Scimitar Sun

by Chris A. Jackson

  “You mean a solar eclipse.”

  “Quite right! The eclipse must be a complete occlusion of the sun, so timing and location are critical. As to the ascension, well, a pyromage’s rites can usually be accomplished with a simple coal-fire, but, presuming from your own experience that the requirements intensify with advanced years, we — that is, Edan — decided that he would try something rather drastic.”

  “And that is?” she asked the apprentice.

  “I’d like to go to Fire Isle,” he said, trepidation evident in his voice.

  Silence hung heavily in the room. Mouse finally broke it with a quizzical, “Eep?”

  Cynthia could only agree. “But Fire Isle is a — ”

  “An active volcano,” Edan finished for her. “That’s the whole point, ma’am. If it took a hurricane to appease Odea for your ascension, then a volcano might be enough for Phekkar.”

  “We need someone who is not afraid to take young Edan to the island,” the lightkeeper explained. “No other ship’s captain I’ve asked would agree to sail within a league of the place.”

  “Understandable,” Cynthia said. The waters around the volcano were treacherous. There was no place on the island to land; every inch of the coastline was unforgiving volcanic rock and ash. Even with her seamage skills, it would be tricky. She looked at the two men: the elder’s quirky nonchalance, the younger’s fervor mixed with trepidation. The trouble was, she knew how Edan felt at being denied the magic that was his birthright; only those with the inherent talent could even dream of becoming an elemental mage. She would have risked all to become a seamage, had she thought there were the slightest chance, and she could see that same determination in his eyes.

  “I can take you there,” she said finally. Edan’s face lit up like a beacon, and the firesprite hovering over his shoulder gave a cheer, her hair flaring brightly. “But, um, might I ask…what exactly do you have to do at the island?”

  “He must enter the heart of the fire at the precise moment of the full eclipse convergence,” the lightkeeper said intently, his eyes fixed upon his apprentice.

  Mouse let out another questioning “Eep?”

  “You mean you have to — ”

  “I have to walk into the heart of the volcano during the eclipse,” Edan said.

  Cynthia could hear in his voice that he knew all too well what his fate would be if Phekkar refused to accept him.

  ≈

  Dura’s heavy boots crunched through the litter of wood shavings as she made her way from her rooms in the back of the lofting shed to the front door. She trailed one broad hand along the port-side hull of the new ship, her calloused palm rasping like a finely grained sanding block along the smooth cypress. Despite her misgivings about Cynthia’s cockeyed new design, she could feel the power in it. She might feign ignorance, especially when some blue-blood fop asked her ridiculous questions, but decades of working with Ghelfan had taught her more about the intricacies of ship design than most naval architects ever learned.

  What she did not know, and what had brought her out of her room, was what had made the clatter that roused her from her reading. She knew every block, tackle, pulley and plank in her shop, and nothing she knew could have made such a noise, especially at this hour. She’d tucked the book of dwarvish poetry under her mattress, pulled on her boots and ventured forth, lantern in one hand, her sharp eyes squinting into the shadows.

  At the starboard bow of the new ship she stopped, glaring down at a two-foot-long wrench that lay at her feet.

  “Where the bloody blue blazes did you come from?” she asked, bending to pick up the tool. She looked around, but nothing else appeared to be out of place. She glanced up at the bow above her head, wondering if one of the workers might have left the wrench lying up there; but even if the tool had been left out, why would it fall?

  “If there’s a rat in this shop…” She let the thought die. Her shop was clean and orderly. Perhaps a faint vibration from the slumbering volcano beneath the island had tipped the wrench off a precarious perch.

  “Bloody careless…” She replaced the tool on the tool rack, then checked the side door. It didn’t lock, but was firmly closed. She opened it, peered around outside, then closed it and returned to her rooms. “Must be gettin’ old, lettin’ ‘em leave tools lyin’ about like tankards on a barroom floor,” she muttered as she closed her door and hung the lamp on its hook. She kicked off her boots, retrieved her book and lay back in her bunk, already composing the stern lecture she would give her crew.

  ≈

  Huffington slipped the folded sheets of fine parchment into the lining of his doublet and eased open the door of the lofting shed’s office. Light shone through the shuttered window of the dwarf woman’s room onto the shaving-strewn floor. She had been lured out by the noise he’d made, but had returned quickly, before he’d had a chance to go through more than a couple of the drawers holding the myriad schematics and drawings.

  Norris would have to be satisfied with the few papers he could filch; he could not risk continuing to rifle through the office with the dwarf’s room right next door. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation with the burly, noisy Dura. Explaining a corpse would be much more difficult than explaining a few missing plans.

  He moved through the shadows toward the shed’s door, his soft leather boots whisking through the shavings with barely a rustle. He eased through the door into the sultry night, evading the notice of the few native folk who wandered about, even at this late hour. As far as he could tell, there were no guards and few locks anywhere on the island, so his return to his room in the keep went as unnoticed as his departure.

  Chapter Eight

  Hidden Agendas

  “I wish you would stay a few more days, Count Norris. Cynthia will be back from Southaven soon, and you can speak directly with her.” Camilla watched helplessly as a squad of sailors loaded the count’s baggage onto one of the longboats. “You’ll get a much better picture of what her plans are for the Shattered Isles, and if you wish to discuss the designs of her vessels…”

  “You have been a most excellent hostess and guide, Lady Camilla,” the count said, bowing stiffly to kiss her hand in farewell. “I have learned all that is necessary for my report to the emperor, and he awaits my return. I must be away before you, and this wondrous place, enchant me further.”

  “Please give our regards to the emperor, then, and assure him that we are, and will remain, loyal subjects of Tsing.” Camilla was not fooled by his courtly manner; the count’s visit had been far too inquisitive for her comfort. Norris’ ingratiating manner made her teeth ache, and she felt as if he was laughing behind his hand at her, as if he had pulled off some great coup. “I will inform Mistress Flaxal of your visit, and pass along the emperor’s gift. I’m sure she will look forward to your return.”

  “If I know Emperor Tynean, she will not have long to wait. He is a decisive man, and once he knows the facts, he will act.” Norris swept his hat in another courtly bow and boarded the longboat.

  The sailors applied the oars and the crowded longboat pulled away from the pier. Norris waved farewell, then turned to face forward and did not look back again.

  “That man worries me,” she muttered through clenched teeth. She turned and nearly ran over Dura, who had approached in uncharacteristic silence.

  “Dura! I’m sorry, I — ” She could see instantly that something was amiss; the dwarf’s hair was disheveled and her muttonchops looked as if she’d been trying to pull them out. “What’s wrong?”

  “I, uh…” One gnarled hand reached up to tug at her whiskers, then dropped when she realized what she was doing. “I seem to have misplaced somethin’, Miss Cammy. Somethin’ very important.”

  “Misplaced?” Her mind clicked and she whirled to glare at the departing Count Norris. “Oh, no!” She whirled back to Dura. “Which plans were stolen?”

  “Stolen? I wouldn’t go so far as to say they was — how did yo
u know that — ?” Her eyes widened, fixing upon the receding longboat. “The wrench! The bleedin’ thief distracted me with a bleedin’ wrench! I’m thrice a fool, Miss Cammy! The bugger snuck in last night and took the draft plans for Mistress Cynthia’s new ship!”

  “The new one? Which new one? Peggy’s Dream, or the one in the shed?”

  “That two-hulled monstrosity! I shoulda known that bugger was up to somethin’!” Her fist cracked into her open palm with the impact of a mallet on a marlinspike.

  “You’re sure those were the plans taken, not the ones for Peggy’s Dream?” It seemed unlikely that Norris was more interested in an experimental craft than one that had proven its worth. Then she remembered that they had not seen Peggy’s Dream; they didn’t know Cynthia had built a three-masted schooner.

  “Oh, aye, Miss Cammy. I’m sure.” The dwarf gritted her teeth and cursed. “Let me pay the slimy thief a visit with about a fifty dugouts full o’ our friends, and I’ll get them plans back!”

  “No, Dura!” Camilla said, her tone definitive. “The very last thing we want right now is a violent confrontation.”

  “But why the bloody hells not? I say give ‘em a bloody nose! That’ll teach ‘em not to steal!”

  “Because we’re talking about an imperial warship! If we attack them, we’ll be committing an act of war on the Empire of Tsing!” Realization struck the dwarf woman’s features. “We can’t even accuse him of stealing the plans. He’d just deny it, and then we’d have an incident that would ruin our chances of an amicable resolution to this mess.”

  “Aye, I see yer point, Miss Cammy, but it just don’t seem right that he’s gettin’ away with it.”

  “Oh, just wait until Cynthia finds out,” she said with a tight smile. “The count will have all Nine Hells to pay in gold when she learns of this.”

  ≈

  “You are sure this is will work, milord Count?” Huffington asked as they neared the Fire Drake. He’d done as he was told to do, following the count’s orders to the letter, but he had a bad feeling about the tack the man was taking with the seamage Flaxal. The way the Lady Camilla had talked, the Flaxal woman could wipe the sea clear of any ship that opposed them, warship or no. “I mean, maybe we should talk with the seamage herself before we — ”

  “Ridiculous, Huffington!” Norris said with a sneer. “We’ve learned everything we need to learn to convince His Majesty of the very real threat of allowing this seamage to control the Shattered Isles.”

  “Yes, milord, but there may be an unacceptable risk in — ”

  “The only unacceptable risk here is to continue to allow a powerful seamage to build her own empire armed with her own private navy of fast, maneuverable ships — obviously not merchantmen, and possibly built for war — manned with her own private army of blood-thirsty savages who think she is some type of god!” Flecks of spittle flew from the count’s lips.

  “The only resolution to this kind of treason is a show of imperial force!” he continued vehemently. “The Shattered Isles have been lawless and far too dangerous to shipping for far too long. I intend to recommend to the emperor that a permanent naval base be established right here! It is already fortified, has its own shipyard, and is quite defensible. With a few warships based here, manned with a sizable contingent of marines, we would control every strait through the archipelago. We could even charge tithes on passing ships to support the stabilizing force of our military presence.”

  “Yes, milord.” Huffington had no crisis of conscience about stealing the ship plans, and really no problem using them to support the facts as Count Norris saw them. But to send a naval force against an entrenched and reasonably peaceful seamage of unknown power; well, the risk seemed far too great without further corroboration of her intent. He resolved to inform the emperor himself of the risks. He just hoped he would be as convincing as Count Norris.

  ≈

  “The way I see it, Captain,” Sam began, hefting a dagger and stabbing its point into the spot on the chart that signified Plume Isle, “that’s our number one problem! We get rid of that sea witch and the rest is down-wind sailin’.”

  “Aye, Sam, I can’t argue with you there, but I’m not about to try to take on the woman who destroyed Bloodwind’s whole fleet in a single day.” Parek sipped his rum and nodded to his first mate. “Eh, Farin? How would you feel about takin’ on the Flaxal witch?”

  “Bloody insane, is what that is!” the mate agreed, sipping his own rum and shaking his head. “We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Farin,” Sam agreed, catching both men off guard. “We wouldn’t stand a chance, but the way I’ve got it planned, we wouldn’t be the ones fightin’ her.”

  “What’s that?” Parek sat up, narrowing his eyes at her. “You think we can get someone else to take her on?” She could see the wheels working behind his eyes, and saw that he already had the answer.

  “Aye, Captain,” she said coyly, “that I do.”

  “Emperor Tynean Tsing the Third, maybe?” he asked, a deadly grin spreading on his lips.

  “Aye, Captain. The very one. And all it’ll cost us is a few days in Tsing spreadin’ the right kind of rumors.” She sipped the rum he poured into her cup and smiled the same deadly smile. “He’s already sent a warship to have a chat with her, so there’s plenty of fodder for harsh feelin’s. A few words in the right ears about that new three-masted schooner of hers, and them black-skinned savages she keeps like a pack of rabid dogs, not to mention the fish-folk that fawn over her like she was their queen…”

  “Aye, I see that there’s plenty of rumors that we could spread, Sam,” the captain agreed, his eyes narrowing to a calculating mien that she knew all too well. “But the last thing we want here in the Shattered Isles is His Majesty’s Imperial Navy. I’ll warrant that the Flaxal witch is a pain in our arse, but a fleet of warships might be worse.”

  “Aye,” Farin put in, more to remind his captain that he was there than to offer any meaningful input. “One’s bad enough!”

  “Oh, but they can’t do what the Flaxal witch can,” Sam argued, raising her glass. “They can’t bring a school of a thousand merfolk up from the depths, or spawn waves that’d smash any ship that floats to kindling. They can’t command the winds and waves into maelstroms and waterspouts, and tame sea drakes to swallow men whole!”

  Her tirade took the men aback, but the captain was the first to see the calculating glint in Sam’s eye.

  “The way you say it, the imperial navy doesn’t stand much of a chance against the Flaxal witch,” Parek said, sipping his rum and eying her speculatively.

  “The way I see it, if we play our cards right and are very, very lucky, when the two are done fightin’ each other, there won’t be nothin’ left in the Shattered Isles but us, Captain Parek.” Sam drained her cup and sat back.

  “Nothin’ but us,” Farin put in, finally grasping her ploy, “and a whole fleet of merchantmen who ain’t got neither a seamage nor an emperor’s fleet to protect ‘em.”

  “Aye, Farin,” she agreed. “What a shame it’d be if the Flaxal witch and the emperor’s whole fleet ended up sharin’ the depths of the Fathomless Reaches together.”

  They all laughed long and hard, and the captain poured one more round for them to share. But they did not over-drink that night, for there was much planning to do.

  ≈

  “And you agreed to it?” Rowland said, his mouth agape. “You agreed to take this boy to Fire Isle to become a firemage?”

  “Yes, Row, I did,” Cynthia said, nodding to Marta as she dished out thin slices of roast pork and new potatoes. “I didn’t see any way I could say no. The lightkeeper was instrumental in saving my life!”

  “Aye, that he was, Cyn, but he’s also one of Phekkar’s flamin’ fiends!” Rowland halved a biscuit with a butter knife like he was hacking at a buccaneer with a cutlass. “They’re not renowned for their even temperaments, you know.”

&nb
sp; “The lightkeeper may be a pyromage, and perhaps he’s a little quirky, but I wouldn’t call him a fiend, Row. He’s been a valuable citizen of Southaven for longer than I’ve been alive!” She turned to Marta as the woman reached to fill her wine glass. “Marta, quit hovering. I can fill my own glass, and I’m not having any wine. The little monster in my tummy does tricks all night when I drink.”

  “Takes after his mother, I see,” she said quick as a whip, drawing smiles from the others. She filled Rowland’s and Brolan’s glasses, shoveled another helping of meat onto Tim’s plate since Mouse had already stolen half the boy’s first serving, and sat down. “Rowland’s right, you know. Firemages don’t have a particularly good name. Why, I’ve heard stories that would set your hair afire!”

  Cynthia laughed aloud, and said, “Funny you should say that. The boy, Edan, had a firesprite on a gold chain. I’d never seen one before. In fact, Mouse is the only sprite I’d ever seen. But her hair was an actual flame! I mean, she was really on fire!” She laughed again and sampled a potato swimming in garlic and butter. The familiar flavors clashed in her mouth, not an uncommon occurrence in these last few months of her pregnancy. She pushed the potatoes aside.

  “He had a girl sprite?” Tim asked, poking at Mouse with his butter knife. The seasprite dodged, grabbed up a fork and lunged back. “What did Mouse do?”

  “Oh, he tried to fly over to say hello, just as she did.” Cynthia shook her head ruefully. “Luckily, I pulled him back, and Edan held his sprite, Flicker, in check. I hate to think what would happen if the two got together.”