“Whatever you want. It's not my money,” Dormael shrugged. “But the Administrator has the final say on what he will sign. Make it reasonable.”
Mikael nodded, and then moved away to harangue a pair of sailors who were botching some mundane bit of their craft. Dormael turned back to regard the land that was sliding out of the mists on the horizon, and stretched his sore muscles against the railing. His leg still ached here and there, and was stiff in the mornings.
“You should start doing the Siyane,” Shawna said, coming up behind him. “It will help with your injuries.”
Dormael turned at the sound of her voice, and suppressed the urge to stare at the Cambrellian Baroness. She had washed the black dye from her hair, and her natural red-golden color was stunning. Her clothing was worse for the wear—after all, they hadn't had much of a chance to restore their clothing during the chaos—but Shawna never looked shabby. The wind whipped her winter cloak around her shoulders, but Dormael could see the twin hilts of her blades poking out from the backside of her hips.
“I don't think I'd be as pretty as you, twisting my body around like that,” Dormael said, shooting the woman a conspiratorial smirk. Shawna slapped him on the shoulder as she came up beside him, but it was more of an unconscious motion than an actual rebuke. She had grown accustomed to him during the voyage.
“It would help you keep your muscles loose, you idiot.”
“It's just...ah, I don't know.”
“It's what, Dormael?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“It's feminine.”
Shawna barked a laugh and shook her head. “The Siyane is feminine?”
“Well, it certainly looks that way when you do it,” Dormael said, smiling.
“My Master would laugh himself silly to hear you say that. You only think so because I'm the first one you've seen doing it. You have no idea how ridiculous you sound,” she said.
“Maybe I'll let you show me, then, upon a day,” Dormael said. Shawna rolled her eyes and looked out over the waves.
“How does it feel to be home?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the landmass growing in the distance.
“Good,” Dormael said, shrugging. “It's a far cry better than the Stormy Sea. I've spent a few nights in the alehouses around Mistfall. It's an impressive place, for the most part.”
“Were you born here, then?” Shawna asked.
“No, I’ve just been through here more than a few times,” Dormael said. “I was born in the northwestern part of Soirus-Gamerit. My family has a homestead there, up in the highlands.”
“D’Jenn mentioned that your mother makes firewine,” she said.
“She does,” D’Jenn cut in, coming up behind the two of them. “His family owns a vineyard. They make a lot of things, but the firewine is what they're famous for.”
“Famous?” Shawna asked, raising an eyebrow at Dormael.
“Nevermind,” Dormael grumbled. “Where’s Bethany?”
“She’s sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her until we docked,” D'Jenn replied.
“I told Mikael to put in at the Chapterhouse,” Dormael said, eliciting a nod from D'Jenn. Shawna looked between them, and it took Dormael a moment to realize that she wanted an explanation. D'Jenn spoke up and beat him to it.
“The Conclave maintains a Chapterhouse here, as it does in every major city in the Sevenlands. It has its own section of the wharves here in Mistfall, and no one docks there, save on Conclave business. The customs people don't bother the Conclave, and Mikael can get paid for his services there,” D’Jenn said.
“Will we be staying in the Chapterhouse, then?” Shawna asked.
D’Jenn shrugged, giving Dormael an inquisitive glance, leaving the matter for him to decide. He thought it over for a moment, weighing the options. They would stay for free in the Chapterhouse, and eat for free, too. Dormael couldn't remember what the food quality was like in the Mistfall Chapterhouse, though he was sure it was somewhere between ‘hard dirt’ and ‘wet rag’. Staying there would elicit questions from the Administrator, in any case, and Dormael didn't think they should reveal Shawna's artifact to anyone but the Mekai, or the Deacon of the Warlocks.
Dormael took a deep breath, and shook his head. “I'll stop in and pen a quick report for the Conclave, requisition some marks from the treasury, and meet you all somewhere else. I'd rather not stay at the Chapterhouse.”
D'Jenn nodded, accepting his judgment without comment. Shawna shrugged and dismissed the idea with a wave. The three of them fell into silence as the Sevenlands came into view.
Mistfall's harbor was full of ships, despite the weather—or perhaps, because of it. Seacutter passed close to the northernmost lighthouse and made for the Conclave docks, bypassing the regularly traveled shipping lanes. The smell of the city—something like a melding of dead fish, roasting meat, offal, and smoke—assailed Dormael's nose as they turned into the harbor. Mistfall was even more fragrant than the run-down hole of Borders, simply by virtue of being so much larger.
Put thousands of people in one small area, and they the first thing they do is start stinking up the place, Dormael thought.
Even with the smell beating into his nostrils, a smile broke onto his face as lines were tossed to the wharves. Men began to scramble over the deck, tying Seacutter to the dock. Part of his exuberance was the simple desperation to get back on land, but a larger piece was the homecoming itself. Here in the Sevenlands, things were different than anywhere else in Eldath. There were no strange customs to uphold here, and no prejudice against magic.
Here, Dormael was respected for his gift, and could display it freely. His status as a wizard afforded him a small amount of social standing—it was even considered rude to inconvenience one of the Blessed, or the Learned. In Alderak, wizards were ostracized, hunted, and killed whenever they were found. Here at home, folks bought a wizard drinks, and toasted their good health. Dormael felt an almost physical weight evaporate from his shoulders as he stepped foot onto the wharf.
He was home.
A man wrapped in a blue Sevenlander cloak—vibrant against the gray mists of the morning—bustled down the quay to speak with them. He wore a thin white stole across his shoulders, signifying his position as the Chapterhouse Administrator. His hood was thrown back to the chill, revealing a neat head of graying hair. Dormael squinted at the man and tried to remember if he'd met him before. He was relatively sure that the last time he had been in Mistfall, the Administrator had been an old woman.
Meris, Dormael thought, her name had been Meris. This current Administrator would have been promoted, then, in the last season.
“Is that someone important?” Shawna asked.
“Chapterhouse Administrator,” Dormael sighed. “He'll be the man in charge.”
“He's...with the Conclave?” Shawna said, paling a little.
Dormael couldn't help but smile. “Aye, evil powers and all. I'm sure he's counting up the number of child sacrifices he'll demand from us in order to tie up at the dock.”
“That's not what I meant, Dormael Harlun, and you know it,” she sniffed. “I'm just unsure of what I should say to him. How much to reveal—does that sound so ridiculous?”
Dormael felt guilty for jabbing at her. “He's just the man who runs the Chatperhouse. He doesn't hold any real authority, Shawna.”
“He's like an innkeep who also collects information, dispenses money, that sort of thing,” D'Jenn chimed in. “No reason to worry, or stand on ceremony.”
As he was speaking, D'Jenn moved to put his back to the approaching Administrator, and his hands moved in the Hunter's Tongue.
Say nothing to anyone about what we're doing. If anyone asks, we hired you as a mercenary, and Bethany is an orphan on her way to the Conclave, his hands said.
Understood, Shawna signed back. She still had trouble forming many of the movements, but Shawna read the silent language with determined competence.
“I'll speak to him,” Dormael sighed. “If the l
ot of you will take Horse to wherever we're staying tonight, and see him taken care of, I'll catch up with you afterward. I could use a long walk on my own two feet.”
“Fine with me,” D'Jenn grumbled. “While you're being interrogated, we'll go get some real food, maybe some bacon. I'm sure there's bacon somewhere in this city.”
Dormael tried to ignore his grumbling stomach. “Any plans about where you're putting up?”
“The Golden Mug, east of the Western Tradefair. Best place in Mistfall, if it's still here,” D'Jenn said.
“The Golden Mug?” Dormael repeated, raising an eyebrow at his cousin. “Weren't you tossed out of there a few years back?” He had been—Dormael remembered it well. The story had been infamous amongst the Warlocks.
“Tossed out of a tavern?” Shawna said, turning a smile in D'Jenn's direction. “I thought you were better than this one.” A wink at Dormael let him know exactly who ‘this one’ was, but softened the blow of her comments.
“I was, but that was awhile back. I doubt they even remember me,” he replied, returning their gazes with an unflappable expression.
“Oh, I'll wager the gods' own purse change that they do remember,” Dormael said.
“It wasn't that serious,” D'Jenn said, shaking his head.
“Well, now I'm interested,” Shawna said.
“It's a story for another time,” D'Jenn sighed.
“I'd say it's rather appropriate for now,” Dormael smiled. D'Jenn shot him a dangerous look, but Dormael went on anyway. “A few years ago, our wonderful friend of the brooding face decided to drown himself in the Mug's ale for the afternoon. The hero of the story, however, took issue with the taste and potency of the ale in question. He was a Warlock, you see, a representative of the Conclave itself! He couldn't be disrespected with such thin, tasteless horse-piss—the sort of thing that one would feed to the legion of beggars in the streets.”
“I wonder if your face would look better with a bruise over your right eye?” D'Jenn muttered.
Shawna laid a mollifying hand on D'Jenn's shoulder.
“No, go on, please.” She shot D'Jenn a wicked smile, which he returned with a flat stare.
“The proprietor of the Golden Mug took issue with the issue which had been taken by our brooding hero, and an argument between the two ensued. Harsh words were used, you understand, and our hero was tossed bodily into the street—a dishonor that he simply could not tolerate. To demonstrate the robustness of his argument, our noble hero summoned up his power and filled the proprietor's ale barrels with fish.”
“Fish?” Shawna asked. “How does that work, exactly?”
A smirk appeared on D'Jenn's face. “The bastard had the fish already. It was the catch of the day. When Dormael tells the story, I put half the bay into the man's ale barrels. Really, it was just the fish in his kitchen.”
“So you did do it,” Shawna smiled.
“Oh, aye. The smug bastard deserved it, too. It didn't go exactly as Dormael said it did,” D'Jenn said.
“Oh, I'm sure that's the truth,” Shawna said. “You can tell me about it on the way. Goodbye, Dormael. Try not to get mugged on the way to the tavern. Come along, Bethany.” Shawna gave him a smile, then moved to help with the unloading of their horses. Dormael smiled at Bethany, who had walked up during the conversation, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She looked at him and blinked, but that was all she offered before she moved away to follow Shawna.
“Do you think we should send ahead at all?” D'Jenn asked. “It might not be prudent to put anything about what's happened in writing.”
“Do you really believe we need to be so cautious here at home?” Dormael asked. “Something this serious...I just feel like Victus will skin us alive if we show up with the armlet in Ishamael without having warned him, given that we could have.” Victus Tiranan was the Deacon of the Warlocks, the head of their Order, and the old wolf didn’t like to be blindsided.
“Maybe you're right,” D'Jenn shrugged, turning away. “Consider, though, what it means that we were fighting Imperials. Maybe that bit should be kept quiet until we make it home. Just a thought, Dormael. Be careful. I'll see you at the Mug.”
With that, D'Jenn walked away.
Dormael turned that thought over in his mind. He hadn't thought of it that way, but perhaps his cousin was right. Such a thing—Conclave wizards fighting with Galanian Imperial soldiers—would be tantamount to an act of war. Blithely talking about what had happened could cause a general uproar.
Dormael forced a smile onto his face, and turned to speak to the Administrator.
***
Maarkov worked the blade of his dagger over a whetstone, gently grinding out a sharp edge. He had a mild obsession with keeping his steel sharp. So many people who considered themselves warriors treated their steel with shocking disregard. Maarkov had known for a long time that success began with the small pieces, and that wars were won by a series of small victories. Maarkov kept his blades sharp at all times, and that discipline bled into the rest of his life.
Life—such was not a good description of his experience with reality. He thought about it, but he couldn't find another word that could properly explain his existence. He was not dead, not really, but he was certainly far from alive. His hair hadn't grown in enough years to kill most men, and he could feel a strange waning to his body, as if it was a wet rag drying in the sun. His muscles creaked ever so slightly when he moved, and his bones ground against the pallid meat of his insides. His body felt more like a temporary piece of clothing than something that was a part of him.
“Would you stop that infernal noise?” Maaz spat, shooting a glare at him from the desk the man had appropriated from the captain of the ship.
Maarkov paused in his sharpening, and regarded his brother. He sat huddled over a bowl of dark fluid, swaddled like an overgrown infant in a voluminous black robe. His eyes burned from within the hood, but Maarkov had long ago numbed to his brother's hatred. He had long ago returned it in equal measure.
“Stop what?” Maarkov asked, keeping his face as flat as he could.
Maaz narrowed his eyes. “It's quite difficult to use magic to communicate this way over a churning body of water, Maarkov.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Maarkov asked, savoring the rage that passed behind his brother's gaze, and disappeared back into the depths of his expression.
“You're supposed to be gods-damned silent,” Maaz hissed. “I can still take out your tongue.”
Maarkov winked at his brother, and went back to sharpening his dagger. He kept his gaze on his brother's face, and drew the steel across the stone in a slow, mocking rhythm. Maaz gestured angrily to the side, and both stone and dagger were ripped from Maarkov's hands to tumble across the floor of the cabin.
Maarkov snorted in disgust, and let his hands go to his lap. Tweaking his brother's nose was only a mild entertainment, anyway. It was important, after all, that Maaz knew just how deeply Maarkov loved him.
“One day I'm going to kill you, brother,” Maarkov said, “or stand by and watch you die. I can't decide which would be more gratifying.”
Maaz turned his gaze back into the depths of the bowl on the desk, declining to shoot anything back. Maarkov gave an obnoxious sigh before settling into silence. The only noises were the shifting of implements as the room rocked back and forth, and the sound of the sea whispering over the hull of the ship.
Maaz reached to a thong tied around his neck, and fished a small leather bag from the depths of his hood. He pulled it gingerly open, and plucked two tiny bones from inside. He whispered something over them, and dropped them into the dark fluid in the bowl. Maarkov might have shuddered at the sight, knowing them to be the finger bones of his brother's apprentices. Perhaps he should have shuddered, but he felt nothing.
He and his brother were steeped in blood, swimming in it. What were a pair of tiny finger bones against a mountain of corpses? Maarkov felt nothing but deep hatred for his brother, and mild d
isgust for everything else. He had long ago lost the ability to rustle a single care about the sight of it all.
A single covered lantern hung in the cabin, and wild shadows were tossed back and forth over the walls. Maarkov watched as his brother stared over the bowl, undoubtedly reaching out with his magic, though Maarkov couldn't feel it. A pair of shadows stood up from the corners of the room, as if they had been there all along, and approached the desk. As they came closer, their forms deepened into something more like an actual person, though they were indistinct.
“Master,” said the shorter of the two in a female voice.
“Master,” intoned the second one, a male.
“Attend, apprentices, for your Master speeds in your direction,” Maaz said. The two shadows stood up straighter, perhaps, but Maarkov could have imagined that. “With any luck from the gods, the two of you have managed to keep breathing from day to day. What have you learned?”
“The city is growing increasingly polarized,” said the male, an eagerness in his tone that belied his desire to please. Maarkov sneered in disgust. “There are whispers of discontent, mistrust in the strength of the leadership. Talk of the Conclave is rampant in the streets.”
“And have you succeeded in your mission?” Maaz asked. Maarkov heard the light tone in his brother's raspy voice, but he knew the question to be concealing a barb.
“I...haven't been able to see the library. The wizards only approve so many requests, Master, and—”
Maaz made a sharp gesture, and the shadow doubled over, writhing as it screamed in agony. Maarkov cringed away from the sound, but his brother released his apprentice before it went on for long. Maaz said nothing in the wake of his apprentice's punishment, he simply allowed the shadow to rise to its full height once more. The female shadow did not react to the suffering of her male counterpart.
“Failure is not something that is done in my service, Jureus. Luckily for your pathetic, sniveling form, the gods have seen fit to throw rocks in our path. Abandon your place in Ishamael, and head south,” Maaz said.
“South, Master?” Jureus's shadow asked.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 41
