“It does no good to get angry at such landlubberly governmental flunkies,’’ he rumbled in an aside to his ship’s clerk. “They just get more and more righteously stubborn, I’ve found.”
“Now, Sir Port Master,” he began again, even managing to smile ingratiatingly at the pompous, portly Port official, “explain what it is you require. Do I misunderstand? We must wait five full days before we can set foot ashore?”
“Truly, that is the law,” murmured the plump bureaucrat, nodding his turbaned head gravely. “Five nightfalls at anchor here... then you may came ashore. After that, I may give permission for your crew to take their leisure in our city.”
He spoke softly but firmly, paused, then said, as quietly, “Of course, I may be able to hasten permission for yourself. Unfortunately, I’m a rather busy man....”
“How much?” Mallet ground out, trying very hard to maintain his pleasant smile.
The Port Master diffidently named a medium-sized sum. Mallet gave in after a bit more polite demur.
“New places ... new ploys!” he quoted to his First Officer, a younger Westonguer appropriately named Pilot. “Two nights to wait! Well, break the news gently to the crew. We’ll have a landfall party here aboard, tonight. Extra ration of rum. Tomorrow we’ll paint and scrub and mend-and-make to pass the time ... and impress the locals.”
Pilot grinned broadly. He was the kind of First Mate who enjoyed nothing better than a good field-day. There were always so many extra things that needed to be done to clean, improve, and repair a sailing ship like the two-masted fore-and-aft-rigged Encounter after a month’s Sea voyage.
“What can we expect, once we’ve ... ah ... observed the required formalities?” Mallet asked the Samarcan official.
“I will publish your name and post your cargo list, as is my duty,” replied the Port Master blandly. “On the appointed morning, if all goes well, I will meet you ashore below the Great Bastion, there, and accompany you to Merchant’s Hall. There you will meet our merchants and be able to sell and buy, to our mutual benefit, it is to be hoped.”
He reached into his robe and produced a packet of papers bound with yellow silk cording.
“You should study our Port Regulations,” he went on, handing the file to the Seacaptain. “Notice there are certain ... ah... imports which are strictly prohibited. If you have such on board, keep them locked in your holds, please, honored Captain. Do not mention them at any time to the Merchants of Samarca. Regulations will warn you of the penalties for illegal importation of forbidden goods. I assure you they are swift and ... effective.”
Mallet nodded his understanding and thumbed through the sheaf of papers quickly, noting frequent headings warning “PROHIBITED GOODS—Import on Penalty of Instant Confiscation, Incarceration, & Possible Execution.”
“Of course, we do not wish to make any trouble for ourselves or for you, Sir Port Master,” he assured the chubby little man. “May I offer you a cup of tea, or a sip of fungwah? That’s a brandy produced in the northern part of the great Choin Empire. Most heartwarming, if I may say so.”
The Port Master, whose name was Alama Sheik, licked his thick lips in sudden interest.
“A taste of the brandy, honored Captain, but no more! You will note that all fermented and distilled beverages are strictly prohibited entry to Samarca... on pain of bodily dismemberment!”
Nevertheless, when he’d tasted the excellent and powerful liquor of Choin, he politely asked for a second glass, which he downed at a gulp, making sure none of his marines, standing at attention at the accommodation ladder, could see him.
“Quite—ah—wicked.” He coughed, handing the ship’s steward his empty tumbler. “Ah... I may require a second visit to your Encounter on tomorrow evening, good Captain!”
Aha! thought Mallet.
He bowed deeply to the bureaucrat and assured him he would be welcome aboard Encounter any day or any hour.
“Unfortunately, my duties... you understand?” said the official, forgetting to appear stiff and formal. “I... ah ... may be required to reinspect your Bill of Health tomorrow evening.”
“Anytime, Revered Port Master,” repeated Mallet blandly. “Merely send us a few minutes’ warning so we may properly prepare for your visits.”
“It’ll probably be well after dark,” warned the Port Master in a whisper. “Press of daily business, you understand.”
“Perfectly,” replied the Wayness Seacaptain dryly.
Two evenings later—the intervening day having been spent in scraping, painting, mending, remaking, rerigging, and scrubbing until Encounter shone like a new-launched flagship and all but sparkled on the clear green waters of Samarca Harbor—the lookout hailed the quarterdeck. A sailing skiff, which the locals called “dhow,” stood off a short distance in the gloaming, flashing a signal for permission to come alongside.
“Ho!” snorted Mallet. “Our good, portly, pickled Port Master, I’ll wager! Come to sample forbidden fungwah again ... and again, without soldiers and underflunkies.”
“No bet! Tis a sure thing,” his First Mate said, grinning. “Shall I signal him to come aboard, Skipper?”
“Of course! He’s undoubtedly an important official of the Sultanate, or whatever they call their fancy government here. But, quick and quiet! No need to tell the entire harbor about it.”
After the first appreciative nip of fungwah, the official relaxed and examined the sparse comfort of Encounter’s small main cabin.
“You may come ashore to meet the Merchants tomorrow morning at the third hour, Seacaptain,” he announced rather pompously. “There’s considerable interest in trading with Dukedom, especially in the fine hempen rope and the iron implements you’ve brought for sale.”
“Will I be permitted to bring samples ashore to Merchant’s Hall tomorrow?” inquired Mallet, carefully refilling the Port Master’s glass to the brim.
“Oh yes! Whatever permitted goods you wish!” cried the official, sipping the fungwah eagerly.
Now he drank more appreciatively, savoring the mellow old brandy on his tongue. Mallet poured a half-glass for himself. They were alone in the main cabin, for the official had come in mufti—unofficially and without his usual armed guards and attendants.
“This is wonderfully excellent... ah ... refreshment,” commented Alama Sheik. “I sincerely regret it must, by decree of our idealistic young Sultan, be forbidden to our shores.”
“Yet, it’s wonderfully ... medicinal, you might say,” suggested the Seacaptain. “Guaranteed to relax one and put one’s troubles in perspective, I’m told, if used with moderation... and circumspection.”
“Medicinal?” considered the Port Master, taking a tiny sip more. “I fear that ruse has been overused in the past by unscrupulous traders. No, you would have to obtain the approval of a licensed physician ...”
Mallet shook his head, sadly.
“I’m at a disadvantage there, worthy Port Master. I wouldn’t know how to contact a licensed physician here. I’ve only met the youthful Quarantine Doctor. I don’t suppose he...?”
‘No, no! I see I must come to your assistance, good Captain Mallet! Let me see... do I know a fully licensed physician who could attest to the ... ah ... therapeutic properties of your fungwah?”
Captain Mallet took a tiny sip of the Choin brandy. It burned pleasantly down toward his stomach.
“Oh, what is the matter with my memory these days!” cried the official. “A very good, old friend, one Saleem Abala, has just returned to the Port from the Sultanic Presence. Having been a Physician in service to our gracious Sultan for two years, he needs to recoup lost fees. I think we might... ah ... persuade him of the ... er ... medicinal value of this fungwah. In fact, I’m quite sure of it!”
“Could I offer a friendly gift to the good Physician, in token of my gratitude?” asked the Seacaptain with exaggerated politeness.
“Heavens, no! No, Dr. Abala will charge only the usual Inspection Portion—one-fiftieth part of the value of
the... medicine. His lawful fee for consultation, of course.”
“One fiftieth!” Mallet choked. “Ah, well, if that’s the custom here, Honored Guest. I have no desire to circumvent Sultanic law, of course.”
“Of course not!” the other said with a chuckle, polishing off his third portion of fungwah. “If you will place the matter of this quite potent medicine, which has amazingly and suddenly cured several of my own personal maladies, with me I will certainly, in my poor fumbling way, make the proper and quite legal arrangements.”
“Whew!” breathed Mallet to his second-in-command after the tipsy Port functionary had rolled over the side and been lowered carefully into his waiting dhow. “I thought only the servants of the Empire of Choin were so sticky in the palms!”
“According to what I’ve heard from the bumboat-men who sold us fruits and vegetables—as well as information—yestere’en and this morning, this is the safest way to proceed in Samarca, Captain.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” rumbled Mallet, wiping his forehead, for the cabin had become stuffy and hot. “I must keep my eyes open, and my ears, too, about this distant Sultan and his servants. What have you learned so far?”
The Mate sipped a bit of the powerful brandy, nodding his head all the time.
“He makes his capital three or four days distant, inland, this Sultan Trobuk. A fair and just young ruler, I’m told, but that may be just local flummery. Still, so far no one has gainsaid his power... or his popularity.”
“He’s ill-served by such as our friend the Port Master,” growled the Westonguer.
“Not really! It’s rather the way of life and business here in the Nearer East,” First Officer Pilot maintained.
“We’ll learn their ways soon enough,” decided Mallet. “I wish you could come with me tomorrow morning, but I’ll feel much safer if you remain in command here while I’m ashore.”
He went on deck for a breath of fresh air. The Mate considered the half-inch of brandy left in the fungwah flask, but shook his head, corked the flask tightly, and followed his captain up onto the quarterdeck.
The official shore-going of Encounter’s Captain completely obscured the arrival, the next forenoontide, of Myrn and the winged filly, whom Myrn had decided to call Nameless.
The eyes of hangers-about along the docks and even of the watchful Sultanate Guards were drawn to the colorful pageantry on the landing below Great Bastion, the squat stone fort of obviously great strength on the northern edge of the inner harbor.
Word of the arrival of the captain of a ship from Dukedom—the first such arrival in over two centuries—had spread far and wide, attracting all eyes to the ceremonial welcoming.
Captain Mallet, carefully trimmed and combed and dressed in his best uniform of gold-and-blue broadcloth edged with tastefully subdued white lace, wearing a ceremonial sword at his side and a cocked hat on his head, stepped ashore from Encounter’s quarter-boat to the ringing salutes of long, up-curving, polished-brass trumpets, to the roar of copper kettledrums, and to the eager shouts of the watching throng.
“Welcome to Samarca, Sir Captain Mallet!” cried Alama Sheik in a shrill, loud voice. “May this be the first of many such happy arrivals! In the name of the Great and Powerful Sultan Trobuk, the Munificent, the Opener of Doors, the Master of Blue Seas, Golden Deserts, and Green Hills, welcome to Samarca and to the Empire of the Midday Sun!”
Mallet bowed deeply, first to the gold-and-green-and-blue banner representing Sultan Trobuk, as he had been instructed, and then to the Sultan’s splendidly overdressed representative, Alama Sheik.
The battery of twenty-five kettledrums drowned out the rest of the formal greetings, followed by an even louder trumpet voluntary. The onlookers cheered and waved arms, hats, and turbans enthusiastically. Between shouts of approval, the crowd speculated at great length on what sorts of goods the strange vessel had brought.
Alama led the bearded Seacaptain across the wide, granite-paved plaza under the fortress walls to Merchant’s Hall.
“You will here meet and greet Samarca’s leading Merchant
Princes,” he explained again, puffing at the unaccustomed exercise of walking a hundred yards to the Hall’s wide portico. “There will be refreshments”—the thought of which perked him up considerably—“and then you can all sit down together and discuss business.”
Seacaptain Mallet glanced behind as they crossed the forecourt of the vast and ornate Merchant’s Hall. The bales and boxes of sample goods he’d brought with him, mostly iron hardware and sturdy woolen cloth in bolts, had been set ashore and were being guarded by his sailors on the dock.
“They’ll not be molested,” Alama assured him, following his glance. “When we begin to speak of selling and buying, you may order the samples brought into the Hall and your men will be entertained as befits welcome customers. Dancing girls and witty songs ... cool drinks and a hearty luncheon!”
Chattering breathlessly, the chubby Sheik led Mallet, accompanied only by Encounter’s young factor, Simon Thread-needle, into the inner courtyard of Merchant’s Hall.
They were greeted there by a dozen or more men of all ages, shapes, and sizes who shared one common characteristic—they were all most richly dressed in reds, golds, luxurious blue linen, and heavy silks in a rainbow of softer colors.
“Here’s our Chairman of the Merchant’s Guild,” Alama said to Mallet, “Lesser Sheik Abdulla Farr. Sheik ... Seacaptain Mallet of Encounter out of Westongue in Dukedom.”
The Seacaptain and his young factor bowed, and the Chairman of the Merchant’s Guild, a man of forty or so summers dressed in rich fabrics and heavy golden bangles, returned their courtesy with a bow and a broad smile.
“Allow me to introduce my fellow Merchant Princes,” he said to Captain Mallet. “With the Port Master’s kind permission, of course.”
Alama Sheik nodded pleasantly but with a court functionary’s pretended lofty disinterest in mere—if extremely wealthy—merchants.
****
Myrn’s arrival went entirely unremarked.
The Pearls’ magic set her and the horseling in a pleasant residential square in the very heart of the upper part of the city. The square was cooled by a tall fountain and shaded by lofty, feathery palms and wide-spreading, red-flowering vines trained on ornate trellises. Their blossoms filled the warm air with a pleasant, peppery perfume.
Seated on the carved stone curbing of the fountain in the center of the square were two small children who regarded the sudden appearance of a beautiful young lady and a horse with mingled surprise, awe, and fear.
“Don’t be alarmed, my dears,” called Myrn, smiling warmly at them. “I’m a Journeyman Wizard and I often arrive unexpectedly this way, you see.”
“A—a W-W-Wizard?” squeaked the boy. “Oh, help!”
“Now, now, Farrouki!” the girl beside him soothed his fear solemnly. “She’s the good sort of Wizard, I can tell.”
Farrouki looked rather doubtful about that, but the little girl rose, bobbed a deep curtsy to the newcomer, and said, “I am Farianah, daughter of Farrouk the Camel Merchant of Balistan. This is my little brother Farrouki. Welcome, Lady Wizard!”
“How nicely you greet me! May we drink from your fountain?”
The children moved aside and watched while first Myrn and then the winged horse slaked their thirst with the cool water.
“Do you live nearby?” asked Myrn, seating herself on the marble curbing so she could talk to the children at their own eye level. “It’s certainly a very quiet, pretty neighborhood, I must say.”
“That’s our house,” said Farrouki, pointing to the four-story building across the court from the fountain. “We live here with Mother and Father.”
“And your papa’s a camel merchant?” asked Myrn, drawing them close to her side with her warm smile and friendly words.
“Yes ... but he’s away just now,” Farrouki told her, frowning at the thought.
“Oh, Farri!” gasped his sister. “Yo
u’re not supposed to tell that to strangers!”
“Well, everybody knows it, don’t they? Even the beggars know when they come to the gate asking for alms!”
Her brother’s frankness about family business obviously embarrassed his older sister. She changed the subject quickly.
“Where are you at home, Lady Wizard?” she asked.
“My name is Myrn Manstar Brightglade. Just call me Myrn, dear children. I come from an island in Sea called Flowring. Have you ever heard of it, Farianah?”
“No... but girls don’t get to study geography,” she admitted. “Only boys!”
“I’ve seen it on maps!” claimed her brother importantly. “Somewhere! I don’t remember where, however.”
“Come sit here in the shade and I’ll tell you all about it and about my winged horse... and why I’ve come to Samarca,” Myrn said to them solemnly. “If you’d like to hear.”
The children eagerly settled on the curbing on either side of her. Farrouki reached up to stroke the winged horse’s soft, pink-gray nose. The horse allowed the caress for a moment, then drew gently away.
“What’s your horse’s name?” the little boy asked.
“I don’t know,” replied the Journeyman Aquamancer, frowning. “I call her Nameless. She can’t speak, you see. Or won’t.”
“If you can speak and won’t,” said Farianah to the little horse, “it’s not very nice of you!”
The little horse hung her head—in shame, it seemed, so Myrn reached up to give her a hug around the neck.
“It’s all right, little one!” she soothed. “We’ll learn your name in good time.”
Her words perked the filly up at once and she moved closer to the fountain curb to allow the children to stroke her neck and pat her dappled flanks, nuzzling them back as if to say, “I’ll forgive you if you’ll forgive my silence.”
Myrn described Flowring Isle for the children and told of her life there as a fisherman’s daughter. There, she said, she’d met and married Douglas Brightglade, the famous Pyromancer.
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