk they were running.” Halice was no more inclined to sympathy than me. “Folly’s generally a capital crime sooner or later.”
Ryshad moved away from me towards a half-completed map of the coast between Vithrancel and Hafreinsaur. “Where do we suppose they might land, if they’re looking to set up their own standard?”
Halice twitched the map out of his reach. “We’re only guessing till one or other ship turns up. We’d be better off organising ourselves so we’re ready to meet any challenge. Temar, you’re calling yourself Sieur; it’s time you started enforcing your writ. If you’re going to do that, we need to know where it runs.” She grinned. “Which is what I came to discuss in the first place. Are you going to claim fealty from any of my lads who throw in their lot with colony families. Are they going to get the restraint they need if you do?”
“What’s brought this up?” Ryshad sat on the edge of the table, dark eyes alert. He knew the value of discipline among fighting men and had suggested more than once it was time Temar swore men to his own service in the manner of Messire D’Olbriot’s militia. Temar kept avoiding the issue, claiming he didn’t understand the customs that had been devised in the uncertain days of the Chaos.
I sat on Ryshad’s abandoned stool and took out my belt knife, idly cleaning my nails as Halice explained about Deg and Catrice. Temar rallied his wits and proposed reviving some of the ancient customs his grandsire had relied on. Ryshad advised a few modifications in the light of the greater independence Tormalin princes allowed their tenants these days. Halice grudgingly approved a few changes he suggested to the rough and ready sanctions she used to keep the mercenaries in line. Even Allin ventured a few hesitant observations on Hadrumal’s parallel systems of influence and power.
The only interest I’ve ever had in justice is keeping well clear of it. In some towns that means playing an honest game, watching my manners and trusting to Halcarion to keep my luck polished up. In other places it means taking every chance that offers and making my own besides. Sometimes, you just have to trust to a fast horse waiting to take you out of reach when some fool with an empty purse goes crying to whoever thinks they’re in charge.
I pared my nails and wondered if it mightn’t be more interesting to go home and wash the bed linen.
CHAPTER TWO
To Cadan Lench, Prefect and Mentor of the University of Col,
From Aust Gildoman, Registrar to the Magistrates of Relshaz.
Dear Cad,
You asked me to keep a weather eye out for any news of interest in aetheric magic hereabouts. Don’t think this counts as interest, exactly, but I thought you’d like to know how high some people’s feelings can run.
Your friend, Aust
A Warning to All Rational Men in the Face of New Superstition From the Sciolist Fellowship of Relshaz
Every clear-thinking man has rejoiced in this generation’s rise above the falsehoods and myths that so encumbered our forefathers. The pernicious influence of wizardry over the fearful is finally quelled just as the malign grip of religion upon the credulous has been broken. Now we must take a stand against insidious new fables as we are assailed by a mendacity combining the worst elements of magic and dogma.
Aetheric magic, also called Artifice, is noised abroad as the answer to every woe that afflicts the feckless. It will bring bread to the idle, succour those suffering through their own debauchery, and provide undeserved wealth for the inadequate. If half the powers ascribed to this ancient lore are to be believed, Artifice could bring the very moons down from the heavens. It takes but a little rational thought to see all such hopes have no more value than the silver of moonshine reflected in the gutter. Those few with any knowledge of these supposed enchantments are far from our shores and Tormalin nobility besides. Whatever slight benefits might accrue from their lore will inevitably be reserved for those born to rank and precedence. The commonalty is offered mere garbled cantrips barely understood by priests eager to snare the gullible once more with the comforting deceptions of piety.
Counter such folly with insistence on the study of the tangible. Remind any friend tempted by lies and half-promises of the proven benefits accruing from advances in
every field of natural philosophy. We must not return to those naive days when the study of proportion was the realm of the mystic rather than the objective man, when anatomists were shunned for encroaching on Poldrion’s privilege and alchemists and apothecaries won only derision for their pains. Let us look forward to the advantages we will secure through rigorous application of the intellect explaining the richness of the living world, unlocking the secrets of death and disease, charting the cycle of the heavens and seasons and answering a myriad other questions besides.
Magic of whatever nature promises unearned boons but let us never forget the heavy price paid in the past by those succumbing to such temptations. No rational student of history can deny the Chaos enveloping the Old Empire must have been less comprehensive in its destruction, had not ignorant rulers summoned the unprincipled powers of mages in undisciplined pursuit of selfish aggrandizement. Malevolent magecraft wrought misery through every land from the ocean shore of Tormalin to the Great Forest beyond Ensaimin. No renewal could begin until amoral wizardry was driven from our shores, exiled to that isle where the mage-born skulk to this day.
Artifice may not offer such dramatic distortions of air and earth but its insidious threat is no less ominous. Consider the testimony of this Temar D’Alsennin, lately feted in Toremal. He tells of enchantments woven into every aspect of governance. Their false promise encouraged the Old Empire to spread ever further, ever thinner, relying on frail cords of Artifice to link all together. There was no understanding underlying this magic. In using enchantments to attack an enemy rather than honest strength of arms, D’Alsennin’s ignorant sorcerers cut the bridge from beneath themselves as well as their foe. With one thread cut, the web of Artifice unravelled throughout the Empire. The seeds of the Chaos were sown, ready for the fire and water of heedless mages to bring them to full bloom. D’Alsennin credits aetheric magic with his salvation and that of his people without ever acknowledging that same sorcery held them all senseless beneath the earth for more than twenty-four generations. This was not salvation but mere cowardly postponement of an evil day. What rational man would ever consider such a fate preferable to an honest death?
Ignore those who assure you latter generations of wizards have both wisdom and discretion. Remain vigilant lest misguided sentiment over this archaic Artifice seduces anyone into thinking magic of whatever nature has any claim on these enlightened times.
Suthyfer, the Western Approaches,
18th of Aft-Spring
The islands rose from the vast ocean with shocking abruptness; sharp ridges strung out across the waters. Closer to, tree-clad hills hunched defiant shoulders beneath the infinite blue skies, steep bulwarks drawn up close beneath serried spines grudging the barest suggestion of a beach to the all-encompassing seas. The sea matched that niggardliness with a paltry band of surf, meagre waves lifting listless sweeps of white before retreating to the coruscating deeps. No hint of reefs threatened the ship shunning the lesser islets, intent on a narrow strait just visible between two emerald promontories.
Clouds drifting unfettered cast light and shade on restless waters already brilliant with fleeting shimmers like fish darting away from inquisitive eyes. The isle ahead offered an impassive mosaic of greens unruffled by the steady wind carrying the fast-approaching ship inshore. Stalwart trees carried sober hues beneath the verdant highlights of new growth and underbrush, motionless patterns framed by the dark mossy bulk of the rising peaks. The wind shifted and moist earthy scents momentarily won over the scouring salt of the sea breeze and seabirds’ cries pierced the creak and thrum of rigging and sail.
“I’ll be so glad when we land!”
“That sounded heartfelt, Parrail.”
The man clinging to the rail of the ship greeted this new arrival with a weak smile. “Naldeth, good day to you.”
“Duty to you, gentlemen, but clear out of the way.” A sailor hurried past, bare feet deft on the swaying deck, oblivious to the chill wind despite his sleeveless shirt and ragged knee breeches. “Can’t you go below with the rest of the passengers?” He didn’t wait for a reply before hurrying up the ladder-like ratlines running from the rail to the crow’s-nest where the top half of the mast was securely stepped to the lower.
Parrail looked apprehensively at Naldeth. “I don’t think I dare.”
“Over here.” Naldeth led the way to a stack of securely netted cargo. He cast a wary eye up at sailors deftly reconfiguring the creamy sailcloth billowing on the Tang’s tall square-rigged fore and main masts. “Still no sea legs?”
“It’s not so much my legs as my stomach.” Parrail took a reluctant seat, lifting his head to see past the intricacies of ropes and pulleys. “It’s better if I can see the horizon. One of the sailors told me that.”
“I do what I can to keep the ship on an even keel,” said Naldeth lightly.
Parrail managed a faint smile. “My thanks to you, Master Mage.”
“My pleasure, Master Scholar.” Naldeth made a comic attempt at a seated bow. Leaning back against the shrouded lump of canvas that was the ship’s boat, he yawned widely before looking around. Animation and intelligence lent distinction to an otherwise unremarkable face. “This trip’s taught me just how much I don’t know about the workings of water, but the winds have been favourable so I don’t think we’ve lost too much time.”
“Dastennin be thanked.” Parrail’s intensity had little to do with devotion to the god of the sea. Much of an age with the wizard, the scholar nevertheless looked appreciably younger thanks to a snub nose, boyish features and wiry brown hair teased by the wind.
Naldeth idly tapped a foot on the tightly fitted oaken deck. “Master Gede was saying we should be anchored and ashore in time for lunch.” He laughed. “I take it you didn’t want breakfast?”
Parrail took a deep breath. “No, thanks, and I’d rather not talk about food.” He tugged absently at the laces of the plain linen shirt he wore beneath an unadorned broadcloth jerkin.
“Sorry.” Naldeth looked up towards the sterncastle of the ship where captain and senior crewmen stood in purposeful conclave before the lateen-rigged aftmast. They broke apart, each one sliding deftly down the ladder-like stair, intent on his allotted task. The captain remained behind, scanning the vista ahead as he talked to the helmsman whose broad hands cradled the whipstaff that governed the ship’s massive rudder. The captain was a tall man, hair pale grey in contrast to brows still black and knitted in the scowl fixed on his weathered face by years of peering into sun and wind. He wore soft half boots and long breeches of plain blue broadcloth beneath a comfortably loose-cut shirt much the same as wizard and scholar wore. Where Naldeth had opted for the same leather jerkin worn by half the crew, the captain maintained the dignity of his rank with a sleeveless mantle of warm grey wool belted with a tooled leather strap and a fine brass buckle.
“So is Suthyfer just the name of this island or the whole group?” Parrail asked more for the sake of distraction than wanting an answer.
Naldeth obliged regardless. “I think it’s the whole group. I don’t think anyone’s actually named the individual islands. I’m not sure anyone’s ever stopped here to do a proper survey.” With the fast growing bulk of the largest isle now dead ahead, his hazel eyes were bright with curiosity. “Whoever does should name at least one rock for himself, don’t you say? That would be something.”
“You’re interested in doing it?” queried Parrail.
Naldeth was visibly taken aback. “No, I’m bound for Kellarin.”
Parrail hesitated. “You didn’t seem overly taken with the colony when we were last there.”
“I was glad to see the back of the place.” A scowl threatened Naldeth’s cheery countenance. “I’d never seen people killed before. I mean, people die, don’t they? Poldrion rolls the runes but when it’s people you know…” He fell silent for a moment, face vulnerable. ”I’m sorry. You lost friends, I know.”
“I want to help Kellarin for their sake.” Parrail’s u
nguarded reply wasn’t a rebuke but Naldeth’s swift response was defensive.
“I’d done as much as I could, hadn’t I? I thought I’d best take what I’d learned back to Hadrumal. The Archmage and the other wizards left long before me.”
But Parrail’s soft brown eyes were looking inward on remembered sorrow. Awkwardness hung between the two young men as sailors’ shouts of encouragement and warning sounded the length of the ship. The hills loomed closer. Manoeuvres with ropes and rigging were punctuated by bellows of command from the rear deck and the snap of obedient canvas. The strait between the central island and its slighter neighbour threaded a silver ribbon between the green shores. White birds darted towards the Tang and wheeled above its wake, cries of alarm and curiosity loud.
“When did you go back to Vanam?” Naldeth’s question held the faintest hint of accusation.
Parrail dragged his wits back to the present. “For-Autumn last year, not long after you sailed. We reached Zyoutessela for Equinox and I was back in Vanam by the middle of For-Winter. I swore I’d never set foot on a ship again.” He shuddered before his expression brightened. “But Mentor Tonin persuaded me. I take it you’re on your way to consult with Demoiselle Guinalle as well? I heard Usara went looking for aetheric lore with that woman with the Forest blood, Livak? Did he truly bring one of the Mountain Artificers to Hadrumal?”
“Yes, a woman called Aritane but I’ve nothing to do with that.” Naldeth looked surprised. “I’m just lending a hand to keep this ship on course. I’ll want to see what’s to do in Kellarin. My affinity’s with fire and I hear the Edisgesset miners are planning on refining ore this year.” He grinned. “But you’re welcome to woo the demoiselle if you want.”
“I’ve no notion of wooing anyone.” Parrail tried to cover his chagrin with firm dignity. “I thought you worked at the Archmage’s orders.”
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