‘Despin bitterly regrets his impulsiveness. He will not be so foolish again,’ Kalion said stiffly. ‘Ever since his return, he has kept close to his rooms and Wellery’s library, applying himself diligently to examining the dagger entrusted to the nexus he has now joined.’
‘You are studying a blade which heats itself to furnace heat as soon as it clashes with any other steel, I believe?’ Planir looked at Galen. ‘Have you gained any insights as yet?’
‘Alas, no, Archmage,’ Galen said wearily.
Jilseth was watching Canfor. What did he think of Kalion’s continued support for Despin? Surely he must hope that the offending mage’s removal from the Council would see him voted into the now vacant seat?
‘We should call a Council meeting to discuss how Master Kerrit’s killers are to be held to account,’ Troanna said. ‘Such an insult to Hadrumal cannot go unpunished.’
‘How do you suggest that we hold such an assize and pass judgement, let alone punish the guilty, without spreading the very alarm among the mundane populace which you so rightly wish to avoid? Ring the Council bell yourself, Flood Mistress, when you have a worthwhile proposal,’ Planir invited.
‘Now, by your leave, I will continue my own studies.’ He gestured at the table. ‘Some way to resolve our problems may yet lurk in Master Kerrit’s library.’
‘Let us hope so.’ Mellitha rose from the settle beside Jilseth and headed for the door, acknowledging Kalion with a brief smile while ignoring Troanna entirely.
Velindre followed her. ‘Thank you, Archmage. Good day to you, Hearth Master, Flood Mistress. That was most instructive.’
As Jilseth rose from her own seat, Kalion turned on his heel with a snort of frustration and led his trio down the spiral stair. Jilseth waited until Troanna had followed them, not wishing to irritate the Flood Mistress by preceding her.
‘A moment if you please.’ Planir leaned forward to take a log from the wood basket and toss it onto the fire. ‘We were discussing Halferan’s affairs before we were so interestingly diverted.’
Jilseth recalled his instructions. ‘I will go to see Master Herion.’
Planir was looking thoughtful. ‘I will have a letter of my own for Corrain, Baron Halferan. I am willing to help him find this man from Wrede but there’s a service which he can do me in return.’
Jilseth wondered what the Archmage intended. ‘How do you propose to scry for a man whom none of us have ever seen? We don’t even have something belonging to this stranger to anchor a spell.’
‘No indeed,’ Planir agreed. ‘But as Lady Zurenne and Baron Corrain have so usefully reminded us, there are more magics in this world than our own. Since using wizardry would indeed prove problematic, we can look elsewhere for assistance. Col’s aetheric adepts may have Artifice to help us find this curious stranger. They may also have other information useful for our purposes gleaned from their fellow healers in Solura. A good many Houses of Sanctuary work closely with their local wizardly Orders.’
‘As you think best, Archmage.’ Though Jilseth couldn’t think what possible use Artifice might be in Hadrumal’s current travails.
‘Call back when you’ve spoken to Master Herion. I’ll have my letter ready for you.’ Planir smiled and reached for the book he had been reading when she had first arrived.
After an irresolute moment, Jileth went on her way. She couldn’t help feeling a little surprised. Shouldn’t the Archmage be addressing the fresh challenges which this day had brought to Hadrumal rather than reading antique Relshazri books?
As she went down Trydek’s tower’s stairs, Jilseth wondered how even Planir’s vaunted shrewdness was going to deal with dissent among Hadrumal’s Council over how to counter these threats from Solura at the same time as rebuffing the Tormalin princes’ uncompromising desire for a share in the corsairs’ artefacts, never mind the mainland’s other rulers’ anger once they realised that Archipelagan hatred of magic now threatened to put an end to all trade with the Aldabreshi.
But at least that poor lad Hosh should find a cure for his own undeserved suffering in Col.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Southern Harbour, Col, Ensaimin
29th of Aft-Winter
CORRAIN STIRRED IN his sleep. The heavy manacles dragged at his wrists. Sores where iron rubbing on bone had worn away his skin stung with the unceasing sweat prompted by the Archipelago’s sultriness. Shifting his feet, he heard the faint clink of the chains linking the shackles around his ankles. Rolling over, he felt the tug of the crusted welts cut into his shoulders by the slaver’s lash. As the scabs gave way, his skin crawled at the trickle of fresh blood.
‘Captain?’
Hosh? Was some other oar-slave coming for the lad? The overseers could never be trusted to defend one rower from another’s malice. Corrain struggled to wake, to throw off the weariness of propelling this corsair galley on from dawn to dusk. His heart was racing and breath rasped in his throat.
Opening his eyes, he saw the wooden planking above his head; this cabin’s roof and the underside of the deck above. He felt the sailing ship roll; a different motion to a galley’s wallowing. Rubbed a shaking hand over his stubbled face, he realised that his wrist was free of that broken slave chain.
‘Captain?’ Hosh ventured. ‘You were dreaming.’
‘What of it?’ Corrain swung his legs over the side of the bunk, barely avoiding smacking his head on the cramped cabin’s cross-beams. Space for cargo took precedence on this trading vessel. ‘Where are we?’
‘Coming into Col on the morning tide,’ Hosh said promptly. ‘We heard the city bells sound the day’s second chime.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Corrain scowled.
‘You needed to sleep,’ Hosh answered with unexpected firmness.
Corrain couldn’t dispute it. He hadn’t slept a whole night through since they’d set foot on this ship in Claithe. Even when exhaustion overwhelmed him, nightmares would besiege him. Twice, three times between dusk and dawn, he would wake to hear Hosh sleeping peacefully in the opposite bunk. As peacefully as the snores rasping through the lad’s broken face allowed.
How did the boy escape such torment? Why had the peace of mind Corrain had enjoyed since ridding himself of that broken manacle deserted him? He didn’t bother asking Hosh. Doubtless the lad would offer some trite tribute to Arrimelin and Corrain had no faith left in the goddess of dreams.
‘Grab your gear.’ Corrain slung his own shapeless leather travelling bag over his shoulder by its drawstring and took up his sword in his other hand, belt buckled tight around the scabbard.
Climbing up through the hatch, the cold sea air revived him a little. The chill was especially welcome, driving away lingering memories of oppressive Aldabreshin heat. He saw the harbour wall protecting a huddle of buildings approaching as the trader’s ship rode the rising tide past a low expanse of mud flats tufted with stained reeds. Looking back he saw the creamy smear of the vessel’s wake cutting across the mud-coloured waters of a broad shallow bay. Sea and sky alike were opaque with mist.
What was he doing here? He had sworn to defend Halferan, Lady Zurenne and her children for his dead lord’s sake. Yet he was doing the Archmage’s bidding once again.
Corrain pushed such treacherous thoughts away. This was the only way he could find out who that mysterious man from Wrede might be. He’d also wager good gold that his journey had been noticed by Den Dalderin spies. If Imperial eyes were following him, they wouldn’t be contemplating Halferan too closely. Meantime, Kusint was more than capable of warning off any renewed Karpis ambitions to encroach on the barony.
Besides, whatever service he was doing the Archmage was incidental. He was here first and foremost to see Hosh healed; a fitting reward for all the lad had done for Halferan. Corrain could never redeem his failure to save the other loyal men who had died at the corsairs’ hands but he could make good on this debt.
The ship rounded the watch tower at the end of the harbour wall and headed
for the dockside’s sodden and fraying wooden pilings, lapped by turbid water strewn with refuse.
‘Mind your backs!’ A sailor hurried past, a hempen cable slung over one shoulder.
Corrain grabbed for the ship’s rail and straw-filled fenders crackled in protest as a large swell drove the vessel hard against the brick-built quay.
‘Thank Dastennin for that,’ Hosh said fervently.
A sailor sprang onto the rail, his salt-encrusted boot thudding beside Corrain’s hand. Inside a breath, the mariner had leaped ashore, winding the sturdy rope around an iron bollard. All along the wharf, men were securing their vessel.
‘You’d do better to thank Larasion in these waters.’ His task done, the sailor pointed towards a statue some distance along the quayside. Twice life size, the Forest goddess was crowned with a wreath of blossom and a necklace of flowers defying the winter. Only the hems of her flowing gown gleamed bright, the bronze polished by countless grateful hands, while the rest of the metal figure was weathered to dull green by salt and mist. Her sandaled feet were surrounded by sodden silk blooms, earthenware leaves and glazed pottery fruits piled high on her plinth.
‘I will make sure to leave an offering,’ Hosh replied fervently.
Corrain kept his mouth shut. He would thank every last rat in the ship’s bilge before he’d thank any deity for seeing them safely across the Gulf of Peorle. That said, he was grateful to be safely moored. This last leg of their journey, cutting across from the Caladhrian coast, meant a night at sea out of sight of land. That wasn’t lightly undertaken at this season, even in these sheltered waters with the bulk of southern Ensaimin barring the path of winter storms sweeping in from the western sea.
‘Where are you headed now?’ The trader-captain paused on his way from his own cabin beneath the raised rear deck to the hold’s hatches amidships.
‘We have a letter of introduction to Mentor Garewin at the university.’ Corrain buckled on his sword and picked up his bag from the deck. ‘Where will we find that?’
‘The university?’ The trader laughed. ‘Once you’re away from the water, it’s all around you, my friend.’
Corrain smiled as though he understood the man’s joke. ‘So where should we ask for this Garewin?’
‘Try one of the inns by the carillon tower in the central square. The tapster will send a runner to find your mentor for a silver penny.’ The captain continued on his way. Bales and crates were being hauled out of the depths of the ship and now they had made landfall, he was intent on turning as much profit as possible, to reward him and his crew for the risks of sailing the Caladhrian coast in winter.
His only interest in his passengers had been the coin they were willing to pay, which suited Corrain. He and Hosh had bought their passage in their own names, not claiming any rank for some sailor to carry ashore. Both wore plain and hardwearing clothes like any other winter traveller. Nothing marked them out as in any way noteworthy.
‘A tower should be easy enough to find,’ Hosh carefully wiped his face. Whether from the winter cold or the salt-laden breeze, his eye and broken nose had wept ceaselessly during their journey.
‘Flat, isn’t it?’ A yawn cut short Corrain’s agreement.
He walked to the gap in the rail where sailors were settling the gangplank to reach down to the quayside. Brick-built and steeply gabled warehouses were ranged along the dock, like nothing in Caladhria. Beyond the harbour, buildings sprawled in all directions; red-tiled roofs above walls patterned with every colour of brick to ever emerge from a kiln. Dull ochre was everywhere underfoot.
Hosh followed him ashore. ‘How far do you suppose the walk is, to this central square?’
Corrain pointed to a trio of two-wheeled gigs drawn up beside another statue, this one honouring Trimon, the wandering god, who was striking his traveller’s harp with a dramatic flourish. ‘We’ll hire one of those.’
As the horses chomped inside their nosebags, their drivers were passing a black glass bottle from hand to hand. The first to notice their approach turned ready to greet them. He took a half step back instead, gaping at Hosh’s face. The boy quickly pulled up his cloak’s hood to hide his disfigurement.
Corrain had grown used to the sailors ignoring Hosh’s misshapen features. After a first day of frank appraisal, the merchant mariners had paid no more heed to Hosh’s scars than they did to their own; deep gouges carved into their forearms by searing ropes or missing fingers wrenched from their sockets as errant winds yanked booms and sails.
‘What’s the rate for a ride to the carillon tower?’ he asked curtly.
One man handed the black bottle to his neighbour. ‘I’d say that would be a silver mark.’
Corrain looked the hireling driver straight in the eye. ‘I’d say we’ll walk instead then.’
Any guard captain worth his bread and beer knew Ensaimin arrogance always sought to take advantage of Caladhrian ignorance.
The hireling drivers laughed and the first man pressed a mock-repentant hand to his leather tunic’s breast.
‘I misspoke myself. That will be a silver penny for you and your companion.’
‘For us both together?’ Corrain queried.
‘Of course. This way, if you please.’ The man lowered the step to the seats at the rear of his gig before climbing up to his perch at the front.
Corrain shoved their belongings underneath the wooden seat as Hosh slid across to make space for him. They were barely seated before the black horse moved off. The ride was smooth across the ochre paviours as the driver headed for a broad thoroughfare running inland. Wagons, hireling carriages and private coaches trundled ahead, two abreast without impeding each other or hindering the vehicles coming the other way. With this wide, flat plain at their disposal, Col’s builders had laid out impressively wide roads.
In the far distance, through the slowly dissipating mists, Corrain could just make out a great column of brick and stone looming over buildings themselves four and five storeys high.
‘That must be the carillon tower.’ He nudged Hosh but the lad was sitting hunched beneath his cloak hood. Corrain couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t relish being stared at by so many passers-by.
Some were sauntering, some hurrying preoccupied. A few men and women were ostentatiously dressed in expensively dyed velvets and furs. Most wore workaday clothes in hardwearing colours. Corrain noted a good number of men wore swords, though a fair few of those blades looked more ornament than useful.
The horse trotted onwards past brick buildings painted in bright colours, vibrant even under the leaden sky. Trees separated the road from paved paths in front of the houses and shops. They must be bright with blossom in the spring, Corrain mused, shady with green leaves in summer and gaudy with autumn reds and golds. For the present, grey-barked boughs clawed at the cold air with barren twigs.
As they drew steadily nearer, he studied the carillon tower. The mighty edifice was evidently the work of more than one builder. Soaring up above the red-tiled roof of a broad building extending across the entire western side of the square, the tower’s topmost two storeys were markedly different in style. Corrain was relieved to note that some of Col’s fabled wealth had bought stone coigns to reinforce the patterned brickwork. Unbraced it could never have been raised so high without collapsing.
The tower overlooked a vast square lined with taverns and inns. An ornate fountain in the centre supported statues of Talagrin, Halcarion, Trimon and Larasion on a central pedestal. Their blind marble eyes stared north, east, south and westwards while water flowed around their heedless feet to fill the broad basin.
The gig drew to a halt and their driver turned around on his backless bench as the tower’s bells began ringing. If there was a count of the day’s chimes somewhere amid the clamour, Corrain couldn’t make it out. The horse stood obediently still, so unbothered by the cacophony overhead that Corrain wondered if it was deaf.
He reached inside his doublet for his travelling purse and found a Tormali
n minted silver penny within it. ‘What’s the best tavern for finding scholars in?’ he shouted to the hireling driver.
‘All of them.’ The man laughed before indicating a yellow painted building with red varnished shutters. ‘Try in there.’
‘Many thanks.’ Corrain dropped the coin into the man’s leathery palm and jumped down from the gig. Hosh followed, silent as he retrieved their belongings from beneath the seat.
The tavern was called The Goose Hounds and the front wall boasted a lifelike painting of two well-muscled and shaggy-maned dogs splashing through a marsh. Despite the cold weather, the door stood hospitably open. Inside Corrain found lanterns banishing the winter shadows while fireplaces at either side of the long tap room warmed the drinkers enough to discard cloaks. Corrain undid his brooch as he led Hosh towards a corner table.
‘I’ll ask about sending a message to this Mentor Garewin.’
As Hosh took a seat with his back to the room, Corrain reached out and pulled the lad’s fur-trimmed cloak hood down. Hosh exclaimed before realising that would only draw attention to his injuries.
‘Keep your face turned to the wall if you wish,’ Corrain said quietly, ‘but sitting hooded indoors will draw curious eyes. Do you want someone asking you your business?’
Mute, Hosh shook his head. Corrain headed for the counter running along the room’s back wall.
‘Ale?’ The tapster gestured to barrels stacked to his off-hand. ‘Or wine?’ Bottles were racked twenty deep and twice as wide on his other side.
That was a lot of wine, even for a tavern in the middle of a trading city. Corrain wondered how ready the tapster would be to palm off some highly-priced vinegar on a couple of strangers.
‘Ale if you please. Something to keep out the cold.’ Corrain waited as the man drew two brimming tankards of an unexpectedly dark brew. ‘I was told you could send a message for me, to one of the university’s mentors?’
Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis) Page 16
