by B. J. Beach
He had just left a dockside tavern after taking a leisurely lunch. Strolling along the dock, he probed his teeth with a gold-tipped tooth-pick, just another merchant returning to his dockside warehouse. Drawing nearer the ship he saw the captain leaning on the rail, munching on an apple. Suddenly the captain spat, screwed up his face and threw the half-eaten fruit onto the dock, before turning swiftly and going below. This was the signal. The Naborian had booked passage, and Jack already knew that the ship was due to sail on a midnight tide. He ambled over and toed the apple’s battered and bruised remains into the water, before resuming his stroll towards the warehouse area of the dockyard. Taking a key from the pocket of his fashionably tailored merchants’ coat, he let himself in through a side door and swiftly crossed the half empty warehouse. In a tiny office he exchanged the costly coat for a sailor’s well-worn but still very serviceable pea-jacket. He let himself out through a back door which opened onto a narrow alley, frequently used as a convenient dumping ground for unwanted crates and chests, and set off to gather up a few of his best men.
Everyone was now in place. The carefully laid trap would soon be sprung. Jack watched and listened. Keeping the rest of his body perfectly still, he reached down to his waist. As if by magic, a long, narrow-bladed knife appeared in his hand. He hefted its perfect balance across his palm. The second footfall was barely audible. Imperceptibly, Jack shifted his balance and waited. Seconds later he spun round. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the lethal blade whistling through the darkness. A muffled oath reached his ears. Allowing himself a grim smile of satisfaction, Jack resumed his surveillance.
His smile widened into a malicious grin as a hoarse voice whispered just behind his right ear. “Gods! Jack! You nearly ‘ad me that time! I was dead certain you never ‘eard me!”
The spymaster’s only response was to hold out his hand. A slender hilt was placed carefully across his palm. Without speaking, Jack slipped the knife back into his waistband as a shadow flitted from behind him, crossed the alley, and attached itself to the wall. They waited. A temporary easing of the rain allowed the glow of the dockside lamps to give Jack a clear view across the dozen or so paces to the ship. Cal was now standing at the top of the gangplank, grasping the hand-ropes on either side as he watched a dark clad figure hurrying towards the ship.
When they were close enough, Cal called out a greeting. “Good evening sir. You must be our one and only passenger. Please come straight up.”
Wearing a black calf-length coat and carrying a seemingly heavy canvas holdall, the man quickly looked all about him before hurrying sure-footedly up on to the ship.
Cal stood to one side and gave the passenger a respectful nod. “If you’ll follow me sir, I’ll show you to your cabin.”
The sailor began to lead the way across the deck. Jack and his men closed in. Miraculously recovered from his drunken stupor, Trigg sprang to his feet. Propelled by a carefully gauged under-arm pitch, three lengths of rawhide, each with a ball of compressed leather attached, whistled through the air to entangle themselves around the passenger’s feet. With a loud and angry cry, he toppled face down on the deck. From behind deck-stowed crates two more men dashed out and pinned his arms to the floor. Swiftly, Cal thrust a black cloth bag over the man’s head and secured the neck.
Crouched beside the struggling victim, Trigg tied his ankles with a length of thin, strong cord. He then untangled and removed the weapon which had brought him down. His arms secured behind his back with another length of cord, the way-laid passenger was dragged roughly to his feet and steered towards the gangplank.
Cal turned to one of the men who had been hiding on deck. “Can’t you stop him hollering, Geddon? He might be yelling a spell for all we know!”
Geddon’s grin could have curdled milk. His eyes glinting in the lamplight, he reached into the back of his belt. The black-jack made a brief thudding contact with the side of the black bag and their captive slumped forward, limp and silent. Quickly he was man-handled down the gang-plank. On the dockside, Jack was now waiting with a tired looking horse and an even more tired looking cart. Jack sprang off the seat into the bed of the cart, and lifted the lid of a wooden chest with a number of holes drilled in the sides. The unconscious Naborian was unceremoniously packed inside, and the chest secured with two large padlocks. Jack then stowed the heavy canvas bag behind it. He returned to his seat and looked down at his men. “Well done. Your pay will be in the usual place at the usual time. There’ll be a bonus later if this is who I think it is.”
Trigg stepped forward and looked up into Jack’s face. “Gods! Jack! He must be. He’s the only bloody Naborian in the city!”
Reaching under the seat, Jack pulled out a brown slouch hat, which he put on and pulled low. “That remains to be seen. Stay watchful.”
He flicked the reins. The tired horse broke into an amble, the iron shod wheels of the cart making a loud metallic protest. Jack drove out of the dock and headed out across the sleeping city towards the palace.
CHAPTER THIRTYEIGHT
All around him was light. A soft cool, primrose-hued light, unflickering and shadowless, endless and impenetrable. Beneath his bare feet the pearlescent surface felt warm and comforting. As he looked at it he was reminded of a brooch his mother had frequently worn, and for a moment or two, Karryl felt a little homesick. Swiftly pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he turned slowly round on the spot, looking about him in an attempt to discover to what kind of a place he had been brought. No horizon met his eye, nor any distant recognisable shape or object on which he could focus. He gave a little involuntary shudder as he imagined taking a few paces and falling over the edge into some endless void. Quite incongruously, he laughed out loud as it occurred to him that he might even be standing upside down.
“On the contrary; you are most definitely the right way up.”
The voice was male, and quite obviously amused. “We find it quite gratifying that you are in such good… er… excuse the pun, spirits. The last one who visited us became such a nervous wreck that we had to erase his memory. We sent him straight back and did it the hard way.”
Karryl stood quite still, not even bothering to look round. The acceptance of voices inside his head was becoming second nature. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t see anybody.
His question was being answered almost before he had finished asking it. “Who was that, then?”
“I doubt if you’d know him. It was long before your time; Symon’s last apprentice. A pleasant, rather studious young man, name of Bardeen.”
Karryl gulped as a plain, white painted wooden chair appeared beside him. The notion that he would like to sit down had barely taken shape. He sat down. “You know Master Symon then?”
He felt the other’s amusement through his whole body. “I should do. He’s my grandson.”
In an attempt to keep himself on an even keel, Karryl unslung his boots from around his neck, removed the lace which tied them and began to pull them on. The lace vanished as he let it fall.
“You make quality laces. Maybe you’re in the wrong business.”
Karryl grinned, wriggling his feet to settle his boots. He didn’t like to stamp on the most beautiful floor he had ever seen. It changed to a solid, hardwearing blue slate, exactly matching that in the palace corridors.
Karryl stamped. “Does Symon know he’s your grandson?”
“Not very likely. After all, he’s never been here. Not yet, anyway.”
Karryl mulled that over in his mind, quite aware that he probably didn’t need to ask the question, but he asked it anyway. “So-o-o. If you are, or were, his grand-father, who was his father?”
“The magician who started this whole ball rolling in the first place! I’m surprised you hadn’t figured that out for yourself.”
Karryl’s eyebrows flew up and he stared into the air. “You mean the one who wrote the book I found in the ruined cottage?”
“Exactly! Full marks. His name was Keril. I almos
t ceased to exist when I discovered he had died the way he did.”
“So, where were you then?”
“Oh. I’d been dead a long time when Keril hid what you call the medallion, and practically razed Vellethen to the ground. Now, that’s enough questions. It will be getting dark soon, and you need to eat and get some sleep. You will need all your physical and mental strength over the next few days. We have to confer on the best way to teach you everything you will need to know. We’ll speak to you tomorrow.”
Karryl stood up, peeved that he hadn’t had chance to ask any more of the questions which were crowding his brain. He looked about him and spread his arms wide. “Where am I going to sleep?”
There was no reply. He sat down again. Resting his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, he closed his eyes to think. It was then that he realised he hadn’t thought to ask the other’s name.
* * *
The appetising aromas of roast meat and fresh-baked pastries tickled his nostrils. His eyes flew open. In front of him, on a plain and homely wooden table were set a variety of meats, dishes of vegetables, and a large platter of his favourite savoury pies. At the end of the table sat a large basket filled almost to overflowing with different kinds of fruit, along with a stone flagon and a tall beaker. Karryl’s jaw dropped in astonishment, not at the array of food, but at the place it was in. He snatched up a savoury pie, bit into it as he crossed the room, and peered out through the window. Although it was almost dusk, there was still enough light for him to see the gnarled trunk of the great oak tree, and the gravelled path which skirted the old parade ground fifty paces away.
Kneeling on the window seat, he watched as lights began to come on in the distant barracks further down the hill, before turning his gaze back into the room. Brushing crumbs off his jacket, he crossed to the fire crackling merrily in the grate and touched a taper to its dancing flames. Beset by pangs of nostalgia, he lit the two heavy brass oil lamps, blew out the taper and glanced round the room before returning to the table to fill a plate with some favourite foods. As he ate he thought and rationalised, looking about him from time to time for something which would indicate he was not really in Symon’s tower, but everything seemed perfectly solid and normal. His meal finished, he was about to pour himself a drink, when he heard someone banging on the outer door. Taking the dog-legged wooden staircase two steps at a time he arrived slightly breathless, in the near pitch-darkness of the entrance room.
Standing behind the door he called out. “Who’s there?”
Whoever was outside banged on the door again. “Open the door please sir, and identify yourself.”
Karryl grinned. He knew that voice. The bolts were a little stiff, but he wrestled them back and opened the door wide. “Captain Vintar! I’m sorry if I caused any alarm. I arrived rather late, so I didn’t really have time to let anyone know I was here.”
Vintar, and the two soldiers of the Palace guard with him, threw up a smart salute. “Master Karryl. It’s good to see you, although it is rather unexpected.”
Karryl didn’t hesitate. “Thank you. My final tests are due very shortly and I needed somewhere quiet to study and contemplate. This seemed the ideal place.”
Vintar nodded his understanding. “Very wise Master Karryl. Now that we’re sure that nothing is amiss, we’ll leave you in peace. Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight Captain, and thank you.”
As Karryl climbed the staircase he pressed his hand against the reassuringly solid stone of the tower walls. Deep down inside he still wasn’t truly convinced, although the visit of Captain Vintar and his men certainly helped.
Although it was barely an hour after nightfall, Karryl knew his next priority was to get some sleep. With a wistful glance at the abundance of food still remaining, he picked up his used plates and cutlery and took them into the tiny kitchen. After placing them beside the glazed earthenware sink, he reached up to a shelf and ran a tentative finger over the gleaming surfaces of the pans and jugs. Their solid refusal to be anything other than what they appeared to be was somehow comforting. Leaving the kitchen, he turned out the lamps and headed towards his bedroom with little more on his mind than a few hours sleep. He had the feeling that tomorrow was going to be a rather unusual day.
CHAPTER THIRTYNINE
He was glad to see that the food was still on the table. After his usual morning routine and a breakfast of cold meats and pastries, he decided to take a look around outside before the entities who had brought him here resumed their agenda. A quick glance out of the window showed him a morning which was clear and crisp, a fine silvering of frost catching the sun’s first rays. Thinking about Symon’s vegetable garden, he hurried across the room, flung open the door and bounded down the stairs. He pulled open the outer door. Pale sunlight flooded the stone floor beneath his feet, and he laughed out loud. Still chuckling to himself, he pulled the door to behind him and sauntered along the little path which ran round the base of the tower until he reached the great oak. Still thinking about Symon’s garden, he leaned against its massive trunk. Grinning widely, he looked skywards. “You’ve got the sun in the wrong place.”
The air quivered, briefly turned a delicate shade of blue then returned to normal. Arms folded, Karryl watched with interest as shadows sped the wrong way across the ground before settling at a point which told him the day had just passed its ninth hour.
He nodded. “Not bad. Not bad at all. What happened?”
“What happened is what happens when you rely on the help instead of doing the blasted job yourself. How did you manage to sneak that one on me?”
Karryl examined his fingernails. “I blind-sided you by continually thinking about something else.”
“Hmmph. We wondered why the sudden desire to see Symon’s garden. I must remember that one. So, now you’re fed and rested, perhaps we can move on. There’s a lot to do and not a lot of time in which to do it.”
The familiar surroundings shimmered into an insubstantial mist and he sat down with a thump.
“Sorry. I should have warned you the tree was going to disappear.”
Karryl winced as he rubbed his backside and peered up into the soft impenetrable primrose light which once again surrounded him. “Well, it might have spared me a bruise or two, but at least the floor’s warm.”
“We aim to please.”
Karryl gave a wry smile. Pushing himself to his feet, he realised that the light was beginning to acquire a translucence through which he could just make out an amorphous shape in the distance. His curiosity roused, he began to walk towards it. As he drew closer the shape began to resolve itself until there was no longer any doubt. It was quite clearly, an arch. Standing alone and unsupported, its perfectly formed parabola soared gracefully above Karryl’s head. Despite the structure’s scintillating and breath-taking beauty, his attention was drawn elsewhere.
Immediately beneath the arch a road began, its arrow straightness disappearing like a long ribbon of silver into the distant haze. Its wide, smooth surface reflected soft light from a sunless blue-white sky. He stood for a while, contemplating its significance. Almost unbidden the answer came to him, and his heart began to pound. Everything hinged on a decision he would now have to make. He could step through the arched portal onto the road and follow where it led, or refuse its invitation on the chance that other options would be available. He turned and looked behind him. The haze swirled and cleared, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be Symon’s tower and the great oak. His overnight stay in the place which had been his base for years of study and training had refreshed his memories.
Things which had secured themselves in deep recesses now surfaced, and he clung to their newly recognised value and significance. It occurred to him that the path along which he had been so carefully guided was not wholly one of his own choosing. Even though he was fully aware of the possible horrific consequences if he failed, he suddenly felt tired of being pushed and pulled, sent here and there, e
xpected to accept the burden of responsibility without complaint. A small fire was ignited and resentment began to simmer. Hands stuffed into his pockets he stood beneath the graceful curve of the arch, his eyes fixed on the comfortingly familiar image of Symon’s tower. He knew that all he had to do to unburden himself was walk towards it. After the briefest hesitation his mind was made up. Turning to the glistening splendour of the arch, he passed beneath it and stepped resolutely onto the silvered surface of the road.
“Thank goodness for that! It would have presented no end of difficulties if you’d decided to go back.”
Karryl gazed along the road’s featureless length. “Why give me the option in the first place?”
“Good question. You’re probably not aware of the mental athletics required for you to make your decision. It took a lot of courage, which is what we were looking for. Now the rest is up to you.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier if you’d just told me what to do?”
“That would have been defeating the object. It will be something to think about while you’re on the road.”
“Where does it go?”
There was no reply. With no small amount of trepidation, Karryl started walking. There was nothing to see but the seemingly endless road stretching out in front of him until it disappeared from view in the distant cotton-hazy whiteness. He recalled something Dhoum had said to him and smiled as he put his ‘best foot forward’. At the same time he wished the sagacious Grrybhñnös was here to keep him company.
* * *
He had been walking for hours, or at least it seemed like it. There was no sun to tell him what time of day it was. Despite the smooth level surface of the road, his feet were beginning to hurt. His stomach was demanding food, his throat was parched and his bladder was most definitely at full capacity.
