Chieftain of Andor

by Andrew J Offutt

  He touched her arm. “You,” he said. “You thought of it all … ”

  Her fingers wrapped around his wrist. “There is nothing you can do tonight, of course.”

  “No … no, of course not.”

  Her fingers tightened. “Then come back to me now. If it is a week before you leave, we will say good-bye again and again, every night.”

  22 - The Dungeon of Sharne

  The horsemen from the palace arrived next morning not ten minutes after Lahri’s messenger had departed to bring Barke. Zamph came in with the word, worry in his normally cold eyes; he worked hard at playing the role of major-domo to the Witch of Karikal. The men from the palace were the Queen’s Own, and they wanted the man Cleve, of Earth.

  Lahri mirrored his frown. “For what purpose?”

  “An audience with Her Majesty,” her brother told them.

  Cleve rose. “I can’t imagine why Her Majesty wants to talk with an Outlander, and worse, a Northman, and worse, a freedman,” he said, smiling. “But one doesn’t refuse royal invitations, does one?”

  They shook their heads. Lahri came to him.

  “Be careful, Andrah.”

  Cleve nodded, and kissed her, and left. As he crossed the anteroom, the tall, bald man grasped his arm from behind. Cleve paused.

  “Andrah, heed her. Be very careful. Remember that Queen Kelas rules Sharne, and that she is Starpowered.”

  Cleve turned to him with a genuine smile. He gripped the austere man’s forearm. “Thank you, Zamph! I’ll be careful.”

  The leader of the troop of six horsemen had dismounted to stand waiting outside, one jackbooted foot on the steps. The camailed helmets and gleaming blue-stained leather cuirasses over white tunics and thigh-length black boots made an impressive showing, Cleve thought, squinting in the bright sunlight. But they must suffer from the heat! Her Majesty had thought of show rather than the wearer’s comfort, in designing the uniform for her Queen’s Own Corps.

  “Doralan Andrah of … ”

  “Elgain,” Cleve said proudly; at last he had both name and nationality on Andor!

  “Elgain? I have not heard of it.”

  “Sergeant, this is going to hurt,” Cleve told him, descending the steps. “But in Elgain we have never heard of Sharne. Is this horse for me?”

  “Of course,” the sergeant said, with a sour expression. Cleve was right; no Sharnese cared to hear what he’d just said. “Do you ride?”

  Cleve ignored him, mounting the bluegray beast with its ground-trailing tail and long mane of far paler gray. The animal rippled its floppy ears and tossed its big head as Cleve took up the reins.

  “Follow us,” the sergeant said as he swung up.

  “I’ll ride beside you,” Cleve told him. He had no desire to eat their dust and see nothing but the handsome flapping cloaks they wore. “I was invited, was I not? You’re not arresting me?”

  “Correct,” the sergeant said shortly, and his horse shot forward. Cleve quickly reined up beside him. They rode through the colorful city in silence, the sergeant’s detail following.

  The palace was all pomp and hustle-bustle and fancy clothes; everywhere stood sword-girt guards with helmets that revealed only their eyes and mouths, halberds held stiffly beside their right boots. Berobed dignitaries — for in the palace, in the employ of those who called themselves rulers of the world, even freedmen and slaves were dignitaries — moved rapidly here and there, looking very important.

  Cleve was prepared to be kept waiting, and was thus amazed to be ushered in to the Presence by a very fat, bald man in a yellow robe resplendent with pearls and purple embroidery. He made introductions. Cleve was “Cleve of Earth,” and Queen Kelas, “Andorgroffe.”

  Two stony-faced guards with spiked helmets and short pikes flanked the Queen of Sharne, a big, round-faced woman of forty or so years. So berobed and encrusted with gold and pearls and stiff cloth-of-gold and jewels was she that Cleve had little idea of her figure beneath her trappings, mostly gold and the deep blue-green of the sea. Big, he thought, and overweight, particularly in the chest.

  “And where is Elgain?” she asked crisply, seeking to pierce and intimidate him with a very keen gaze from dark eyes. She sat on a well-padded chair two steps above the floor; it was of tesselated tile, off-white and sea-blue.

  He had anticipated that question. Elgain, he knew, was at the foot of the Mountains of Mist, near the headwaters of Sky River. It was far northwest of Sharne, inland and thus nearly inaccessible; the long range of the White Mountains effectively bisected the hemisphere, east and west. He assumed one could reach Elgain by sailing from Sharne, on the southeast coast, northward to Rivshar, and then marching inland. Or by marching west until one reached Sky River, and following it north. He had no idea how far; he did not know how long he’d lain unconscious on his raft.

  He answered truthfully, if incompletely. “I am not sure, Your Majesty. I was ensorceled and set adrift, naked and unarmed.”

  “Um. Thus you sought out a sorceress when you came here … what is Elgain’s population?”

  He had not the foggiest notion. He did know that Sharne claimed seven hundred thousand, and he thought it wise to say, “Something over five hundred thousand, Your Majesty.”

  “Surely no place is so populous!” she said, her very keen eyes showing her surprise.

  “Your pardon. Perhaps I am wrong.”

  A smile almost succeeded in drawing back the corner of her purpled mouth. “You are clever, and bold. I do not believe you, in any of this. How came you here?”

  “As I said, I was ensorceled and set adrift by enemies. I assure Your Majesty she would not believe how I came to be in Sharne. You must know that when your Citizen Barke met me, I was descending this side of White Mountain.” He could not resist adding, “I left a marker on the peak, with my name.”

  She studied his face, frowning, but yes, he knew that she already had that story. Why was she so interested? Because he’d been nearly a month in the Karikal mansion? “You crossed the White Range?”

  He smiled. “I assured Your Majesty my story would not be believable,” he said, allowing her to think what she might. He would not offer Sharne a fresh source of slaves by telling her of the people inside the mountains whose peaks loomed tall above her city-state. Sharne was a proud and haughty and arrogant land; with the Oridorn sidsorns they’d soon be on their way to world domination. Another Rome.

  She spoke crisply: “If I say that I believe none of it, you will smile and say, ‘That is Your Majesty’s privilege,’ or something similar, because you are a clever adventurer. We trade with Rivshar, and know that there are no civilized peoples among the Northlands. And the White Range is not crossable.” She shrugged a broad, meaty shoulder. “It matters little to me; I am lied to constantly. You are here to tell me the whereabouts of a certain Riv slavegirl, who left the slave pen with you nearly a period ago. She has not been seen since, nor is there a record of sale or writ of manumission, although I signed yours.”

  She was not interested in him at all! She had meant to watch the girl Sovane of Rivshar, send spies to see who bought her, perhaps have her bought and either slain or shipped out on the first far-bound vessel. And she had lost her, and her only interest in him was the whereabouts of little Sovane of Rivshar! But — what should he tell her? Would it protect Sovane if he told Queen Kelas that her quarry was in the home of the Witch of Karikal? — or would that only endanger Lahri as well as Sovane? What would Lahri do if the Queen’s Own arrived, demanding the girl?

  Cleve thought about that, and he did not want to find out; he feared Lahri would act as the Witch of Sharne, and only did this woman before him possess Starpower; she was queen.

  “She’d been attacked in the night,” he said, “and I promised her protection in the pens. So I brought her when I left. Then we became separated. I had no deep personal interest in her.” All of which was true. He did not know exactly where Sovane was at this moment, somewhere happily within Lahri’s wa
lls, and he had indeed been separated from her there, at both his and Lahri’s wish.

  “I believe absolutely nothing you have told me,” the woman with the deep-seeing eyes said. “You are Cleve of Earth, but there is no such place. You tricked Barke, who was delirious with shock and cold. You have enchanted the enchantress Lahri, which I can understand — you are handsome and muscular and far from unintelligent. And you have secreted that scheming little slave-girl somewhere. You will rest here, Northman, until you decide which is more valuable — that girl, or the rest of your life. For it will be spent within four close stone walls underground unless you decide to speak up! Guards!”

  Cleve considered taking them then, with the little weapon resting unobtrusively on right hip; the guards had taken his sword, but had not examined a pouch too small to contain a dagger. But he did not, allowing himself to be led along a corridor and down some steps. They crossed a landing past a barred door that led outside. There was another door, and he waited as it was unlocked and unchained. Stale, chill air swirled up to smite his nostrils. Beyond, he saw darkness, and stone steps, leading down. The dungeons of Sharne!

  He never saw them. One of his two jailers was at the door; the other stood at Cleve’s left elbow. Cleve calmly opened the pouch, took out the little stone box, and slipped his thumb into the loop. The man at the door looked up.

  “Here, what’re you doing? What’s that thing?” And his hand flashed across his belly to his sword hilt.

  Cleve watched the man’s chest blacken around the hole that appeared suddenly in it. His cry choked off as he staggered back, then toppled and rolled down the steps into the dungeon. Cleve leaped to his right, twisting. The other Sharnese was just scraping his sword out of its sheath. Cleve raised the sidsorn and triggered it again, and the man gasped and died with a growing hole at the base of his throat.

  Hanging onto the sidsorn that had just slain, so quickly and silently, two men, Cleve dragged the dead soldier over to the doorway leading below. He took the man’s sword before thrusting him through the doorway and listening to the body thump and scrape and rattle down the long stair. Cleve slammed the door, replaced the chain, and closed the big lock. The key was still in the grasp of the first dead jailer.

  Swinging to the door leading outside, Cleve peered out. Interesting; it seemed to be the same … and he remembered. He’d seen the palace from the mountain slope that day with Barke — it was Y-shaped. He and his escort had ridden into the courtyard just at the intersection of the Y, entered near the center of one arm. And then walked here — he was at the intersection again. Outside stood the horse he’d ridden here from Karikal House!

  Sheathing his new sword, he unbarred the door and hurried out of the palace. His pace slowed once he was away from the door. He nodded politely to a pair of passing soldiers — the king’s, he supposed; they were not hers — and nodded again to the slave standing near the horses. The man said nothing, watching as Cleve swung up and reined the animal about.

  “Uh — are you not being escorted back?” the man asked. “You came in with several of the Queen’s Own — ”

  Cleve flashed him a broad grin with a touch of ruefulness in it. “I am not so important as Her Majesty thought,” he said, and for a moment they smiled at each other, two men touched by power but untroubled by its possession.

  Then Cleve swung the animal and made for the gate.

  Just as he passed through — without question; one encountered more difficulty entering than leaving official premises — he met an approaching horseman.

  “Cleve!”

  “Barke!” Cleve spoke rapidly, quietly. “I am fleeing. I was condemned to the dungeon. I killed two guards and locked them down there. So far, no one knows. I can’t endanger Lahri by returning there — tell me where I can go.”

  “To the docks,” Barke said; the man certainly had no trouble with fast thinking! “Bluerover’s easy to spot: blue hull, blue sails. The ring I gave you will get you aboard. Stay below, and I’ll see you tonight.”

  Barke paced his mount on past, to be accosted by the guards; the quiet exchange between him and Cleve had taken perhaps forty seconds.

  Cleve made his way to the harbor as fast as he could without endangering pedestrians or calling attention to himself. Bluerover was indeed easy to recognize, the man barring his way did indeed recognize the iron ring — laughing — and soon Cleve was below, raiding the wine cabinet in the captain’s cabin.

  23 - The Spells of Sharne

  There was only blackness outside the port of the Sharnese merchantman Bluerover when Barke entered. He and Cleve gripped forearms, grinning in the darkness. Then Barke lit a lamp. After several false starts, Cleve convinced him to pour wine and tell a coherent story.

  Barke admitted that his quest up White Mountain had been insanity, but he was insane, he said — in love, certainly not a rational state. A spell was required for him to win his “Sulky.” Barke went to Lahri. After a two-day wait (while she conferred with a “lesser” witch capable of solving the problem, Cleve mused), Lahri told Barke that an Orimor pelt would be necessary for the spell he craved. He ascended White Mountain, was captured, rescued by Cleve, and returned to be accused of conspiracy. Then Bluerover’s captain died, naming Barke as his choice of successor, and the ship’s owner implemented both Barke’s acquittal and promotion.

  His first voyage, up the coast to Rivshar, was scheduled for six days hence. Meanwhile, other matters had gone his way — apparently the Orimor pelt was successful, for he’d won his lady.

  “But we must flee Sharne, Cleve. Sulky’s parents don’t know, and they’d never approve. Captain of Bluerover or not, I’m a foreign freedman. I arrived at Karikal House this morning just after you left for your interview with the queen. Naturally I agreed to Karikal Lahri’s idea — that I take both you and Sulky with me when I sail. I was on my way to the palace to wait for you when I met you at the gate. Her Majesty did some spelling this afternoon, and came out white-faced. You seem to represent a terrible danger to the entire royal family of Sharne, Cleve. She yelled several times, ‘I’ll lose my children through him if that man isn’t destroyed!’ That is when they discovered your escape — hours after you effected it. Clever of you to be so neat about it — both guards dead and in the dungeon, and the door chained and locked!”

  Cleve smiled a quiet smile, waiting for the rest.

  “We shall merely have to sail a few days early,” Barke said. “They’re scouring the city for you. My love will be along soon. We’ll be short-crewed, I’m afraid, and you and she may well have to help on deck, poor girl.”

  Cleve shook his head. “Dangerous — smuggling me out of Sharne is the wrong way to start a honeymoon!” At least he thought of it as “honeymoon”; the Sharnese term was “lovenight.” The people of Andor had not yet civilized themselves out of frankness in most matters.

  “Look here, Cleve or Doralan sire, whichever I’m to call you — ”

  “Andrah, I suppose,” Cleve said.

  “Um. Andrah, then. I cannot stay in Sharne. Every time she and I see each other, we’re in danger — especially me! We’ve already talked of fleeing, planned for it. Naturally, we knew we could never return. We planned to just disappear in Rivshar. This way, perhaps we can all go to … is it Elgain?”

  “It is,” Cleve smiled. “But I can’t guarantee welcome. I am not certain of my reception there. I’ve no doubt my rival and his witch-sister now rule or try to. All right, then, Barke. When do we sail?”

  “Sooner than I care to, and I hope you had a good night’s sleep last night. We’re only waiting for the rest of my partial crew, and my love, and … well, there will be two pairs of lovers aboard.”

  Cleve smiled with genuine delight. “Is Lahri coming?”

  “Lah — ” Barke stared at him, his mouth forming an increasingly larger O. “So that’s the way it is! I thought she seemed concerned beyond casual interest! I’d never have guessed. Hm … but she is a woman … I guess … His smile be
came a sly grin before he sobered. “No, I mean someone else, a friend of yours. That slavegirl, what’s her name from Rivshar — did she tell you she had a lover?”

  “Sovane? A lover? No, she said only that — not the prince!”

  Barke, bobbed his head. “None other. Prince Reven himself. Oh, we’ll be a prize crew of desperadoes, Cleve. If Their Majesties put all the disappearances together — why, every ship in the Sharnese navy will be out after us!”

  Cleve groaned. “You know I’m ready, Barke. I appreciate it far more than I can express, but — this looks very much like a voyage that will end in all our deaths. Surely we can’t outrun warships.”

  “Well … I can perhaps teach them a thing or three about sailing,” Barke said, grinning.

  He cocked his head as feet came along the companion-way. He and Cleve looked up; the door opened to admit Sovane of Rivshar and a slender, beardless fellow of medium height with a great deal of reddish-brown hair. Both of them wore long, dark cloaks, the hoods now thrown back. Cleve was introduced to His Royal Highness, Reven, Prince of Sharne.

  “Are you quite sure you know what you’re doing, Your Highness?” Cleve asked. “Pardon me, but … well, this is very romantic, but … ”

  “Call me Reven,” the young prince said. “Of course I know what I’m doing. You’ve met my mother!”

  Cleve smiled without comment. Yes, from what he’d heard and now seen of Queen Kelas, he could understand Reven’s being willing to leave like a thief in the night. But — was he truly in love with his slavegirl paramour? No convenient king’s daughter stolen from home was Sovane; she was a slave, born of slave parents.