Aeromancer

by Don Callander

  “I’ll speak to the Port Master like a rich Wayness uncle, then,” chuckled the Seacaptain. “We’ll straighten out this pesky quarantine business right quickly. Five days! ‘Tain’t civilized, says I.”

  But he waited patiently for the Port Master’s boat to slide alongside, putting on his most agreeable, most diplomatic face.

  Port Master Alama Sheik clambered laboriously up Donation’s accommodation ladder, puffing and spluttering the whole way. Behind him his crew carefully suppressed grins. A fine sweet-sour alcoholic vapor preceded the official onto Donation’s freshly holystoned quarterdeck. “I will never understand why ships must come a-calling here at such unholy hours,” the official growled at Caspar over the sound of the Bos’n’s whistles, ignoring the salutes of the ship’s officers and sideboys. “Who are you, sirrah? My head is splitting! Can’t we sit down and get this over with?”

  Caspar Marlin, at a loss for words, held his tongue and showed the obviously hungover Port official to a chair under an awning already spread to protect the visiting official from the hot morning sun.

  “Conditions at Sea set the hour of our arrival...,” he began to explain to the landsman.

  “Be ye rested, Port Master!” Douglas interrupted, touching the fat little Sheik’s left elbow lightly. “Here! Take a cup of tea. It’ll drive away your aches and the pains of official worry at once.”

  Alama frowned sourly at the young man but accepted the steaming cup from a steward and gulped at it, gingerly.

  After a second and a third swallow, he heaved a tremulous sigh, shook his head, and smiled at the Wizard.

  “Many thanks, young sir,” he cried, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “I feel revived already! My name’s Alama. Good tea, this!”

  “Our pleasure,” murmured Douglas. “May I present Captain Marlin of Donation of Wayness and Westongue in Dukedom? I am Master Pyromancer Douglas Brightglade.”

  “A Wizard,” exclaimed Alama, after bowing to Caspar and then to Douglas. “Am I right?”

  “Yes—a Wizard of Fire, you understand. Most pleased to meet you in your beautiful Port of Samarca, Port Master.”

  “Wizards are few and far between here in Nearer East,” observed the Sheik. “Welcome, at any rate, my dear sirs! May I ask your purposes in visiting our Sultan’s Port and domain? We welcome honest traders, of course. We’ve already been doing very brisk business with your sister-ship Encounter and with Captain Mallet.”

  “So we surmised,” put in Caspar. “A beautiful harbor! We hope to see it busy with out trade in a few short months.”

  “You don’t happen to have any of the Choinese fungwah?” asked the Port Master, a trifle plaintively. “I feel the need to be restored somewhat and it’s a remarkable tonic, I’ve been told.”

  Douglas took the Sheik’s hand and touched his shoulder for a brief moment, looking the official directly in his bleared eyes.

  “There’s plenty of such medicine aboard, of course, but I don’t see any signs of sickness in you, my dear Alama. Steady of hand! Clear of eye! You are, I’m sure, a trifle overweight, but one can understand that, you being in a sedentary sort of position.”

  Alama opened his mouth to protest but closed it again in some surprise.

  “You know, I do feel rather fine, now. A momentary indisposition, I imagine. May I have another cup of your fine tea, instead? It has ... something else in it than just brewed leaves, perhaps? I own several thousand acres of upland coffee plantation and am something of an expert on drinking ... coffee, I mean.”

  “We get this tea from our friends in Choin,” said Caspar. “May we sit down with you, Port Master?”

  “Of course. And let us all enjoy some more of your Choinese tea. Quite bracing.”

  After several minutes of polite conversation in which the Port Master became increasingly friendly and talkative, thanks in part to the quality of the Choinese brew but helped a bit by some judicious magic, Alama turned to business.

  “I could sit here in the shade on your spotless deck for hours, just chatting,” offered the Port Master jovially. “But I know you’re eager to come ashore and see what our Merchant Princes have to offer for sale and might wish to buy. I understand from my good friend Seacaptain Mallet that your wise Duke is seeking to reopen trade with this part of World.”

  He mentioned the five-day quarantine but hastened to say he was empowered by the Sultan to reduce it to two days and one night in certain worthy cases.

  “I’ve a warehouse packed to the rafters with green coffee beans waiting for a buyer. I fear that a day or two longer and they’ll begin to sprout, at great cost to myself,” Alama said sadly.

  “Between us, Encounter and Donation, we can probably take all the coffee you have... at a reasonable price, of course,” said Caspar, drawing out his well-thumbed notebook.

  “We can carry...”

  The Seacaptain and the Port official entered into brisk discussion of coffee prices and delivery conditions. At the end of a half hour both parties were satisfied, the one to get a good price for coffee beans which might otherwise soon spoil, and the other to get a cargo with huge potential for profits in the West.

  “As for the ... ah ... quarantine,” said Alama, leaning back and reaching for a fourth cup of tea, “I can, on my own recognizance, reduce it to the two days and a night. That puts your official landing at the Port on tomorrow morning. I’d like you to meet with a delegation of our Merchant Princes. They represent our business community, you see. I assume you have other goods to trade, in addition to the tea leaves and the glass goods you mentioned?”

  “Glass is the largest part of our cargo,” said Caspar. “It comes from Old Kingdom and is the best quality I’ve seen in our part of World in my lifetime.”

  “Old Kingdom... a name we hear only in ancient romances, I fear,” said the Port Master “We used to get all sorts of interesting and valuable goods from that quarter, before my day. I think you’ll find markets here for many cargoes, Captain. I’ll go ashore and arrange a meeting with the Merchant Princes, if we’re done here. A Port Doctor is waiting to inspect your log and look at the health of your sailors. His fee is nominal... a fiftieth part of the value of the cargo you will have sold here, only.”

  “A reasonable fee, of course,” said Caspar, wincing. “Anything else we should know?”

  “Oh, yes! Here!” He drew a thick sheaf of papers bound with a green ribbon from his inner pocket and handed it over. “Port Regulations drawn up by our young Sultan Trobuk. Note that import of alcoholic beverages is strictly forbidden. Please leave any you have aboard under lock and key.”

  “I don’t really have all that much, except a small supply for our own consumption,” admitted Caspar. “May I offer you a dram or two, good Port Master Alama?”

  Alama seemed about to accept, then looked quite surprised.

  “No! I’ve no taste for liquors ... and they are, after all, forbidden by law. Others may try to get you to sell what little you have, for liquors are scarce and bring good prices. I advise you to obtain our Sultan’s permission before you do so. The penalties for illegal importation of alcoholic beverages are quite heavy.”

  “We’ll be careful, then, and tell others to be careful when they call here,” said Douglas, who had sat with the negotiators but said little until this moment. “For now, I suppose there is no objection if we signal Encounter’s Captain to report to us here?”

  “No problem, Wizardly sir. Captain Mallet, my very good friend, is being entertained by our Sultan at his capital. Meanwhile, if you desire to visit Port before your quarantine is fully expired, you have but to send for me to arrange it. There would be a small... er ... administrative fee, of course.”

  He departed, stone sober for a change yet feeling quite jolly, much to the surprise of his clerks, sailors, and marines, promising to come to call in the morning with full details of their official welcome.

  Within a half hour of his departure Acting-Captain Pilot arrived by quarter-boat fro
m Encounter to report to Captain Marlin, as requested by a fresh flurry of signal flags.

  ****

  The morning ride was very pleasant, thanks to the company of the Sultana and Hana, who delighted in the freedom of the open High Desert. They never left sight of the low, square towers of Balistan Palace. The huge expanse of sand dunes was empty, hot, dry, and monotonous to Myrn ... although, if challenged, she’d have had to admit it was very similar to being at Sea.

  “Look there,’ called out Hana, who’d ridden ahead to the top of a tall dune.

  “What have you found?” Nioba called.

  “Come see,” answered the Grand Vizier’s daughter.

  They spurred to join her, followed by their guard of six soldiers, fully armed and looking rather hot and dusty.

  Beyond the dune Gerhana had found signs of a campsite in the sand. Marks on the ground clearly showed where desert nomads had pitched their tents and tethered their camels.

  “One of the wandering tribes, I suppose,” said Nioba, drawing on her reins. “They enjoy complete freedom of High Desert, according to old custom and Sultanic law. My husband is a son of one of the most powerful desert clans, the Grearhs. Your father, Hana, claims they spy on us, but the Sultan says they’re merely keeping an eye on the wastelands.”

  “Last March a nomad band rode right into Balistan to warn us of a great, late sandstorm coming,” Hana told Myrn. “I’ve had that argument with Father, many times. I’ve given up on it! It just makes him colder and angrier at me than usual.”

  She shook her head sadly. The three women sat on their mounts for a moment, studying the traces of the nomad’s night camp. It was already being effaced by drifting sand.

  “Where do they go from here, then?” Myrn asked, easing herself in her saddle. Even the ride from Port of Samarca had not made her a happy equestrienne. She did enjoy the sense of freedom, however, after the carefully guarded hareem.

  “It wouldn’t mean much to you if I could tell you,” laughed the Sultana. “Between our towers and the eastern mountains our desert men travel by the stars, for there are few landmarks.”

  “ ‘The way of a Desert Tribe in the sand and the way of a maid with a man,’ ” quoted Hana, “ ‘are among the greatest mysteries of the land.’ ”

  Myrn urged her mare down the easy windward slope of the dune, where, in the midst of the campsite, she dismounted, studying the signs of occupancy left behind by the wanderers.

  “A small group, actually,” she announced, straightening up.

  “You can read their signs?” asked Hana, obviously impressed.

  “Partly. My husband Douglas is much better at it. I would guess ... perhaps fifteen adults, and almost as many children, although it’s hard to tell from their signs. Forty or so camels. They rode in from the northeast yester-evening and departed early this morning toward the south. Where do they find water, I wonder. There’s no water nearer here than the lake.”

  “Perhaps they circled Balistan and filled their water skins from the lake waters during the night,” Nioba guessed, riding down to Myrn’s side.

  “Still,” said Myrn thoughtfully, studying the ground about them, “I would stake my advancement to full Aquamancy there’s water not far underground here, if one would dig for it.”

  “No nomad would stoop to digging—not even for water,” snorted Hana.

  “Now, my dear, that isn’t so,” Nioba told her sternly. “There are places where nomads have dug great cisterns to reach water deep under the sand. I’ve seen them.”

  “I must believe you, Majesty,” said the young girl with a sniff, “but it’s hard to imagine the desert people actually digging for water... or anything else.”

  “Hana’s not a desert child herself,” Nioba explained to Myrn as they turned their horses back up the slope of the dune. “Coastal people never have much use for the sand tribes, I’m afraid.”

  “I would have thought the Grand Vizier—what’s Hana’s father’s name? Kalinort?—I would have guessed he was of the same tribe or family as your husband.”

  “Not so! Kalinort is from a wealthy coast family. He’s as capable as the day is long in summer,” maintained the Sultana, “or so Trobuk insists. I sometimes wonder, myself. A prideful man, it’s sure.”

  “For certain,” Hana agreed emphatically. “And he’s my own father.”

  The party rode a bit farther south, then turned due west, leaving their escort behind on the southern edge of Balistan. Met there by Aeasha and four maidservants, they made their way down to the shore of Lake Balissa, where the cool, green-blue waters lapped contentedly on sugar-white sand or splashed over half-submerged rocks.

  Between two such rocks, each as big as small houses, the Sultana called a halt. Aeasha and her girls quickly erected a white canvas pavilion against the soft wind and bright sun—and against the eyes of passersby—so Myrn and her companions could slip out of their riding costumes and into bathing attire.

  “Must be careful not to sunburn,” Aeasha warned them.

  “Here, rub a bit of this ointment upon your skin, especially on your shoulders and faces.

  She produced a pleasant-smelling ointment in a silver-topped jar and showed them how to apply it.

  “I never worried about sun burning before,” protested Nioba.

  Her skin was light milk chocolate in color, even where it was usually covered by her clothing.

  “You haven’t been out in the sun for weeks, at least,” Hana told her. “Even I burn if I stay in the sun long enough.”

  “At least Aeasha’s ointment smells much better than the wool-fat the desert people use to the same purpose,” Nioba considered. “Who shall go in the water first? Myrn, my dear? You’re the Water Adept!”

  “I’ll swim a bit for you to watch. Check out the local creatures at the same time—a good idea in strange waters,” said the Journeyman. “Watch me, then, and see how I do it. Swimming’s no difficult task, believe me! The bottom’s quite filled with beautiful corals and speckled rocks, colored plants and very interesting fishes.”

  “Ugh,” gasped Hana, making an ugly face. “Creepy-crawly, nasty, slimy things!”

  “Not really! Most of ‘em are entirely harmless, and the few harmful ones are the easiest to spot, so brightly colored are they. Sea creatures almost always give fair warning.”

  Chapter Nine

  On the Trail

  Douglas, Cribblon, and Marbleheart found the Captain of the Sultan’s Guard, a tall, rather an esthetic-looking man with a neatly trimmed black beard and a pale blue turban. His name was Aliada.

  “We’re looking for a missing friend. We believe he was kidnapped in the far northwest and brought through your city a few days back.”

  “These things happen, effendi,” the Guard shrugged. “Your Wayness ships are not the only ones to call at Port of Samarca, you must understand. Our responsibility is to protect the lives and property of our citizens, not to keep track of strayed or stolen strangers.”

  Douglas nodded. “I imagine you take notice of almost everyone who comes to or passes through the Port, however.”

  The tall Guard nodded solemnly. A subordinate, a younger man, stood several paces away, watching and listening but saying nothing.

  “If you could describe your friend’s appearance, perhaps? Or that of his captors?”

  “We don’t know who captured him... or why. Serenit himself is almost as tall as you, rather thinner, with short white hair. Light blue eyes. He’d be pale, unless they allowed him to become sunburned on the voyage hither from New Land. He was wearing, when last seen, a woolen cloak of pale blue and a close-fitting cap of brown leather lined with lamb’s wool. I hope his captors allowed him to take the warm surcoat off by the time they arrived here.”

  “Certainly anyone dressed like that would be very noticeable,” admitted Aliada with a small smile. “If his captors wished to conceal him, they would have taken his heavy clothing from him, I would think. No, I have no report of such a man here. White
hair is very common. Pale blue eyes and pale skin ... not nearly so common.”

  “As a Wizard,” Douglas said, letting his glance sweep the entire waterfront from the top of the fortress wall where he’d been granted the interview by the Captain of the Sultan’s Guard, “I sense his late presence, although his scent’s perhaps two weeks old by now. My ... informant... thought he was not held here long but passed through quickly.”

  “The highway east toward Balistan is the best road,” Aliada volunteered. “Or, of course, his captors may have taken him north or south from here by ship. The desert stretches hundreds of miles both ways, north and south also.”

  “And in the east? There are mountains, I know, and then Ebony Sea, I think you call it, beyond?”

  “Ebony Sea, yes, effendi, and on its near shore, the Darkest Mountains. There are some small mining settlements in those highlands, but it’s inhospitable country, I hear.”

  Douglas nodded again. Cribblon changed the subject.

  “The Seacaptain from Dukedom? The commander of Encounter sloop? His name is ...”

  “Ah, Captain Mallet! I’m aware of him, sir.”

  “His second-in-command says he was called to the court of the Sultan.”

  “Yes, sir! He’s gone to Balistan at the command of Sultan Trobuk. He and his party left... when was it, Frasci? Six days back? As it would take them only five days at most to reach the Sultan’s palace, I’m safe in saying they’ve arrived there by now.”

  “Who was in Captain Mallet’s party?” asked Marbleheart.

  The Guard officer regarded the Sea Otter with some bemusement for the space of a breath.

  “His party consisted of six young officers—Midshipmen, I believe they’re called—and about the same number of Seamen, as servants and armed escorts,” answered Frasci. “And a servant girl evidently loaned to the Seacaptain by Lady Shadizar, wife of Camel Merchant Farrouk.”

  “Farrouk?” asked Douglas. “That’s a name new to me.”

  “The Seacaptain befriended Farrouk’s family early in his stay,” explained Aliada. “A bit of a scandal, actually. The Camel Trader is not at home.”