by Stuart Hill
Sharley drank it all in. This city of Venezzia was beautiful, and at the same time ragged, with crumbling houses alongside fine palaces. It was fragrant with flowers and green growing things, but it also stank of mud and mould and other filth thrown into the canals by its thousands of citizens. He breathed a great lungful of the oddly fresh and fetid air and realised he wouldn’t happily choose to feel any other way. This was what it was like to feel alive, and he laughed for joy.
“I’m glad you feel happy when you look on my city,” said Maggiore Totus, who’d walked up unnoticed while Sharley avidly absorbed it all.
“Who wouldn’t, Maggie? It’s beautiful, and dirty, and noisy and . . . and . . . completely alive!”
“Well, yes. All of those things and more, much more. Look, there are the Arsenal shipyards, where the Republic’s fleets have been built and repaired for over five hundred years,” Maggie said as they passed a huge pair of stout watergates that stood open on a complex of docks, where long, predatory war galleys were in the process of construction or refurbishment. “Of course, the fleet is less than a quarter the size it was at the height of Venezzian power. Now there’s no Empire to patrol, nor new horizons to conquer. But we still have our trading routes to protect and, who knows, perhaps in the future the Republic’s galleys will once again strike out at its enemies.”
Sharley glanced at the old scholar. There was something in his tone that suggested his words were more than just a guide’s rambling monologue to an interested tourist. “Which enemies do you have in mind?” he asked casually.
“Oh, any individual or country that threatens the interests of Venezzia,” Maggie answered airily.
Sharley didn’t push for any further information; he’d learned long ago that Maggiore Totus only divulged his plans and ideas if and when he was ready. But even so, Sharley was beginning to think that his exile might not be quite as hopeless or worthless as he’d feared.
But his thoughts were interrupted as the already hugely wide canal broadened out even further into a basin of bluegreen water that was teeming with ships and boats of every description. Sharley was thrilled by the noise and chaos as they prepared to dock at Venezzia’s most important quayside, Sancta Markus.
Dominating the entire harbour was a massive bronze statue of a lion standing on top of a dizzyingly tall column. One of his mighty paws rested on an open book, which faced outwards as if to let viewers read the gilded words that blazed in the sun. But it was the face of the beast that held Sharley’s attention; he looked just like Tharaman-Thar, proud and dignified and ferocious.
Sharley suddenly felt horribly homesick. Tharaman would be back in Frostmarris now, perhaps drilling the cavalry with his mother Thirrin; or lying in a snoring heap in front of the fire with a dozen palace cats burrowed deep into his fur, sharing his warmth; or munching away at half a cow in the Great Hall before joining in with some of the more colourful housecarle songs.
Sharley’s eyes filled with tears as he thought of his mother tucking him up at night as a child and his father bickering with her about any subject you cared to name, from the cost of the palace provisions to the colour of Jenny’s ear-warmers. His brothers would be there too, giggling and boisterous and as big as houses; and Cressida, haughty and proud, but under it all as kind as one of the old palace drudges, always ready to stop and listen and offer advice. He even found himself remembering Medea with less than the usual level of dislike.
Maggie noticed the change in the young prince and quietly put his arm around his shoulders. “There are times when strangeness reminds us sharply of the familiar,” he said, accurately guessing what the problem was.
“I’m just being daft, Maggie. Ignore me. I’ll cheer up in a minute.”
But Sharley was almost doubled up with the pain of his memories. He hadn’t been such a little boy when his mother had last tucked him up at night. He drew a deep breath, fighting for control, but his thoughts wouldn’t allow him any peace. Would he ever see his family again? Would he ever see Frostmarris again?
Would they even survive the war?
Abruptly, he scrambled away and ran to his cabin before he disgraced himself in front of all the crew and his people. He reached his quarters, slammed the door behind him and leaned heavily against it, trying not to cry.
The sudden thunderous rattle of the anchor being dropped made him swallow a sob and hiccup. Then he giggled at himself and felt better. He crossed to the porthole and saw that they were still a few hundred metres away from the quayside. He watched a barge cast off and head towards them, its oars rising and falling into the water like the beating wings of some fabulous bird. Compared with some of the other vessels, it was remarkably plain and unspectacular, but it moved with such a purpose it caught the eye, and Sharley guessed it carried important people on important business.
He quickly scrubbed his face, put on one of his better tunics and hurried from his cabin. If this was to be an official visit, he wanted to be there. By the time he’d got back up on deck, the barge was already drawing alongside and the crew were letting down a ladder. Sharley stood beside Maggie, who’d been joined by Captain Sigurdson. Nobody said a word as two men climbed on deck, immediately spotted the small welcoming committee, and walked elegantly towards them.
Sharley was amazed. He’d expected Maggie’s countrymen to dress like him in sober blacks and muted browns. But these men blazed in gold brocades and brilliant silks so they looked like fabulous creatures of fire shimmering under the warm Venezzian sun.
They bowed deeply and began to speak in a rapid tumble of words that took all of Sharley’s concentration to understand. “Greetings, Signor Totus, you arrive at last. We thought perhaps your plans had been altered, or you’d perished on the seas.”
Maggie bowed in return. “Indeed, we very nearly did perish. Our fleet was caught in an unseasonal storm and five of our ships were lost. It took us almost twenty days to carry out repairs, but we have finally and gladly reached our destination, as now you see.”
“But if that’s the case, then the second refugee fleet will be less than a week behind you, and very little has been prepared,” the younger of the two men said agitatedly.
“Signor Gabraldi need have no cause for alarm,” said Maggie smoothly. “As soon as we have been escorted to our new home, then we shall begin the task of preparing the camp for those who follow.”
An elegantly gloved hand was raised to lips and a polite cough interrupted. “May we extend our sympathies for the loss of your ships,” said the older man, at the same time turning a frosty glare on Signor Gabraldi. “I hope that those who survived have recovered well and that they will enjoy their time in the Venetti.” Maggie bowed in acknowledgement, and the man went on, “The Doge extends warm greetings to the Prince Regent Charlemagne and yourself. He asks that you attend him tomorrow morning, a quarter of the hour before noon.”
Sharley, determined not to be left out of the proceedings, plucked up his courage and replied, “Please return our greetings and thanks to His Eminence the Doge, and tell him we shall be honoured to visit.”
“Ah, the Prince speaks Venettian,” the courtier said in genuine surprise. “And, might I add, very well indeed.”
Reading the protocol perfectly, Sharley inclined his head politely and added, “As part of his duties to the Royal Household, Maggiore Totus was my tutor, and he taught me the basics of your language.”
“I think that I, Veraducci Vaspadi Permino, can safely say that I have never before heard Venettian spoken so well by a foreig— visiting dignitary. The Doge will be enchanted, especially by your charming accent.”
Another flurry of bows followed this compliment.
“One small detail,” Signor Permino went on. “It would be deemed the greatest of favours by His Eminence if you would lower the Icemark flag while you are in our waters. You see, the Polypontian Empire has spies everywhere and we’d prefer not to advertise your presence more than is strictly necessary.”
Sharle
y found himself to be the only one bowing after this request, and he tried to look as though he’d been wafting flies away from his shoes as he stood up with a red face.
“Of course. We understand perfectly,” said Maggie. “Erm, Captain?”
“Yes, Your Eminencesseses,” said Sigurdson, bending in the middle and waving vigorously at the toecaps of his seaboots. “I’ll send one of the lads up and bring it down. WALLY ERICSON!” he suddenly bellowed over the heads of the envoys. “GET YOUR ARSE UP ALOFT AND BRING DOWN THE ICEMARK COLOURS!”
Both envoys looked pained at the volume, but Signor Permino recovered quickly. “Well, how very robust,” he said, and smiled.
After a few more minutes of polite exchange, the Venezzian courtiers left to rejoin their barge, and the fleet weighed anchor to follow them to their berth. Sharley was disappointed to see that they wouldn’t be staying in the city itself, as they were heading away from the complex of canals and elegant buildings and out over the lagoon.
After half an hour’s sailing they reached a fully equipped quay in an area of reed beds and scrubland. “But where will we be staying, Maggie?” he asked.
“Well, in the ships for the first few days, then eventually in those,” he said, pointing to mountainous piles of readymade timber walls that stood on the quayside. “We simply have to put them together.”
CHAPTER 13
There was no sign of the thaw this far north. The snow was frozen to a crisp outer shell over loose powder, and walking was an exhausting process of high-stepping and stamping through to the solid ground somewhere deep underneath. But Oskan and Medea were untroubled, riding comfortably in a sledge pulled by a team of Ukpik werewolves. The snow was no problem to creatures like Wolf-folk or Snow Leopards either, and Taradan, Tharaman’s Second-in-Command, happily scuffed along through the icy covering as though he was on a jaunty stroll to work up an appetite before dinner. To him the temperature was wonderfully comfortable, and he gazed about like a happy schoolboy on an educational trip.
Beside him walked Grinfang Sky-howler, whom King Grishmak had insisted on appointing to add ‘a little muscle’ to proceedings, as he’d put it.
Ahead Oskan could clearly see the pass through the Wolfrock Mountains that bordered The-Land-of-the-Ghosts. The Ukpik werewolves raised their heads and howled when they saw it, and increased their pace so that the sledge bounced and rocked over the stony track and Oskan was forced to hold on grimly as they careered towards the border. He was determined not to fall out because the Vampire King and Queen would have spies watching their approach. They’d love to hear how the Witchfather had been spilled out of his own sledge like so much dirty washing.
Next to him, Medea sat in silence. She’d hardly spoken a word since the beginning of the journey, but as far as her father could tell she seemed perfectly relaxed and unconcerned. But the same couldn’t have been said when Oskan had suggested she join him on the diplomatic mission to The-Land-of-the-Ghosts. He had climbed the spiral stairs of her tower with determination, and when he’d arrived in the topmost room, she had been waiting for him, her high-backed chair facing the doorway and her black eyes glaring as he stepped over the threshold into her domain.
“Ah, Medea. May I come in?”
“You’re in already,” she’d answered expressionlessly.
“So I am. Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.” She’d stared at him in silence until eventually he’d continued. “Your mother and I . . . well, your mother and I have decided that you’re now old enough to take a more active part in the workings of the kingdom.”
“Do you expect me to train as a warrior?”
“No, not at all. Your skills obviously lie elsewhere, so we’ve decided you should help me with a diplomatic mission to the Court of Their Vampiric Majesties.”
“I see. And how will I help, exactly?” she’d asked, holding his eye with her own unnerving black gaze.
“Probably in no way whatsoever. But you might find it instructive to observe a diplomatic mission at work.”
“Why?”
Oskan had been irritated by her studied, quiet insolence. “Because if you’re not suited to raise a sword for the Icemark, and you’re unwilling to learn the art and craft of healing, then politics and diplomacy remain your only options.”
“What if I dislike all of those options?”
“Medea, if you were a private citizen you would have every right to pursue whatever career you wanted, but as a member of the Royal House of Lindenshield, you have no such choice,” he’d said coldly. “Unless, that is, you want to relinquish your titles, your wealth, and your apartments within the citadel.”
This had clearly enraged his daughter, but she’d restrained herself. “I’ll need time to consider.”
“Medea! When your country’s at war, luxuries like time are strictly rationed. Make your decision now, or have it made for you!” His voice had cracked like a whip on the air. Patience and gentle persuasion had long since become victims of the crisis faced by the Icemark, and Oskan had no time to indulge a sulky adolescent who wanted to dabble with the temptations of the Dark. She had to be reined in and controlled before people got hurt, including herself.
Medea’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and their black depths seemed to sharpen. Finally she’d nodded. “Very well. I’ll join your embassy to the Vampires.”
“Good. Be ready to leave at dawn the day after tomorrow.”
All of that had happened almost a week ago, and since then Medea had been polite, distant and mainly silent. But Oskan wasn’t too worried. He’d sooner have her with him than leave her behind to simmer at home. Thirrin had enough on her mind without having to cope with Medea.
Just then, the sledge bumped over a rock, jolting Oskan back to the present and making him grab the rails in panic. The Ukpiks were strong and tireless, but they really needed to take more care.
Taradan and Grinfang surged ahead, having no sledge to hold them back, but their pace gradually slowed as they drew closer to the shadow-haunted mouth of the pass, and then stopped. The sledge finally caught up with them and drew to a halt while Oskan peeled his fingers, one by one, from the rail that edged his seat.
“It doesn’t get any more cheerful over the years, does it?” said Grinfang, staring into the pass where ragged shreds of mist gathered and flowed, often against the icy wind that blew along the narrow cliff-lined track. “I wonder if there’ll be a welcoming committee to meet us?”
Taradan laughed hugely, his voice echoing from the stony walls. “That’s about as likely as an Ice Troll with table manners. When we passed through Their Vampiric Majesties’ realm on the way south, we were attacked by a party of Zombies – never too bright, those things. And when we complained at the Blood Palace we were told they were renegades beyond the control of the King and Queen. Still, we got some small revenge when we left a pile of dismembered bodies in the audience chamber. They were still animated, of course, and flopped about like stranded fish leaving bloody smears everywhere.”
“We’d better keep moving, then,” said Oskan grumpily. “We don’t want to get caught up in unnecessary skirmishes.”
Grinfang led the way, howling out a statement in the language of the Wolf-folk as he went so that no one could be left in any doubt that they were an embassy from three of the five monarchs in the alliance against the Polypontian Empire.
But the response was rather less than welcoming: a huge roaring and snarling echoed along the pass from just ahead. At first, Oskan thought he was hearing a rockslide, but then five huge figures rolled like boulders down the almost sheer cliffs that lined the pass, climbed ponderously to their feet and blocked the way. The Ukpik werewolves stopped the sledge and stepped out of the traces, howling fiercely as they joined Taradan and Grinfang, who were already squaring up to the massive rock trolls.
There was a long standoff as the werewolves howled at the trolls, and the trolls replied with voices like erupting volcanoes.
“What’s going
on?” Oskan called from his sledge.
“We’re trying to persuade them to let us through,” said Grinfang. “But they don’t know what an embassy is, and they’re too stupid to see they’re outnumbered.”
Oskan wasn’t entirely sure they were outnumbered. Even with seven werewolves, a giant Snow Leopard and two Gifted human beings facing them.
Medea watched the standoff with interest. She’d never been in physical danger before, and she was uncertain how to react. The sensation of adrenalin quickening her heartbeat and sharpening her sight was a completely new experience, and wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Perhaps the non-magical world had some merit.
Oskan was just wondering what he should do to make the situation less fraught, when Grinfang’s patience ran out, and with a vicious snarl he attacked. Taradan watched for a second, then he charged too, hitting the nearest troll at a run. The beast staggered back, but then threw off the Snow Leopard. Taradan gathered himself and sprang back into the attack.
Now the Ukpik werewolves moved in as a solid phalanx. All was chaos and confusion as a seething mass of fur and hide rolled and wrestled before Oskan’s eyes. Taradan’s towering frame rose into the air, and with a mighty roar he smashed his paws down on the head of the troll he was fighting. With a loud crack, its skull split in two and it fell dead, crashing to the ground like a rockslide. Grinfang leaped on to his opponent and, clamping his teeth about its neck, ripped its throat out. Snarling savagely, he straddled the troll’s body and howled in elation while the Ukpik phalanx, working with deadly efficiency, tore two more of the trolls limb from limb, and then gave chase to the only survivor.
Oskan struggled to his feet and, standing on the seat of his sledge, he bellowed, “Stop!” His voice seemed to be magnified by the narrow rock-lined pass. The werewolves and Taradan froze. “There will be blood enough for the most ferocious warrior in the coming war. Let the creature live.”
