by John Marco
Soon they would be in Lucel-Lor. Simon relished the thought of solid ground beneath him, but the idea of his mission frightened him. It was impossible, after all, and he really didn’t expect to succeed. Vantran would be suspicious of everything. He had outlived the emperor, he had slain the Baron Blackwood Gayle, and, most incredibly, he had outwitted Biagio. It seemed impossible to Simon that such a quick-witted man would let a stranger steal his daughter. But there was one thing Simon was sure Richius Vantran suffered from. He was Naren. And that meant he was alone in Lucel-Lor. With no one of his kind to talk to, he would certainly be desperate for a fellow countryman. It was a gamble, Simon knew, but it was a good one. He would play on Vantran’s sympathies, work his way into his graces. Vantran would get used to having a friend. Then, like a cobra, Simon would strike.
I am without morals, thought Simon. God help me.
It was why he was good at being Roshann, why Biagio had come to lean on him. Simon’s last name was no accident of fate. He had chosen the designation Darquis carefully. In the tongue of Vosk, where his mother had been born, the word meant ‘dark-heart’. To Simon, it seemed the perfect tag for a man without conscience.
No, Simon corrected himself. Not without conscience. Not completely. He felt remorse for this mission, just enough to make him human, and that pleased him. If he were a religious man he would have prayed for forgiveness, but the new God of Nar was deaf to Crotans. So he remained silent and merely watched the warship’s wake, marveling at its size. The wind whipped his bearded face and sucked the moisture from his lips. Over his shoulder the sun was descending, heralding night’s return, and the men on board called to each other and busied themselves with work. Simon thought of Eris, of her sharp face and perfect breasts. She had the legs of a goddess, long and slender, and Simon felt desire rise up in him until he was awash in his own loneliness. Soon he would take the Jackal’s daughter and he would be free of this longing forever. He and Eris would wed. Simon closed his eyes and smiled, then heard the footfalls on the deck behind him.
‘See any serpents?’ asked N’Dek. The captain shouldered up to Simon and stuck an elbow in his ribs. ‘Good place to vomit, eh, Darquis?’ jibed the captain. ‘Perhaps we should move your bunk up here.’
Simon laughed. Despite the man’s sardonic personality, Simon liked him. He was witty and strange, and had a reputation among his crew as a hard but fair captain.
‘Don’t stand too close to me, N’Dek. I might empty myself on your pretty uniform.’
‘If you emptied anything it would be water only,’ said the captain. ‘You should eat more. A strong wind and you’ll go overboard.’
‘I can’t eat,’ said Simon. ‘Not the swill your galley serves. I’ve tried, and all it does is come back up.’
‘It’s not the food,’ said N’Dek, pointing a sharp finger into Simon’s shoulder. ‘It’s you. You’re a weakling, Darquis. Like all land fighters.’ The captain cackled, baiting his hook, but Simon didn’t rise to it.
‘You’re right,’ said Simon calmly. ‘That’s why the legions are still in Nar, and the Black Fleet is sailing around safe little Crote. A pity Vorto’s men can’t all be as strong as you, N’Dek.’
N’Dek’s expression soured. ‘I should pitch you over the rail for that, Darquis. But then, Biagio might be angry if I killed his favorite spy.’
There was a curious stress on the word favorite that made Simon squirm a little. ‘What’s it like to be the count’s messenger boy, N’Dek? Good job?’
‘I am not a messenger boy,’ hissed N’Dek.
‘Biagio should get himself some pigeons to deliver his messages. They’d certainly be faster than this wreck.’
‘Darquis, you astonish me. I’m the captain of this vessel. I could leave you stranded with your new Triin friends. How would you like that, eh? Marooned with the gogs? I’ll just tell the count you were lost, or that you never came back. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it? If you were lost?’
‘Not so big a pity, N’Dek. At least I wouldn’t have to endure this trip again.’
N’Dek laughed. ‘Not much longer, spy. I’ve taken new bearings. According to my rutters, we should be reaching the citadel in the next two days.’
‘Two days? Are you sure?’
‘If the winds hold, yes. We’ll stop before Falindar, of course. Don’t want to be seen.’
‘The watchtower,’ Simon reminded him. ‘Leave me at the tower.’
N’Dek nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, yes . . .’
‘You can’t overshoot, N’Dek,’ said Simon. ‘The citadel is too damn high. If we get too close we might be seen.’
‘You presume a great deal,’ smoldered the captain. ‘I don’t need your help to chart a course. Stick to your poisons and daggers, Roshann.’
Simon accepted the warning. N’Dek was a playful man, but could only be pushed so far. Like all of Nicabar’s captains, this one had a sore spot for Roshann agents, an umbrage he hid very poorly. N’Dek didn’t like hiding in Crote. He wanted to be back in Nar, aiming his guns at Vorto’s legions and the Lissens swarming the Empire’s coasts. He endured the disgrace of cargo voyages because Admiral Nicabar ordered him to, but he bore a heavy resentment toward the Count of Crote and all his Roshann agents.
‘You’ve been out here all day,’ said N’Dek at last. ‘Go below and get some rest. You’ll need it for what’s ahead.’
It wasn’t worth arguing, so Simon didn’t. He was exhausted, weak from lack of food and the constant rising of his stomach. The air was better topside, but he heard his bunk calling. He nodded and turned from the captain, making his way toward the gang ladder. He had almost reached it when he heard N’Dek’s snipe.
‘Oh, Darquis, I almost forget. We’ve having octopus tonight. Care to dine at my table?’
‘Burn in Hell, N’Dek.’
Simon spent the next day in his cabin, resting, wondering how near they were to Falindar. At around sundown, a little nervous flutter started growing in his stomach. He was always nervous before a mission, and he always appreciated the anxiousness. It kept him sharp. But this was different. As he lay in bed and watched the sunlight fade, he thought of Eris and their future, and he hoped it would be a life without regrets. His parents had loved each other, and when his father had died his mother had wept in agony, and told him how she hadn’t regretted one moment of their lives together. Now, as he lay in bed, ill with sea-sickness, his mother’s face kept coming to him, and he thought of Eris on the island with the mad Biagio, and of Savros who loved pain, and the little midget with the clever mind.
And Simon was afraid.
That night he hardly slept at all. When morning finally came he greeted it like an old friend. If the winds were fair, they would reach their destination that day. He dressed quickly and found his appetite returning. Up on deck N’Dek and his officers were pacing amidships. The sails were half-masted. The Intimidator moved slowly through the waters, like some great shark stalking prey. Simon hurried over to the captain, who flashed him an apprehensive smile.
‘Good morning, Darquis. Look over my shoulder.’
Simon paused, doing as N’Dek asked. It was a foggy morning and visibility was poor, but Simon saw the shape of land in the distance, unmistakable even in the mist. He took a deep breath and looked at N’Dek.
‘That it?’
‘Yes,’ nodded the captain. ‘According to my rutters. Any of this look familiar to you?’
Simon shook his head. He couldn’t see the watchtower, and he wondered at the accuracy of N’Dek’s charts. Though he had been here before, he was no expert on Triin terrain.
‘I can’t see anything from here,’ he said. ‘Can you get me closer?’
‘We’re piloting in. Get your gear together, Darquis. If this fog holds you can row ashore without being seen.’
‘Agreed,’ said Simon, returning to his cabin. Again that feeling of fear pecked at him, and he shook his head to be rid of it. He didn’t really have gear, just his ragged d
isguise, and as he slid into it he made sure not to put any more tears in the threadbare fabric. He found his shabby boots beneath his bunk and slid these on too, and then completed his ensemble with the only weapon he would allow himself – a legionnaire’s dagger. This he tucked into his belt. There was a mirror in the cabin and he inspected himself in it. His appearance made him smile. Weeks of sea-sickness had made him suitably gaunt, and his skin was chapped and weathered. His hair was filthy too, matted to his head by the accumulation of ocean salt.
‘You can do this,’ he whispered to his reflection. ‘You must. For Eris.’
For Eris. He drew a breath, held it, then left the cabin. The Intimidator was closer to shore now. Simon could barely see the scratchy outline of the Triin coast. This region of Lucel-Lor was called Tatterak. It was where Falindar stood. There had been a warlord here once, a Triin named Kronin, but he had been killed in the Naren invasion. According to the Triin Hakan, a man named Lucyler was Falindar’s new master. Simon recited these facts like a mantra, searching for anything useful. If he truly had spent a year wandering Lucel-Lor, he would have known these things and more. One mistake, and Vantran would know the truth.
The cruiser sailed ever closer to land. When it was near enough to row ashore, N’Dek ordered the anchors lowered. The great weights dropped into the ocean with a splash, dragging down rattling chains. Simon waited at the railing for N’Dek’s orders. The captain’s face was unusually serious as he stepped up to Simon.
‘You ready?’
Simon nodded. He still couldn’t see the tower through the fog, but the light was increasing, threatening the haze. He would have to disembark quickly.
‘I’ll have two men row you ashore. Find the tower as soon as you can. You’ll be given a signal lantern and some flint. Hide them well. You’ll need them to signal us. We’ll be waiting out here for you in forty days.’
‘Forty days,’ Simon echoed. ‘All right.’
N’Dek looked at him hard. ‘Forty days precisely, Darquis. Don’t make any mistakes. I’m already uncomfortable in Triin waters alone. If there are still Lissens around—’
‘There are no Lissens.’
‘If there are Lissens,’ continued N’Dek ruthlessly, ‘they will chase us out of here and you’ll be on your own. If you miss the date, we sail home to Crote without you. Do you understand that?’
‘I understand,’ said Simon. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t blame me for this rotten task,’ said the captain. ‘I don’t envy you, it’s true. But I’ve got my own crew to worry about.’
‘And your own skin. Yes, I know. Don’t apologize, N’Dek. I meant what I said. Thanks for taking me this far.’ Then he jabbed a finger into the man’s chest and added, ‘Just be here when I get back.’
Surprisingly, N’Dek returned the grin. ‘I’ll be here in forty days. You have my word.’ The captain put his hand out for Simon. ‘Luck to you, spy.’
Simon took the hand and shook it. ‘And to you,’ he said, then left to find the waiting rowboat. The little craft was dangling from the side of the Intimidator, ready to be lowered into the water. In it were two sailors, one of whom held a sack of provisions. Simon stepped gingerly into the rowboat, almost slipping as it swayed beneath him. When he was safely aboard, one of the sailors ordered the boat lowered, and it slowly began its descent. Simon watched N’Dek as the row-boat hit the water. The sailors took up the oars and began rowing toward the foggy shore, leaving behind the looming warship. In a short moment the Intimidator was shimmering in fog. Simon looked toward shore. There he saw the harsh terrain of Lucel-Lor coming into focus.
‘God,’ he muttered. ‘I had hoped never to see this place again.’
The sailors rowed without comment. Simon’s eyes darted suspiciously around the rocky inlet, but all he saw were birds and a swarm of mosquitoes. Then out of the mist the watch-tower grew. It was just as he’d left it, ancient and leaning, a dilapidated spire from the old days of the warlords, rising out of the craggy earth. Simon pointed at it.
‘There,’ he whispered, directing the sailors. The little vessel turned and headed for the tower, and in a moment slid onto the gravelly shore. The two sailors pulled in the oars and waited for Simon to depart. Simon took up his sack of provisions, spared a last glance at the ocean where the unseen Intimidator was anchored, then stepped from the rowboat. At once the cold ocean soaked into his worn-out boots.
‘Tell your captain not to miss his rendezvous,’ he said. Til be back here in forty days.’
One of the sailors nodded. ‘Just use the signal lantern. We’ll come for you.’
You’d better, thought Simon bitterly. He pushed the little rowboat back out to sea and watched the sailors fade into the mist, then turned and waded toward the shore. Lucel-Lor, tall and forbidding, rose up before him, shriveling his bravado. This was an ancient world, strange beyond imagining, and the people here were unlike any race in the Empire. Some said they were sorcerers, but Simon wasn’t superstitious. He knew only that they were a mystery, a race that Arkus of Nar had tried to understand and failed. Simon moved quickly toward the brush, hiding himself in a grove of trees, then made his way to the abandoned tower. He had found it on his first mission to Lucel-Lor and it had made the perfect hideout. Too far from any villages, the tower never got visitors, not even curious children. It had a haunted quality to it, the kind of place seen in nightmares. It had no door but its stairs were sound, and Simon could climb to its top and see for miles.
About the tower was a clearing. Simon reached it quickly, then surveyed the tower from his hiding place in the trees. He saw no one; heard nothing. He sniffed the air for campfires and smelled only the ocean. Satisfied, he moved stealthily out of the trees and crossed the twenty yards to the tower, dashing across its threshold. Once inside, Simon stopped. Blackness enveloped him. He could hear the wind outside and the throbbing of his heart. The sack in his hand quavered. Something was wrong. Simon cursed himself.
Easy, you damn fool. There’s nothing here.
His eyes adjusted to the light. Whoever had abandoned the place had left only stale air behind. There had been war in this region when the tower was built. There were towers like this one all throughout Lucel-Lor – great perches where watchmen could spy on the movements of their enemies. Lucel-Lor had endured a long and violent history, not unlike the history of Nar. They were a cruel people too, sometimes. Simon gave a nervous laugh. The similarities were striking.
He laid the sack down on the brick floor and began rummaging through it. The lantern and flint were there, as promised, along with a water skin and some dried meat and bread. Hardly enough to subsist on, but then Simon wasn’t supposed to look like he’d been eating from ample supplies. He removed the lantern from the sack, struck the flint repeatedly to make it spark, then set the precious oil in the lantern aflame. The wick caught quickly and the fire died down, leaving a warm glow. Simon took up the sack, held the lantern out before him, and began making his way up the narrow stairway. Once he had left behind the entry chamber, all was dark but for the steady glow of his lamp. Along the walls were iron sconces and torch holders, now rusted away, and the mortar between the bricks had dissolved to dust. As he walked, Simon dragged his hand along the wall, feeling the imperfect stone.
When at last he reached the top of the spire, he was in a round chamber full of shattered windows. A fierce wind blew in from the ocean, chilling him. He dropped his sack on the ground and shielded the gentle flame inside the lantern with his hand. Lucel-Lor, vast and impenetrable, was at his feet. He went over to one of the windows and looked outside. Morning sunlight poured over the earth and the sea to the north. To the south was rocky earth, patched with autumn forests and the ever-rising slopes of small mountains. Simon felt a rush of insignificance. Here at the top of the world, he realized again how small he was, and how fleeting time could be. Someday the ocean would reclaim the land it had forfeited to men, and this proud tower would tumble, forgotten.
Still s
haky from his ordeal on the Intimidator, Simon decided to rest. Vantran would wait, and he needed to stop his head from swimming. He opened the glass of the lantern and blew out the small flame, not needing it up here in the sunlight. Simon leaned out of the broken window and let the warming rays strike his face. Beneath him, the world was solid again.
He went from the window and put his lantern back in the burlap sack. Pulling out the crusty bread, he ate some sparingly, so as not to get sick. Then he settled back against one of the filthy walls and went over his impossible plan. The citadel of Falindar was miles away, a full day’s hike. That would give him time to get more grimy, to pick up some of the land’s odors. This afternoon, when the sun was high and warmer, he would leave the tower. He would make his way to Falindar and Richius Vantran, and he would begin his elaborate charade.
He would take the Jackal’s daughter, he resolved. He would. And if Herrith was right and there truly was a Hell, he would burn for it.
That afternoon, Simon left the tower and began his trek toward Falindar. The sun that had looked so promising earlier had failed to materialize into anything more than a hazy orange ball, and within a few hours Simon was shivering. His feet ached too – the result of shoddy boots – and he knew that blisters were boiling up on his skin. But these were small annoyances. He was free of the confines of the ship, out in the air again, and he was grateful for the feeble sun and the fresh breeze. Tatterak was different from the other Triin territories. It was colder here, starker, and the trees were enormous. Simon moved slowly but with purpose, aware of every sound. He was in a valley between two hillsides, a green place thick with yellow flowers and blown leaves. The tall grass felt good against his thighs, and as he walked he brushed the tops of it with his palms. A schoolboy smile played across his lips. This was a pristine land, not at all like Nar City with its smokestacks and choked avenues. It was as if the Triin had forgotten this place, or had left it fallow.
