by Janny Wurts
The master in residence sighed and sat. The faintest of smiles crinkled his cheeks as he pulled off his spectacles, rubbed eyes of clearest grey, and said, 'Are you perchance in some difficulty?'
Jaric drew a troubled breath. 'I need work, as a scribe or a copyist. I can also tally accounts. Only, if you'll have me, I would beg use of a pen and an hour's leave to deliver a note to a friend.'
'Well then.' The master pulled open a drawer. Blue-veined fingers dipped within and emerged with a square of parchment. He thumped the sheet on the boards before Jaric and gestured impatiently at the quill which rested in the inkwell by his wrist. 'Write your letter first, boy.'
Jaric bowed his head. 'Master, you are generous.'
His voice had steadied. The accent at last was plain, of north-shore origin, but cultured. This boy had not learned his speech or his manners in the farmsteads. His scarred fingers gripped the pen with recognizable expertise, and as line after line of even, cleanly phrased script flowed beneath his hand, the master ceased to watch.
'What are you called, boy?'
Jaric's writing did not falter. He answered with the surname given him by the Smith's Guild of Morbrith, for everywhere Ivain's name was remembered with vicious hatred. 'Kerainson Jaric, Eminence.'
'Then, young Kerainson, have you quarters?'
Jaric signed his missive and reached instinctively for the sand tray. He dried the excess ink quickly and well, blurring no letters in the process. 'I have a boat.'
The master in residence grunted. 'Open to the sky, no doubt. Well, it isn't raining. Tomorrow is soon enough to arrange your bed and board.'
Jaric raised uncertain brown eyes. With his letter clutched to his chest, he waited, afraid to speak.
'Well, get along, boy.' The master in residence restored his spectacles to the grooved skin of his nose. 'Deliver your note, but get back here sober by sunrise. I've three keeps full of books to be copied, and never enough hands for the pens.'
Jaric barely waited to voice his respects before bolting for the door. Running by the time he crossed the threshold, he forgot to pick up the sword and dagger left on the table by the entry. Hall, stairs, and landing passed by in a blur of haste, and as he crossed the foyer he answered the clerk's sour query with breathless words.
'I'm hired.'
Afternoon had all but fled. Landfast's towers framed a sky blending towards the fallow gold of sunset. Surely Moonless's longboat had departed by now; Jaric raced for the stair and cannoned squarely into a man coming in from the outside. Fingers clamped like trap jaws on the boy's wrist. A neatly delivered push spun him off balance, and he crashed, sprawling into the stone pillars of the railing.
'Why the haste?' said a voice, consonants clipped with annoyance. 'Are you a thief?'
Jaric shook the hair from his eyes and looked up at a lanky man with a seal-brown moustache. His body was clothed in russet trimmed in black, and sinewy wrists lay crossed at his waist, hands lightly gripping the hilts of a jewelled sword and a dagger.
'Your pardon, master.' Belatedly remembering his abandoned weapons, Jaric's fingers tightened. The letter in his hand crumpled slightly. 'I am much in haste.' He pushed himself away from the pillar and attempted to walk past.
The man moved like a fox. Steel sang from his scabbards. Blades flashed blue in the sunlight and fenced the boy on the stair. 'I said, are you a thief?'
White, angry, and desperate, Jaric stared at the weapons angled at his chest. 'I haven't stolen anything! Ask the clerk, and then let me pass.'
The points remained so steady they might have been nailed in place. 'You aren't very convincing, ship-monkey. The clerk could be your accomplice.'
Jaric gasped, shocked. He jerked a glance at his antagonist, and saw him smile, teeth glinting through his moustache; but the eyes above were cold blue, and the brows questioning, as if the exchange were deliberately meant to provoke.
'Why insult me?' said Jaric. 'I've neither sword nor dagger, and wish no quarrel with you.'
The stranger laughed. 'No sword and no dagger? Then certainly I'll skewer you where you stand.'
'Oh no,' a voice broke in from behind. 'You won't bloody this stairway with fighting.'
Jaric whirled, just as a robed figure emerged from the hallway. Clutched awkwardly in his arms were two familiar weapons bundled in a salt-stained green cloak. With a grimace of distaste, the clerk unloaded his burden next to Jaric. The metal on the scabbard guards grated, dissonant as a knife on a whetstone, as the cloth settled against the stair.
'Take your duelling elsewhere.' The clerk set his hand on the chased brass doorknob and gave a mighty pull. 'That's an order from the master in residence.' He ended with a smirk as the panel began to swing.
The door crashed closed. Jaric swallowed and spun to face his tormentor. 'Be reasonable. There's no purpose in fighting over accidental clumsiness on my part.'
'Except, dear boy, that I want to.' Scarred from years of sparring, the man's hands stirred impatiently. 'Carry on.'
Jaric straightened, ash-pale. 'I won't.'
'Ah,' said the man. 'But I think you will.' Again he moved, so fast his blades sparked like fire in the sun.
Jaric felt air whicker past his knuckles. The letter in his hand parted, sliced cleanly in two. The severed portion drifted, turning over and over, and settled across the cloak with Taen's name and his own signature slashed cruelly in half. For a stunned second, Jaric forgot to breathe. Then he bent and recovered his steel. In anger he drew and attacked.
Blade met blade with a furious clang of sound. From the first moment Jaric had no doubt he faced a master swordsman. The stranger's parry met him, lightly, easily, and the riposte followed in a smoky blaze of light. Jaric caught the stroke on his cross guard. The force rattled his teeth. Too furious to care, he beat, feinted, lunged, and gained two steps on the stair.
'Oh, very nice.' The man smiled, foxlike, through a crossed barrier of blades. He disengaged and struck.
Jaric's foot slapped the edge of the step. Forced to parry high, he twisted. His opponent's dagger darted out of nowhere, cleanly eluding his guard. The boy felt a tug. A breath of cold kissed his sweating skin. He lifted his arm to cover and saw his sleeve was slit. But the touch might as easily have gone home to maim muscle and sinew.
Forced back a pace, Jaric riposted. 'You're toying with me.' His blade struck a guard implacable as stone.
'Perhaps.' The man in russet caught his sword in a bind and twisted. 'But it's a game you must win, yes?'
Tendons tightened in Jaric's wrist. Feeling his fingers shift on the sword grip, he responded as Corley had taught, and escaped getting disarmed. His heel bashed hard against a riser. Belatedly he discovered he had lost a step.
'Tell me,' drawled the man. 'Is the note for a lady?'
Busy defending himself, Jaric said nothing. Cut, parry, riposte, the steel whistled and clashed until his ears rang with sound. The continuous jar of impact stung his hands. At some point, unnoticed, he received a nick on his thumb. Blood laced his wrist, and sweat ran stinging under the bandage from his morning's mishap.
Then, with the rail pressed to his side, and the breath burning in his throat, Jaric saw an opening. His sword thrust shot under defending block, and opened a line of red on the stranger's collarbone.
The man collected himself instantly. He leapt backward. His feet landed lightly on the cobbles at the foot of the stair, yet he cast down his weapons. Steel chimed deafeningly on stone. Poised to follow through, Jaric checked his rush. Hair slicked damp to his forehead, he waited, panting, while the man pulled a cloth from his sleeve and delicately dabbed his cut.
'What, no shout of victory?' The man's hands stilled and he looked up.
Jaric did not voice the obvious, that any time previously the stranger could have sliced him to ribbons. In a few breathless minutes, the boy had perceived how pitifully inadequate were his skills; a fortnight of Corley's training had barely sketched the rudiments of technique. But this time the man re
fused to break the silence. Jaric shivered, set his sword point against the stone, and asked the only question that mattered. 'Why attack me?'
The man kicked his dagger aside and mounted the steps. 'For devilment, I suppose.' His breath betrayed no sign of exertion.
Jaric gritted his teeth. 'Then devil and demons take you. I couldn't spare the time!'
He turned on his heel, retrieved his baldric and cloak. The slashed letter fluttered under his feet as he sheathed his weapons with short, angry jerks. A hand touched his elbow. Jaric recovered his torn note and whirled, his face a mask of fury.
But the stranger laughed no longer. His brows knitted with contrition and he said, 'I'll make it up to you.'
'I doubt it.' Jaric pushed past. 'You've no idea what you've done.'
'No.' The man shrugged and fell into step beside him. 'But you're not without talent, you know. I could instruct you, as compensation. The next time someone sought to delay you, your lady need not be kept waiting.'
Jaric stopped. A bitter laugh escaped his throat. He regarded the swordsman, who held his bloody handkerchief pressed beneath his collar, and whose light eyes remained shrewdly intent. The boy's features twisted, assumed a look wholly Ivain's. 'That won't mend it,' he said.
But by his tone, the swordsman understood that Corley's protege saw the sense in accepting. Not without friendliness he offered, 'My name is Brith. If you come to the practice yard by the city guard's quarters, we can start tomorrow.'
'I'll consider it.' Jaric was curt. 'Now let me go!'
* * *
Sunset silhouetted the humped profile of Little Dagley Islet and the waters of Landfast harbour deepened slowly to indigo. Loud in the evening quiet, the last wagons rumbled away from the dockside. Brith crouched in the dooryard of a spice shop and watched the boy, Jaric, who lingered alone by the wharf. Sea wind tossed the hair from his face, revealing a glint of unshed tears; while, beyond the beacon towers of the inlet, a brigantine flying Cliffhaven's colours shook out her stunsails and scudded south for the Isle of the Vaere.
Brith swore softly. He tossed his stained handkerchief in the gutter, and wondered again why the Kielmark's foremost captain should concern himself with a boy who hated fighting. The swordmaster shrugged and, feeling the laces of his collar fret against his cut, cursed again. The pay was generous, but the idea he might spend the night skulking like a dog in an alley had never entered his mind when he accepted responsibility for Jaric. On the verge of rising to coax his charge to consider retiring to the comfort in an alehouse, Brith froze.
Jaric spun abruptly and threw something, his arm a blur of force. The watching swordsman ducked hastily as the object struck the boards above his head. It bounced once, and rolled to a stop against the instep of his boot. Brith retrieved what proved to be a letter, crushed and wadded into an unreadable pulp. Cautiously the swordsman looked up and found Jaric on the move once more. Stealthy as a cat, he followed.
His charge strode to the dockmaster's shed and pounded on the panels until the door opened. The official inside thrust forth an angry face and swore until his lungs emptied of air. Although no money changed hands, he finished with directions. Jaric left without thanks. He interrogated a beggar and a street urchin for knowledge of landmarks and, poorer by two coppers, eventually found his way to a slip where a fishing boat of ancient design creaked against her lines.
Brith tensed. If the boy tried to cast off and chase the brigantine, the swordsman did not fancy the prospect of stopping him; but Corley's orders had been explicitly clear: Jaric was to be trained for the sword, and under no circumstances should he leave the shores of Landfast. But the boy apparently realized his Callinde could never match Moonless's speed under full canvas. He made no effort to sail, but tossed his weapons, unoiled, into a locker, and sprawled prone beneath his cloak. Brith guarded and listened, and at length settled resignedly against a damp pile of fish net. If the boy wept, no sound betrayed him. Perhaps in the end he slept, for nothing moved on board Callinde until dawn silvered the horizon to the east.
* * *
Wrapped in the fog by daybreak, Moonless shuddered over a swell. Canvas rippled aloft and fell taut with a coarse smack. Shirtless, and clad hastily in hose and boots, Corley arrived on the quarterdeck. He squinted at the compass without pausing to consult the officer on watch.
The quartermaster blinked moisture from his lashes. 'Wind's changing.'
'I know.' Corley gazed over the rails. Beyond the curve of the swell, the air lay dense and dead, horizon buried in mist. 'Stuns'ls will have to come down. We're in for a blow, I can feel it.' Deftly he skirted the wheel and shouted orders to the boatswain.
Moonless came alive as men leapt for the rigging. Corley watched, unsettled and critical. When his cabin steward appeared at his elbow with a shirt, he accepted the garment with a preoccupied frown.
'Where's the Dreamweaver?' He dragged the laces tight at his throat and adjusted his cuffs, eyes fixed intently on the activities aloft.
Sensitive to the captain's mood, the steward replied concisely. 'The girl's asleep, Captain. She's been very quiet.'
Too quiet, Corley suspected, but did not voice his thought.
His stillness prompted the steward to qualify. 'I'd guess she misses the boy. Any man with eyes might notice that she and Jaric were close.'
'Enough,' snapped Corley. He raked tangled chestnut hair with his fingers and finished with a gesture of dismissal. 'I'll be down to look in on her shortly.'
Taen might pine for Jaric; but the captain had not missed the fact that she had failed to come on deck to bid her companion farewell. Since leaving Landfast, she had made herself scarce, behaviour markedly changed from her earlier habit of riding the bowsprit with her hair flying in the wind. The fighting spirit observed during the defence of Cliffhaven could not be reconciled with a girl who suddenly languished in emotional sentimentality. But with storms pending and canvas being shortened aloft, no captain worth the Kielmark's pay would be caught below decks. Taen's vagaries would have to wait.
Corley checked the weather gauge and frowned again at the compass. Lines squealed in the blocks overhead as the crew shortened sail. Mist trailed through the yards, shredded to scarves by gusts. The waters heaved grey and leaden beneath, fretted by the faintest whisper of disturbed air. The wind had definitely shifted. Since speed had dictated a westerly course through the narrow channel that separated Landfast from Innishari, Moonless had only a scant margin of sea room. Should the weather deteriorate before midday, she would have to put about. The Kielmark's captain paced anxiously. Conditions would inevitably get worse. He had been too many years at sea to misread the signs. If, as he suspected, some difficulty beset Taen Dreamweaver, he had but one desire, and that to make landfall at the Isle of the Vaere as swiftly as ship and sinew could manage.
Watery sunlight struck through the fog as day progressed, striking highlights against the waves. Yet the brightness proved short-lived. Hounded by rising wind, storm clouds rolled in from the south, darkening the mist to sickly green. Stripped of flying jibs and topsails, Moonless reeled close-hauled, thudded by swells which struck with the might of siege engines. Spray dashed the quarterdeck.
Sodden, Corley shook water from his hair and shouted commands to the boatswain. 'Reef the main! And send the slowest man below to batten hatches.'
While the crew swarmed aloft, the captain flung away from the rail and nearly belted into the steward, who brought him a cloak of oiled wool.
Corley accepted the garment with a bitten word of thanks. 'How's the Dreamweaver?'
The steward seemed taken aback. 'Sir, I don't know.'
'Why not?' With his brooch poised to stab cloth, Corley phrased his next words with warning care. 'I thought I told you to look in on her?'
'Your pardon, sir.' A gust forced the servant to raise his voice. 'You said you'd see Taen yourself.'
Corley rammed the pin into place and twitched the cloak over his shoulders. 'Damn the weather,' he replied. 'I
did say that. Check her for me and report back, could you?'
'Aye, sir, at once.' The steward left.
Corley hastened to the binnacle, glared at the compass, and swore afresh. 'Kor's Fires, the wind's veering again. We're going to end with a west wind, but too late to matter.' He met the quartermaster's glance with anxious eyes. 'I don't like the drift of this. Seems like we're getting a fall tempest, three whole months out of season.' Neither man belaboured the obvious, that with the archipelago of Islamere lying east, a westerly gale might force Moonless north to gain leeway.
'Bad luck,' murmured the quartermaster.
Fast as a whipcrack, Corley answered. 'Do you think so?'
The officer paled above the spoked curve of the wheel. 'What else? Demons cannot shift weather, and Anskiere's bound in ice.'
A gust struck. Stressed canvas boomed in protest, and Moonless flung into a heel. Water pressed against her rudder, and the wheel creaked, slipping in the quartermaster's grasp. Corley reached and caught the spokes, adding his own weight to maintain the brigantine's heading. For a moment the two men strained, feet pressed to the wet planks of the deck. Then the wind eased, and the pressure abated.
'Boatswain, send a man to assist with the helm!' The instant the deckhand arrived to relieve him, Corley took a log reading and retired below.
Returned from Taen's cabin, the steward found his captain in the chart room. Light from a gimballed oil lamp flickered over Corley's shoulders, flashing and sparking through salt crystals in his hair as he bent with dividers and pen, working out the running fix. Patient, the steward waited until his master looked up.
'Captain, you had best come. The Dreamweaver is ill. I cannot rouse her.'
Corley's eyes steadied, dark with decision. After a moment he spoke softly. 'By the Great Fall, that's bad news.' If the Vaere had chosen this to penalize her for breaking her oath to return, the timing couldn't be worse.
