Beyond the Pool of Stars

by Howard Andrew Jones

  From morning to afternoon to evening, Ivrian watched them rise near the ship’s ladder, report in, and descend again. It was only when he finally got Tokello, the thickset native healer woman, talking about the Raas family and old Leovan’s dives that things got interesting enough to break open his pouch and take notes.

  That elder could certainly spin a tale. Take, for example, the time Leovan had discovered a ruined city ten leagues west of the Bay of Senghor, complete with chests brimming with gold, a beautiful mermaid, and a tribe of savage fish people who chased him through an underwater maze. Or the time Leovan had gambled his life for the lives of his crew against a hideous storm witch who was furious he’d drawn water from the springs on her tiny island. Even if it wasn’t true, Leovan Raas was clearly the sort of man Ivrian could base stories around, a landholder who’d spurned the privilege that was his birthright for the love of adventure, surrounded by faithful friends and aided by ancient artifacts.

  “How did he die?” Ivrian asked.

  Tokello’s smile faded. “You’ll have to ask his son.”

  And just like that, the stories dried up. The big healer went aft to her tiny cabin, allegedly to pray.

  Rendak and Gombe resurfaced a little later and climbed aboard, ordered the ship in motion, then dropped anchor a half hour west for a final dive. They’d only been down for a few minutes when the mist started to roll in. Fog was apparently an occasional navigational hazard in these waters, and the crew seemed untroubled by it.

  Tokello emerged from her cabin to pace the deck, peering into the gloom, but avoided Ivrian’s hopeful glances. The little boat didn’t have a mast heavy enough to support a crow’s nest, so sailors were posted both forward and aft as lookouts.

  Ivrian returned to find his mother standing near the ladder, looking over the side. Though ever proper, Alderra Galanor was hardly dressed like the typical Sargavan noblewoman. Instead of a fine dress, her thin frame was clad only in loose breeches and a tailored short-sleeved shirt, only barely rendered fashionable by the blue cravat that matched her eyes. Her light Chelish skin was browned from a sun her peers strove studiously to avoid with parasols and wide-brimmed hats.

  As she turned her head to acknowledge Ivrian, he wondered again whether the theatrical touches of black among her silver locks were entirely natural. He hoped they were. She was a handsome woman still; he’d been told he resembled her, and hoped that he would age as well.

  “So,” he whispered. “Why are we here, really?”

  His mother’s eyes flashed. “For two weeks, Kellic Raas has had this ship searching for his pet wreck, and they’ve turned up nothing. I thought it high time to look in on my investment.”

  “And they’re coming up empty.”

  “Yes.”

  “The baron’s hoping to salvage some money out of a wreck to pay our yearly tithe to the pirates, is that it?”

  “I’ve been authorized,” his mother said quietly, “to venture some funds to seek additional, greater revenue sources.”

  “So money’s tight, then?”

  “Yes. Money is ‘tight.’” Alderra’s clipped words betrayed her irritation. Ivrian knew the tone well and steeled himself for another lecture about the way the world “really” worked. “You do realize what happens if money remains tight, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I don’t think you do. The only thing standing between Sargava and the retribution of our former masters in Cheliax is the Free Captains of the Shackles. And their fee to protect our waters gets a little steeper every year.” She sighed and, fortunately, turned back to nearer matters rather than gathering steam to attack “impractical notions” about frivolous creative pursuits when real money and power was at stake. “Leo thought that the Queen was farther out, and spent several years searching for her.” His mother glanced back at him. “Leovan Raas.”

  “I know.”

  “Kellic thinks she might have sunk a little farther in. And I think it’s becoming clear that he’s dead wrong.”

  “I’m beginning to guess why the salvagers themselves looked so unenthusiastic,” Ivrian said.

  “They were Leo’s crew. Now that he’s dead, Kellic’s giving the orders, but I don’t think he’s got the talent.” She sighed. “A pity his sister didn’t stay on.”

  “His sister?”

  “His full sister, Mirian, not the half-sister that married Lord Goleman. Mirian seems the only one of the bunch that inherited any of Leo’s talent. But she wandered off years ago.”

  “Mirian,” Ivrian repeated. Why was that name familiar? “Why’d she go?”

  His mother eyed him sharply. “I gather she wasn’t interested in taking over the family business.”

  Ivrian could relate to that.

  Clearly his mother knew it, because she started in. “I’d hoped you’d see some leadership in action today. If we ever come out with them again, I think I’ll bring some salvaging gear of our own so we can see to the work below as well.”

  Ivrian barely heard her, because he had been seized by a new idea. “What’s Mirian like?”

  “She was always sharp-eyed—like her father. Quick-witted. And I hear she was a natural in the water.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “I haven’t seen her for years. She was a gangly thing. Darker than Kellic. Pretty. She took after her mother.”

  Ivrian was far more interested in handsome men than pretty women, but he knew a good thing when he heard it. This daughter of a famous salvager could be the star of his stories—a proud Sargavan woman fighting to keep her country free from the devil-sworn puppets of the Chelish Empire. He could envision a dark adventuress on the cover of the first leaflet now. And she’d be drawn with generous cleavage, of course. Even if some colonials would turn up their noses at the idea of a half-native heroine, that should still attract some interest.

  “Sail to stern!” the lookout cried. And then: “She’s bearing down fast. Gozreh preserve us, she’s raised the black flag!”

  The crew scurried like ants, but with neither captain nor mate aboard, no one seemed to know what to do.

  Alderra turned from the rail, voice crisp and commanding. “Sailors! Panic gets you nowhere! You two—bring out the weapons!”

  Though the commands came from an unexpected quarter, they were quickly obeyed. The crew seemed grateful to have someone providing direction. A pair of sailors ran down the gangway. The remaining dozen watched the oncoming ship.

  “Pirates?” Ivrian asked his mother. “What are they doing in these waters? They’re not supposed to attack us!” By terms of Sargava’s agreement with the Free Captains, any ship flying the Sargavan flag was to remain unmolested. He checked—sure enough, the white flag of Sargava with its single black square and vertical red line flapped beneath the little blue family pennant. No one could have missed it.

  “You may have to explain that to them,” Alderra said.

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Can’t we sail away?”

  “There’s no time. They’ll be on us before we could raise canvas.”

  The two sailors sent belowdecks clambered back with a heavy chest. They set it down just beyond the gangway and threw it open. Inside was the gleam of metal, and the sailors filed forward to lift cutlasses even as the prow of the pirate ship neared the Daughter’s stern. The mist parted long enough for Ivrian to see dozens upon dozens of snarling faces lined along the railing, ten or twelve feet higher than their own.

  Tokello had appeared out of nowhere and approached Alderra directly. “Lady Galanor, our crew can’t take them on. You’ll get all of us killed.”

  One large, black-haired pirate called loudly to lay down their arms if they wanted to live.

  Tokello exchanged a grim look with Alderra, who had a hand on the hilt of her cutlass. For the first time, Ivrian noted that the sword was the one part of his mother’s outfit that didn’t look gleaming new.

  She eyed the pirate, then the healer, and her frown deepened. �
��Down weapons,” she called to the sailors, then cursed under her breath.

  “There’s little of value here,” Ivrian whispered, gulping. “Won’t they just see that and depart?”

  “We can hope,” his mother said grimly.

  The pirate ship was a huge two-master. As it ground to a halt against their side, its deck looming above their own, Ivrian saw men with arrows nocked and a contingent with raised spears. The rest all but bristled with cutlasses.

  His mother cupped her hands around her mouth. “We’re no fight for you, but have little worth your trouble!”

  “That’s for us to decide!” a gruff voice called back.

  Grappling hooks dropped to catch in the rail. Pirates swung down on ratlines. Before long, tens of them swarmed the ship, carting away food, drink, ship’s supplies, and the rather sad-looking coin purses carried by the Daughter’s common sailors, who they’d herded together at the prow.

  The chief collector was a big bronzed Keleshite with vivid blue eyes. He would have been handsome if he hadn’t had such a scowl, as though he found this whole pirate business an annoyance. He didn’t smile until he caught sight of Ivrian and his mother. For a moment, Ivrian thought he could flirt a little to improve their odds of survival.

  “Where’s your money?” The Keleshite stopped in front of them, sword leveled. “I know you’re hiding jewels someplace.”

  The pirate had recognized them as aristocrats. His smile, Ivrian realized, was one of satisfaction, not appreciation.

  While Ivrian and his mother turned out their pockets, a short, pale man with an absurdly well-groomed mustache climbed down from the high deck of the pirate ship. His eyes settled on the sealskin pouch that Ivrian clutched.

  “Take that, Mylit,” he ordered the Keleshite.

  The big man smiled mirthlessly at Ivrian and waggled his fingers.

  “These are my writings,” Ivrian said. “Of no value to anyone but me.”

  Mylit grabbed the bag with one hand and smashed Ivrian across the cheek with the other. The lightning attack dropped Ivrian to the planks. He blinked in pain, staring stunned at his mother’s polished boots, then looked up as the little man stepped closer. Ivrian supposed he was the captain.

  “Open it,” the captain commanded. Was he Chelish? That was no colonial accent.

  Ivrian blinked as he propped himself up on an elbow. His cheek stung, and he was flooded with shame, unsure if he should rise. A trio of pirates by the wheel chuckled at him. Ivrian climbed carefully to one knee, watching Mylit lift a page from the pouch. He considered it carefully, as though reading were a labor. “It’s just a bunch of letters.”

  The captain snatched the paper, eyes roving quickly before he relaxed. Ivrian glanced longingly at the now-guarded chest of swords.

  “I’m making notes for a story,” he explained.

  The little captain sniffed, crumpled the paper into a ball, and pitched it over the side.

  Ivrian felt his eyes widen in astonishment, although words failed him.

  “And where are the salvagers?” the man asked Ivrian’s mother.

  Alderra answered the question calmly. “My apologies, Captain, but they’re diving right now.”

  The captain pointed a beringed finger. “You’re Lady Galanor, aren’t you? One of the baron’s lapdogs.”

  “That is my name,” Alderra said with great dignity. “You, sir, however, have me at a loss.”

  The captain sneered. “No, I have you at my mercy.”

  Mylit’s laugh was interrupted by a shout from the pirate ship.

  “Cap’n! We’re taking on water!”

  The Keleshite and the little man both whipped around. “What? How?” Mylit demanded.

  The deck lurched, and Ivrian fought for footing. The pirate ship had listed, and as it creaked to starboard the grappling ropes tightened and tilted the Daughter to port.

  The Keleshite shouted for his crew to get back across and get to the pumps. Most of the boarding party scrambled over. Now it seemed to Ivrian as though Mylit commanded the crew. Who, then, was the fellow with the mustache?

  The mustached little man pointed accusingly at Alderra. “This is the work of your salvagers, isn’t it? They’re attacking the ship?”

  “I don’t know how they could,” Alderra said reasonably. “They’re only armed with spears.”

  “You’re lying. Mylit, just kill her,” he fumed.

  The Keleshite pulled a cutlass from his belt. As he lifted it, an emerald beam of energy shot out from behind Ivrian engulfed the pirate’s arm. The huge man screamed, and his sword clattered to the deck as cloth and flesh dissolved in bubbling smoke.

  Ivrian hesitated no longer. He snatched the cutlass as it came to rest, still ringing from its fall. He lunged at Mylit even as a second blast caught the mustachioed man in the shoulder. Ivrian stabbed the pirate straight through the chest, turning his scream to a ragged gurgle. The man dropped and breathed his last.

  Ivrian hadn’t ever attacked someone outside of a practice bout before, and if he’d had time to reflect, he might have been appalled. Caught up in the moment, however, he advanced with a flourish and a shout, as though he were on the stage. The nearest pirates backed off. His rush was enough of a distraction for his mother to draw her own blade, and for three of the Daughter’s sailors to rush the weapons chest.

  But the pirates were not easily cowed. Ivrian caught a swing on the late Mylit’s notched blade, a little higher than he’d hoped. While he tried to untangle from his foe, he had to lean left to miss a beheading from a different snarling pirate.

  Suddenly his mother was beside him, wielding her cutlass with astonishing vigor. The onslaught enabled Ivrian to break free and plunge his sword through an enemy’s throat.

  “Less flash, son,” his mother said, as if coaching the proper use of a salad fork at a state dinner.

  The fight was furious. He was vaguely aware there remained at least one pirate for every member of the Daughter’s crew, but he had to focus on the hairy face above the gnarled, sword-wielding hands that thrust and sliced right at him. He chopped one deadly edge away, leapt a stab from an evil-looking Halfling he hadn’t noticed earlier, then cut through the little man’s head.

  He dispatched the other pirate, who had turned to grab a nearby line back to his own ship, then took stock of the area around him. He saw three foes rushing Tokello, apparently eager for easy prey, and he stepped in her direction, but she raised her arms and called out for Gozreh to protect her. After that, none of the men could close on her, and Ivrian guessed she’d worked some spell.

  She might have been safe, but that meant all three turned their attention to Ivrian. They grinned as they spread out to flank him.

  A dripping-wet woman suddenly leapt to his side, her cutlass sweeping to clear space and stopping the pirates in their tracks. Even as Ivrian was wondering who in Shelyn’s name she was, Tokello shouted, “Mirian!” with the sort of conviction usually reserved for declaring thanks to deities.

  This was Mirian Raas? Ivrian stared. Where had she come from?

  While her brother was light enough to look almost full-blood colonial, Mirian clearly took after her native mother, as Alderra had said, with rich dark skin and a dripping mass of black hair.

  She also looked dangerous and capable, rippling with sleek muscles under her clinging, sodden clothes. She leaned away from a one-eyed pirate’s clumsy overhand slash and cut deep into his arm. While the fellow screamed, she kicked him off balance into a second foe, then followed with a thrust that skewered both. The third pirate turned to run. She leapt after and hacked him down, then dashed on without a backward glance.

  “Boy!” Tokello cried. “Cut that line!” She pointed to a grappling hook buried in the Daughter’s straining starboard rail.

  Ivrian parted the tense rope easily. Captain Rendak had appeared from nowhere, also dripping wet, and was bellowing at his men to free the sails.

  Someone on the pirate ship sent an arrow thudding into the p
lanks a hand-span from Ivrian’s boot, and an arrow pierced a sailor on his left.

  He glanced up and around.

  Mirian downed her final opponent with a powerful slice, then turned and raised a wand, shouting an arcane word as she did so. A line of green energy blasted from the end of the weapon and felled an archer wedged along the tilted and now significantly lowered pirate deck. He slid out of sight with a scream, his bow clattering after him. Others were clambering to take his place, but Gombe and Lady Galanor warded them off with well-cast spears. Ivrian worried that the pirates planned to drop to the Daughter’s deck.

  Mirian pointed her sword at Ivrian. For a moment he thought she might attack him. “You, cut the rutting anchor!”

  He knew right where it was, over near the ladder. He split the thick old rope with two good swings.

  The main canvases dropped, and sailors slid down the braces to secure the sheets even as Rendak flung himself at the wheel. The wind caught the caravel and the Daughter swayed away from the pirate ship even as a final spray of arrows rained down. All but one missed: Ivrian saw it strike Rendak’s arm.

  The older man cursed and kept a hand to the wheel, no matter the shaft and point protruding through one large biceps.

  It was only then that Ivrian felt a little green. Perhaps it was the blood dripping from Rendak’s wound, or the blood on his own sword, or all the bodies, or that he’d suddenly realized how many times he’d come close to death in the last few minutes. The gentlemanly sword schools his mother had sent him to and the showy moves he’d learned working with actors really hadn’t prepared him for the result of bladework.

  He sat down beside the rail, his face cool and moist, and concentrated on not throwing up. With measured care, he turned his head, for it seemed any sudden movement might make him ill. The stranded pirate ship showed no signs of following. For some reason, its deck was canted at almost thirty degrees.

  The Daughter of the Mist tacked away, catching nearly the full strength of the wind as she turned north by northwest—or at least, that’s what the sailors called to one another. Dead pirates were tossed over the side, though he noticed Mirian Raas and his mother searching both the man with the mustache and Mylit.