Key to Magic 03 King

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  Then a wider street running southeast opened up beneath him. If he had followed the directions correctly, he should come across the depot building at the next intersection or the one after that. He turned the rowboat to follow the street, staying over the buildings, and drifted carefully onward.

  As word of the raid had spread during the previous days, a constant stream of Mhajhkaeirii had come to him to mention the pressing needs of their own assignments -- shovels, axes, adzes, saws, hammers, tarps, rope, canvas, tar, caulk, large cooking pots, cloth, dishware, water barrels, buckets of all sizes, sulfur matches, arrows, quarrels, leather, leatherworking tools, knives, hatchets, cleavers, and on and on and on. Eventually, he had had to begin warning the supplicants that he could not possibly hope to bring back such a great mass in the limited space of the rowboat, but this caution had done little to dissuade them.

  He slowed as a great blocky shape drifted into focus directly ahead and leaned over the gunnel to examine the street. He saw no one along the brick walks, on the granite pavement, or in the shadowed doorways, and no light from the depot or any of the buildings adjacent to it. Slowing his respiration to dampen the sounds of his breath, he listened to the city. Only the hushed natural sounds of a sleeping metropolis registered: the moist plink of water dripping from a gutter, the stealthy patter of a cat's paws, the unnamed and almost non-existent sound of masses of stone, brick, and stucco giving off the heat of the day. Then he focused his magical sense all about, trying to read the flux. There was a spark of jumbled modulations to his near left, moving along the eave of a house toward a tiny energetic knot -- perhaps the night-hidden cat, stalking a rat. Below him and out as far as he could sense, he detected dozens of indistinct stationary ethereal shadows that seemed to follow familiar patterns and decided that these must be the sleeping occupants of the borough. All other modulations that he could detect in his immediate area appeared equally natural, and he felt confident that none of the Phaelle'n's magical weapons were nearby.

  After another quick glance around at the slumbering and quiescent city, he nudged the rowboat across the gaping space of the street, climbing slightly toward the gabled roof of the depot. Listening tensely, his grip on the gunnels tightened as he readied himself to zoom away at the first note of an outcry. When he was less than ten armlengths from the edifice, he made out a pair of small, square windows in a gable that faced out toward him and guided the rowboat in their direction.

  Once alongside, he pivoted the rowboat broadside and edged within reach. Hinged to the left and right, the two clouded, single-paned windows should swing inward and the opening would clearly be large enough to admit him. He pushed lightly against the seam where the windows met and, as expected, the unlatched frames separated and swung without resistance into the black interior.

  Steeling his nerves, he poked his head in and listened intently. Hearing nothing, he wiggled his shoulders through, felt around to find rough floorboards, took up his weight on his hands, and then pulled the rest of his body inside. Swinging his boots down, he sank to a constricted crouch the floor, the rafters of the roof hardly two span above his head. Literally blind in the lightless space, he worked his way forward by feel. Unseen dust stirred and clogged the air, irritating his nose and several times he had to pinch his nostrils together to stifle a sneeze. The attic was all but empty and he encountered only one empty, broken cask as he moved toward the center of the building, seeking a stairwell.

  His vice-captain informant had told him that the stores were located primarily in the warehouse that took up all of the ground floor. Other than knowing that there was one, the marine had not been able to tell him much about the attic. The second floor had originally been used as living space for stationed quartermasters, but long since had been given over to the storage of disused files and records. Unless there were Phaelle'n guards sleeping below -- a possibility the Mhajhkaeirii had considered unlikely -- the building should be unoccupied.

  When he found the stairwell, he paused and once again cast about with his senses, magical and otherwise. Aside from what could possibly be mice, there seemed nothing living within the depot. Carefully, he crept downward, testing each tread for creaks before he settled his full weight upon it. He paused frequently, but moved with confidence. This was his natural environment and he felt right at home.

  He made it to the ground floor without mishap. A brief, non-intrusive investigation of the dark space proved the warehouse well ordered and apparently undisturbed, with casks, crates, stacks, shelves, and bins arranged in regularly separated rows across the brick floor. Having been concerned that the monks might have already looted the cache, he allowed himself a quick smile. Returning empty-handed would have been a cruel disappointment.

  Cautious, he padded toward the exterior of the building and took a station beside one of the large shuttered windows that bookended a wide cargo door. He dare not make a light to find the items he had come for, but the racing Cousins would be in cycle for almost a quarter hour when they first rose, which should only be in moments. Together, the two dim moons should leak sufficient light into the depot to allow him to find what he needed. After a short wait, he held a hand up before his face, fingers spread. When he could discern its silhouette, he removed the bar from the door and leaned his weight against its considerable mass. The hefty iron hinges emitted a protesting groan as it swung outward, making him wince, but the street remained empty and no sign of disturbance appeared from the buildings across the way.

  At this distance, it was something of a strain to draw the rowboat down to street level, and it fluttered slightly as it began its descent, but as it moved closer his control became surer and he threaded it with precision through the doorway. Once its stern was clear, he hurriedly strained to pull the cargo door shut, relaxing only when he had settled the bar back into place. With a fleeting moment of chagrin, he realized that the massive door, red oak bound with steel, would have pivoted easily if he had applied his magic.

  He took a moment to unload the four buckets of sand spheres in order to make more room for his loot and to forestall any inadvertent detonation. He had brought them on the chance that the might need them, but did not intend to put them to use if he could avoid it.

  With only perhaps only hour left before the brightening day would force him to flee, he began to investigate the bins in the first aisle. He quickly found carpenters tools -- saws of many sorts, hammers, draw knifes, planes -- and infused their wooden handles with various shades and tones of sound-color and whisked them into the rowboat. Kegs of nails and spikes followed. He found folds of canvas on a sturdy shelf and started to sling some across his shoulder, but stopped when an easier method occurred to him. Stacking as much as would sit without toppling onto an unidentified nearby crate, he lofted the crate and sailed it and its burden to an open spot in the stern. A couple of steps farther, he located several coils of thick rope on a shelf to his right. Hanging them on the handles of conveniently placed sickles, he sent them right along.

  After a dozen paces, he sensed his control weakening and began to trail behind his swag like a man walking a dog on a leash. Not having time to open them to explore their contents, he began moving clumps of likely looking small boxes and crates and piling them in without order or plan.

  When he reached the end of the aisle, he crossed over to the next and found crosscut saws hung from the wooden beams above. He levitated all eleven, infusing the upper handles, and guided them back along his path toward the rowboat. When he reached it, he realized that it was quite nearly full already, and had to manually lodge the flexible saws in gaps between boxes and casks.

  It was now disagreeably obvious to him how pitifully inadequate the rowboat was; had he more transport, he could easily lift the entire contents of the depot. But he had felt that bringing one of the larger skyships would simply be too great of a risk. Hiding its bulk from the Phaelle'n had seemed an impossible task.

  Now, having met unchallenged success, it appeared that h
e had woefully overestimated the Phaelle'n. They, like many of the complacent Khalarii'n aristocrats whom he had burgled in his previous life, thought of possible threats in strict and mundane two-dimensional terms.

  He was here, unharmed and undetected, and surrounded by an invaluable wealth of supplies. There must be some way to take it all. As the warehouse began to grow lighter, heralding the danger of the impending day, he worried at the problem.

  Could he move the entire building?

  No, such an attempt would likely only end in disaster. Based on his experience with the solarium, he knew that his magic could not possibly hold the entire structure together for very long, if at all.

  Wagons would work, if he could find some unattended, but it would take dozens of wagons to move everything.

  It was a shame that he could not simply sail a galley up from the harbor. One of those would hold the whole lot.

  He stopped at that thought. It would be no more dangerous than any of his other options and very well could be much easier than trying to utilize several smaller craft.

  He grinned.

  Risk was part of his trade.

  Now, all that he need do was figure out how to steal a galley.

  EIGHT

  Three things were required to accomplish the theft of a large, plainly visible object in the full light of day: a thief whose sense of self-preservation was easily discarded, a mode of concealment -- he could not very well stuff a galley in his pocket, after all -- and an ostentatious and dramatic distraction.

  Thanks to the perversity of the Forty-Nine Gods, Mar was such a thief.

  Thanks to Telriy's charm, he had a way to hide the entire galley.

  He simply had to figure out the last part -- a means to convince everyone on the docks to focus their complete attention on something other than his target.

  Dawn had arrived and gone, with the crisp morning air starting to warm from the climbing sun, and he now crouched in the deep shadow of a denuded second storey window well. Located in one of the precariously standing brick walls of a burned harbor side building, the hiding place gave him a good view of the curving quay, the freight road that ran alongside it, the jutting wooden piers, and the uncounted ships crowded in the bay. Just along to his right, a clutch of five galleys had been nosed into the quay. A few dozen lethargic armsmen showing blazons with the colors of Droahmaer, who looked to have stood watch throughout the night, had been distributed in quads up and down the quay, generally beside docked vessels, but as yet very little other activity was in evidence. Only a few minutes ago, a solid thousand paces down to his left, a crew of men in recognizably Mhajhkaeirii'n dress had marched in from the city. Under the direction of a gray-cowled monk, a half file of swordsmen in rough, mismatched leathers had escorted the conscripted workers and had put them to work loading beer kegs into a bark moored to a long floating jetty. Neither the swordsmen nor the laborers displayed much enthusiasm for their respective tasks.

  Of the five galleys near Mar, the leftmost one rode higher in the water than its sisters, either already unloaded or waiting still for its cargo. This ship seemed perfect for his needs, but in order to raise it from the bay and fly it to the depot, he would have to be in it, or at least very near it. He had already attempted to fix his lifting spell on the ship's hull, but the distance -- close to fifty paces, was simply too great for his still maturing skill.

  He considered the three gray warships, two thousand armlengths out to the southeast. A swarm of smaller conventional vessels -- rowed galleys, sailed barks, and small island sloops -- now lay at anchor between them and the shore. Fortunately, another entire fleet had arrived since he had last viewed the harbor; this profusion of ships could only help to shroud his endeavor from the view of the magical ships.

  He shifted around on the ledge, careful to stay hidden, and dropped off, descending under the retarding influence of his spelled brigandine to land amongst the charred remains of the building's roof, interior, and collapsed walls. Paying particular attention to his footing on the jumbled boards and canted masonry, he worked his way to the end wall and peered through a large, scorched crack at the street beyond.

  That thoroughfare pierced the harbor wall by way of an oversized freight gate and intersected with Mucker after about five blocks. There was no way that the seven armlength abeam galley would fit through the five armlengths wide gate, even if he solved the obvious height problem of the two short masts, but the street beyond it widened and ran more or less straight. Once lofted over the gate, he thought that he could bring the ship back down to ground level and let the buildings conceal it from further view. If he managed to steal the ship from under the very noses of the Brotherhood, then it should be a simple matter to drive it all the way up to the depot.

  Having a thought, he reflected on his appearance. His boots, shirt, and trousers were nondescript enough, but his brigandine and chain shirt looked decidedly Mhajhkaeirii'n in style. Losing the chain shirt would be no problem, but if he shed the brigandine, his ability to take flight would be severely restricted, though not completely eliminated. Still, he must appear as harmless as possible. He quickly doffed both, left them wedged in the cranny under a pile of brick on the odd chance that he would have an opportunity to retrieve them, and then worked his way toward the rear of the ruin, where a partially blocked alley would give him secluded access to the street.

  He paused at the mouth of the alley and stole a quick view in both directions. The street back up from the harbor remained deserted and none of the Droahmaerii were in a position to see his exit. Letting his shoulders drop in a dejected slump and shortening his stride to a cowed shuffle, he left the alley and wandered toward the quay.

  A quad of armsmen camped at both ends of the line of galleys. When Mar stepped into sight from the street, he made for the closest, taking care to drift near to the curb at the edge of the quay. These legionnaires were all tall, big men -- Mar did not know if the Droahmaerii ran to height or recruited for it. Each wore black trousers, boots, gray cloaks, dulled chain mail, and polished steel helmets in the utilitarian modern style. In addition to shortswords, two had boarding pikes and two crossbows. None looked particularly energetic, with the leaden movements of men who had not slept, but all tensed as Mar approached and took a surer grip on their weapons. One, a gruff-looking and thoroughly gloomy fellow, advanced, swinging his pike as a barricade, when Mar was but five steps away.

  "Halt and state your purpose!" he groused. Wearing the stylized badge that identified him as a ceannaire, an underofficer in charge of a quad, the man had a rather different manner of speech than the Mhajhkaeirii or any others that Mar had heard here on the coast, a drawn-out accent that made all his vowels sound stretched and his consonants clipped.

  The thief stopped immediately and by his stance projected a slight hesitation. He twisted his voice slightly to make sure he sounded like a Mhajhkaeirii. "The monk told me to come and wait here. Should I, well, go back home?"

  "What monk?"

  "I don't know. He didn't say his name and they all look alike to me. Maybe I should just go back to my house." Mar made to turn about.

  The Droahmaerii cursed. "Hold on. You were ordered to come here by one of the Phaelle'n?"

  "That's right. Him and some others ordered me out of my house but half an hour ago. I'm supposed to help unload."

  "Unload what?"

  Mar shrugged. "I don't know."

  The legionnaire gave Mar an exasperated look and then swung his head around to his companions, "Should we run him off?"

  One to Mar's left shook his head slowly. "Might not be a good idea, Khei. You know how they are."

  "Just have him stand by," another proposed. "I heard yesterday that they were going to use the 'new Mhajhkaeirii'n supporters of the Work' as stevedores."

  "Contradicting one of the monks will get us the lash," a third warned.

  "Phaeng's right, Khei," the last legionnaire argued. "Just make him wait till an officer or one of them comes a
long. He's probably just too stupid to run off like the rest of his press-gang and we don't want to be on the bad side of some incompetent novitiate. The dunce should have brought armsmen with him when he went about arresting men from the city, like that one down there."

  The ceannaire, Khei, nodded and looked back at Mar. "Right. You just take a seat and when somebody in authority comes along, you can tell your tale to them."

  "I don't know where the rest of them went," Mar protested defensively. "I did like the monk said."

  "Not my problem. You just sit there and wait until someone comes along to tell you what else to do."

  Mar let the edges of his mouth droop in a frown and sank in obvious dejection to a cross-legged squat next to a cable wrapped bollard. The edge of the quay and the bow of the empty galley were only three armlengths behind his back. The Droahmaerii had him in their view, but did not watch him closely and began casually discussing the chance that they would see a hot meal instead of cold field rations for breakfast.

  Keeping his face impassive to hide his efforts, Mar spelled the hull, then caused the galley to rise fractionally to make certain of his control. With the galley now ready to go and still lacking a clear plan, he ran scenarios through his head, hoping for some epiphany. Before he had settled on a course of action, the nearby Droahmaerii straightened, putting their equipment to order while glancing surreptitiously to the west. Far down the way, a file of legionnaires in black and silver approached, an officer of some sort at the head setting the pace. When the file reached the first visible guard position, it stopped and four legionnaires at the front pealed off to take the place of the posted guards, who jogged back to fall in at the end.