Aeromancer

by Don Callander

“A woman? On a chain, I see. Ahhhh” whistled Lesser softly. “You’re interested in the Slave Traders, perhaps? One of their female goods?”

  Nameless nodded vigorously.

  “The Slavers! Of course! They’d be at the Stone Trees just now. Do you see that peak on the horizon? The one with a deep notch in the top? Locals call it Horn of Dilemma, although I must admit I don’t really think the name is appropriate.” The Dragon laughed. “If you were to keep yonder Horn in front of you and travel just a hair to the north—or left—of a direct line from here to the Horn, in time you’ll come to a grove of petrified trees.”

  Nameless nodded eagerly.

  “Under Stone Trees you’ll find the camp of the Slave Dealers at this time of the year. They buy and sell poor people, dancing girls, metal workers, and such, just as herders buy and sell cows and camels. Nasty business!”

  Nameless studied the horizon for a long moment, then nodded in decision.

  “You’ll go that way, then? Tell you what... since I’ve nothing very important to do, may I go along to make sure nothing ill happens to you?”

  The flying horse nodded, grinned (as best a horse can grin), and gestured with her head, Come along, and welcome!

  “There’re a few damp, grassy spots on the way that I know of, so we can get something to eat, I s’pose, if the new-blown sand hasn’t covered them over,” Lesser said as they flew off side by side, the huge winged Dragon and the tiny winged horse. “Well, I guess we big, strong animals can go a day without fodder, if need be!”

  The Dragon flew quite easily and lightly for one so large.

  “I must admit it’s curiosity that moves me to accompany you,” Lesser said after a while. “Although friendly interest has a large part in it, too.”

  Nameless nickered pleasantly.

  To the Dragon it sounded very much like a pleased chuckle.

  ****

  Douglas went to the door of the suite, leaving the Air Wizard behind in their room, still sleeping. He’d always heard that Aeromancers are notorious snorers, and now he’d found it to be true.

  Marbleheart was already off on his own, snooping about the vast palace, talking to the people sweeping deep sand from the hallways and clearing the myriad courtyards and flat rooftops.

  “May I speak to His Majesty, the Sultan?” Douglas asked a Lieutenant of the Sultan’s Guard.

  “I’ll inquire,” replied the turbaned Guard politely.

  He passed the young Wizard’s request on to an impressive Major, who in turn whispered it to the Colonel of The Guard just inside the Sultan’s door.

  In a few moments the big, ornate doors, which were closed tight only at night, swung wide and the Sultan himself, smiling and pleased, came out to greet the youthful Pyromancer.

  “No real damage was done,” Trobuk reported happily. “I’ve known these desert storms to dump three to five feet of sand on the roofs and threaten to collapse them.”

  “Things are almost back to normal, then?” asked Douglas.

  They went into Trobuk’s private sitting room. The awnings had been reinstalled and the shutters folded away to admit the late-morning sun. The air was cool and crisp—quite pleasant for Douglas, but obviously still rather chilly for the Sultan’s servants, busily shivering and sweeping sand from the parlor floor.

  “It’ll be normal in a few minutes,” Trobuk promised. “But the young lady, your wife, has completely disappeared! I asked the palace and town Guards to keep searching for her, but there’s no sign of her anywhere in the palace. It’s a large town, Balistan, and she may have gotten lost in the darkness of the storm ... slept in some hidden corner overnight.”

  His words were intended to reassure the missing lady’s husband, but Douglas shook his head.

  “She’s no longer here ... nor anywhere in Balistan, sir. She went east and a bit north early yester-evening, just before my friends and I arrived.”

  “Then she was benighted by the storm, I fear,” Trobuk decided. “I’ll call out my Camel Corps! They can sweep the desert to the east of here for signs of her.”

  Douglas shook his head.

  “No, I’ll follow her trail myself. What I wonder now is did she go on her own? Or did someone carry her off? It isn’t like Myrn to go off into a strange and dangerous land without good reason and some word to her hostess. And the Sultana was as surprised as anyone she had gone.”

  “I’ll make inquiry, nevertheless,” insisted Trobuk. “It reflects on my hospitality, to have her disappear from my very-palace!”

  None of his servants remembered seeing the lady the previous evening.

  “She left us when we returned from the picnic,” recalled Lady Aeasha, looking even more worried than Douglas. “She said she’d look in on her horse in the royal stables. That’s the last time she was seen, I believe.”

  Nioba confirmed the hareem mistress’s words.

  “She left us at the south door of the seraglio,” she told her husband and Douglas. “I’ve asked the stable workers and grooms, and none of them remember seeing her—but the little horse she brought with her is missing, also!”

  “Ah, we make progress!” Trobuk said, giving his pretty wife a quick hug. “She obviously rides her own horse. Unfortunately, the night’s winds will have covered any tracks or scent.”

  “If we could just discover,” Nioba frowned, speaking softly, “what led her to go out in a coming storm, unescorted. She saw what the desert, even here close to our palace, is like in daytime. Surely she would never go alone at night, and in a sandstorm, without maps or escort!”

  “Perhaps not,” said Douglas. “I feel I should start at once to follow. If only we knew where she was headed...”

  “There are only a few sensible destinations in that direction,” Nioba said. “She either went to search for one of the bands of nomads, or she went to the Darkest Mountains. I know she was seeking someone. His name was ... Serenit?”

  “Of course! The captive First Citizen,” Douglas replied.

  “That was my understanding,” the Sultana said with a wan smile. “Perhaps she heard word of him and felt she should leave at once, without saying why or telling where she went.”

  “My wife has more sense than that,” Douglas firmly insisted, “but it seems like our only clue. Well, we’ll go east toward the Darkest Mountains, then. No, Lord Sultan, I won’t need any assistance or soldiers. My companions and I will leave at once.”

  He sent for Marbleheart and the Air Adept, and moments later, in the growing noontime warmth, they stood on the Sultan’s balcony overlooking the shimmering sand. Douglas took from his pocket a delicate golden pin in the shape of a curved feather and fastened it to his shirt lapel very carefully.

  “We’ll head for the only real landmark Trobuk can think of on our way to the mountains,” he explained to his companions. “A grove of petrified trees near the foothills of the Darkest. Slave Traders camp there this time of year, he says. They might have seen Myrn pass by. Everybody ready?”

  “I hate to leave so soon.” Marbleheart sighed, then tucked his tail beneath his tummy to keep it out of the way as they took off. “The people here have been most hospitable.”

  “Yes, they have,” agreed Cribblon, making sure his Journeyman’s cap was secure on his head. “Thank you so very much, Lord Sultan and Lady Sultana!”

  “We’ll return soon with good news,” Douglas promised, shaking Trobuk by the hand and bowing to Nioba. “We’ll see you then!”

  He spoke the feather’s magic words. The three friends rose at once into the air and flashed off east over the empty waste in the direction of Stone Trees Oasis.

  ****

  The heavily armed guard saluted respectfully at the door to Dealer Burnt’s tent.

  “All is well at full nightfall, Elder. The Night Watch is on posts and wide awake.”

  Burnt, having removed his heavy black outer robes, hood, and scarf, was seated in the deep shadow of the raised tent flap, smoking an elaborate water pipe preparatory to
crawling into his evening bath and waiting bed.

  “The... woman who calls herself Myrn?” he asked the guard, peering up at him. “In the holding tent?”

  “She’s cooking herself a delicious-smelling dinner of some sort,” replied the other. “You did say to leave her strictly alone, sir, so ...”

  “Yes, yes! For very good reason. I also ordered her not to be fed. Hungry slaves are much more tractable, I’ve always found.”

  “Whatever it is she’s cooking,” the soldier said stiffly, “it was nothing I recognized. Not from the camp larder, I’m sure. Some sort of toasted bread, I think. ...”

  “Well, no harm, I suppose. She’s a dangerous one, Frimbor! Best left to herself. The sooner we sell her, the better. She’s too smart to try to escape into the desert, especially at night. I think I heard a lion earlier.”

  “Lions and such. They’re prowling for food after the storm covered their old tracks and trails.”

  Burnt nodded in dismissal.

  “If a lion takes it into his head ... a waste of good money, of course, but perhaps a good thing for us,” muttered the senior Slaver. “Now, where’s that vial of attar-of-rose soap I bought in Port bazaar last winter?”

  ****

  “There’s a fairly large camp there, under those bare trees,” said Marbleheart, who had the best night vision of the three. “Strange-looking trees! Something familiar about them, however.”

  Douglas aimed their feather-flight down just behind the top of a dune overlooking the shadowy grove.

  “We’ve seen petrified trees before, remember?” he told the Otter.

  “Yes, around Lady Litholt’s mountain fastness in the Serecomba Desert,” the Otter remembered as they touched down on the hard-packed sand. “Any water nearby, do you think? I’m dry as salt cod!”

  “Must be some water down there,” said Cribblon, stretching his legs after their hours-long flight over the featureless desert.

  “I’ll slide and slither down for a sip and a look, then, if you don’t object,” offered the animal. He was always ready for new adventures, even in dead of moonless night. “Be right back to report what I see and hear.”

  And he was off, a slightly darker shadow over the sand.

  Douglas and Cribblon found shelter in a slight hollow on the backside of the tall dune and settled down to eat a cold supper, rest, and wait for Marbleheart’s return. They’d been aloft since midday, and it was close now upon midnight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Auction Action

  Myrn, an early riser by habit, left her tent wearing a long robe and carrying a fluffy white towel, her hairbrush, her toothbrush, and a vial of scented liquid soap, just as the sky over Stone Trees Oasis became light enough to show the way.

  She stopped an armed guard to ask the way. He directed her away to the left, beyond the camp.

  “Ah! Yes, I see the glint of the water now,” Myrn cried, nodding her thanks.

  “Don’t wander off into the dunes,” advised the young soldier gravely. “Customers arrive shortly and the auction will commence mid-morning.”

  “Thank you, sir! No, I merely wish to bathe and brush my hair,” Myrn told him. “I don’t intend to wander off, believe me.”

  She found the wide, still pool beyond the tallest of the strange Stone Trees. Douglas had told her of the stone grove surrounding the Geomancer’s mountain in the middle of the Serecomba, but those trees, she recalled, were living entities, complete with jewel-like leaves.

  These were bare, once-living oaks and walnuts, ages since turned to solid stone by volcanic action and water. Still, they had, she thought as she wound her way between them, a strange, everlasting kind of desert beauty.

  She examined the great, shallow pool critically and decided it was clear and pure. Drinking water for the Slavers camp was drawn from the depths nearest the tents, so she walked around the sandy shore until she found a protected spot hidden from view by the columns of petrified trunks.

  Slipping off her robe, she waded into the cool water and was soon lathering up and humming a song to herself. She soaped her hair generously, then gathered up a great shimmering globe of water (to the surprise of several small fishes who lived in the shallows) and dashed it over her head and shoulders to rinse the soapsuds from her long, black hair.

  “Sorry!” she called out to the fish. “I should have warned you. Won’t do it again.”

  “No problem, mistress,” peeped one of the silvery pond-fish as the school swam out of range of the soap bubbles. “We were caught by surprise.”

  “Story of many a poor fish’s life, I suspect,” murmured Myrn to herself.

  She waded out onto a tiny beach of fine, green gravel, ignoring a troop of a dozen soldiers coming just then from the camp on the far shore to fill water jars. She toweled her hair and her body vigorously, still humming. The desert air was so dry even the slight breeze that now blew was enough to dry her hair quickly.

  She dressed herself in clean linen and a light, flowered frock, smelling of fresh air and fragrant Waterand soap made from the rich oil of coconuts.

  “Pssst!” called a clump of low-growing palmettos a short distance away.

  “Hey!” said the startled Journeyman Aquamancer, jumping slightly.

  “Just me! Marbleheart!” came the voice from among the fronds. “We arrived an hour or two back. Douglas and Cribblon are on the far duneside, napping a bit, I suspect....”

  “Oh, Marblefoot!” cried Myrn, relieved. “No, don’t come out! Remain hidden from the camp followers.”

  “I guess I understand that,” the Sea Otter replied. “Well, no one has seen me yet, my dear Myrn. Nor will they, if you so wish. Only ... tell me what you intend to do, so we’ll know what to expect. I’m sure Douglas will ask me when I return to him.”

  “I would expect him to, yes,” Myrn agreed.

  She finished dressing, combed her hair, and transformed her frock into a softly flowing, ankle-length, dazzling white gown with wide sleeves, a cowl neck, and convenient, carefully hidden pockets.

  On her feet she now wore sandals of gilded leather. As a finishing touch she wound a wide golden ribbon through her heavy, dark hair, to keep it from blowing about too wildly.

  “A sight for sour pusses,” chuckled Marbleheart, peeking through the fronds. “Can I come out now?”

  “No, stay hidden! When I return to my tent, go to wherever our Douglas is resting and tell him I’m safe and sound. Understand?”

  “I can see that for myself,” Marbleheart said. “Pretty as ever!”

  “Flatterer!” said Myrn, but she was pleased. “Now, listen, Marblebrain! Here’s my plan—such as it is....”

  When her briefing was completed the Sea Otter slithered off around the nearest trees. Myrn walked slowly, thoughtfully, around the shore to camp, watched appreciatively by a dozen young camp workers who were supposed to be drawing water for the Slavers’ horses.

  Horseback and camelback riders were beginning to appear over the western horizon, riding in groups ranging from two or three to a dozen, many bearing lances or short bows in their hands. They were robed against the nighttime chill, which still lingered even though the sun was already clear of the horizon and beginning to warm the sand.

  Although their clothing was mostly drab grays and dull yellows, on closer examination Myrn saw it was of rich fabrics and well sewn. The riders wore scarves about their heads, ends draped down over their shoulders, held in place by braided lengths of colorful silken cords.

  Each group wore a different pattern of color-cording, Myrn realized as she stopped in the shade of her tent flap to watch them pass.

  “Some sort of tribal or family insignia, I suppose,” she decided.

  Elder Burnt and several of his young assistants stood on the edge of camp to welcome arrivals. As each group approached, a Slaver lad was assigned to lead them across the coarse oasis grass into the shade of a gaily striped awning stretched between several Stone Trees. Here the travelers dismounted
and tethered their mounts out of the fierce desert sun.

  Attendants rushed to water and offer feed to the horses, politely greeting the riders.

  The customers were then escorted to a second pavilion where they were served rich, savory coffee, salted nuts, and honeyed fruit while seated upon richly colored carpets spread on the grass, talking among themselves and greeting other newcomers as they arrived.

  By mid-morning fully two hundred customers had arrived with their retinues and were milling about expectantly.

  Elder Burnt moved slowly among them, greeting old and welcoming new customers with grave courtesy.

  “We shall begin as soon as our lookouts tell us everyone is well arrived,” he said in answer to repeated questions. “Ahh! I am signaled that no others are sighted on the trail for as far as eye can see! We shall commence.”

  The men (there were no women among the customers at all) gathered around him under the largest pavilion of them all, whose sides had been hoisted to allow the dry desert breezes access to the milling crowd. Assistants appeared with pillows and carpets for those considered special guests, but most of the men stood about easily, watching with interest as a Slave Trader marked out a circle in the sand in the center of the floor, beside which Burnt stood directing activities.

  “As usual,” he announced at last, “we will begin with the indentured craftsmen and skilled laborers, good sirs! Pay heed, for I will call them forth one at a time and detail their accomplishments and talents—and the beginning bids—for you.”

  “Do you vouch for their claims of ability?” called a young man in the standing crowd.

  Myrn recognized her husband’s voice, although she had to look twice to see where he stood. Douglas was dressed in a red-and-yellow robe and a jalabah that threw his face and fair hair into deep shadow.

  “If anyone is dissatisfied,” Burnt said with an ingratiating smile, “we will refund all of your payment, with the exception of a small service fee. Thus it has ever been at our auctions.”

  Myrn found a shaded spot, partially hidden from the throng, in which to sit, legs crossed and her back against a Stone Tree trunk. She pulled a thin white veil across her face, as was the custom in Nearer East among women in public places. The men nearby studiously ignored her, for the most part, and paid close attention to the Elder, who now began to chant in a high, nasal tone.