The Swordsman's Oath toe-2

by Juliet E. McKenna

  He shoved a foot at what I had taken to be a pile of cushions and coverlets. It wasn’t; it was Irith who groaned feebly and rolled away from the kick. He came to rest facing me, eyes rolling half open, bloodshot even in the feeble light and a trickle of dark slime oozing from his slack lips.

  “Shek will not be pleased,” Kaeska whimpered. “Disciplining a slave is one thing, using tahn on him like this is quite another.”

  The bastards, the shit-sucking, pox-ridden bastards. I clenched my fists and fought to contain my revulsion. Anger wouldn’t help Irith, it didn’t look as if anything could now, but I needed to hear as much of this plot as possible, to take to Laio for certain and, if at all possible, to use to my own ends.

  “If you swear to me that you will do it, I will show you your son again.” The Ice Islander’s voice was as sweet and seductive as honeyed wine.

  “I swear.” Kaeska’s voice was all but inaudible, a trembling whisper, her eyes fixed on the blue wisps rising from the burner as the drug stirred her senses into chaos.

  The Elietimm began a low chant and the hairs on the back of my neck bristled like a hound who’s caught a hated scent. The strange words and rhythms echoed those of Kerrit’s paltry cantrips but power rang in this man’s voice, confidence and real, unchallenged power. An unbidden memory of my time as a captive in those distant, barren islands came crawling out of the back of my mind, incantations like this ringing over me as I lay paralyzed, naked and seemingly bound hand and foot. Only later had I discovered that the fetters had never even existed, a delusion wrought inside my head by the one we had called the Ice-man.

  The smoke from the censer began to coil in on itself and thicken oddly, a plume rising straight up in defiance of the evening breeze and then twisting into a vortex. Without a pause in the chant, the Elietimm placed something small on the table. It glinted as the candle flared to an unearthly brilliance. It was a belt buckle in a high, antique Tormalin style, and something about it teased at my memory, though for the life of me I couldn’t recall ever having seen it before.

  The vortex evaporated abruptly and the faintest outline of a face appeared, wrought from the smoke and the light. But this was nothing like the magics I had seen Shiv or Viltred working. As the thassin fumes wove around my head, for all my shallow breaths I could feel the enchantment hovering around my mind, curious fingers picking at the edges of my wits. Luckily for me, the Elietimm was totally focused on Kaeska and the feeling passed before I somehow betrayed myself. As I watched Kaeska’s breathing quicken like a woman in the throes of passion, I felt sure the sorcery was feeding on her fears and desires in some way I couldn’t fathom. The face grew clearer, more distinct. I frowned, almost risking an attempt to rub the fog from my eyes but holding my hand back at the last moment, remembering the mortal dangers of the slightest noise. This was no more an Aldabreshin face than the belt buckle was Island-made. I could see a youthful face through the skeins of smoke, probably a boy, but perhaps a girl on the verge of womanhood. The hair was reddish, sandy blond, and freckles dusted pale skin; as the pitch of the chant shifted, the unearthly apparition opened its eyes. Even at this distance, I could see they were pale, blue or green, I was unable to tell. Kaeska’s eyes were fixed greedily, insanely on the figure, her breath coming in low, animal pants.

  “My son, mine and Shek’s,” she whispered, “heir to the domain and my future.”

  The smoke may have been dulling my wits but I’ve bred enough dogs to make me confident that Kaeska and the Warlord wouldn’t produce a child with a face from the Bremilayne hill country if she netted the old ram’s horns every other night and bore a child each Summer Solstice on the strength of it. I can’t say why but I was suddenly convinced that, whatever I was seeing, Kaeska was looking at something quite different.

  “And you will bear him in due season. Your rights as First Wife will therefore be restored and you will rise high above the women of the other domains as your trade with my people brings you metals and timber to build Shek Kul’s power still further. You will not need to deal with the thieves and savages of the mainland at all, but with an island people like your own, who understand the value of beauty and honor in trade. You will bring your husband a powerful alliance, place him first among the Warlords as the Islands find friends to defend them against the depredations of mainland pirates and swindlers.”

  The Elietimm leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Kaeska. “And your son will inherit all of this. He will grow and thrive while your rival’s child sickens and dies, just as long as the Queen receives her due and you obey her priest without question.”

  Meaning him, no doubt. I shook my head slowly, keeping my eyes on Kaeska as the apparition dissolved into smudges of smoke carried off on the night breeze. The eager light faded from her eyes and she clawed at the last wisps with despairing fingers, a sob strangling in her throat.

  “Show some dignity.” The Elietimm spat a curt command and the candle guttered, the last tendril of smoke coiling to vanish in the darkness. He climbed to his feet and sneered down at Kaeska as she sprawled across the table, shoulders shaking in silent anguish. He stalked off toward a far door and as soon as he had left the room, I made my way back to my pallet at Laio’s door as fast as I could. I found I had to actively concentrate on walking quietly; my co-ordination was definitely affected by the smoke I had been unable to avoid. Glad to lay my head on the cool, soft cotton, I closed my eyes as the floor seemed to dip and sway beneath me, the scent of the drugs still tantalizing me.

  The Kel Ar’Ayen settlement,

  Autumn Equinox,

  Year One of the Colony

  Temar strode purposefully through the crowded marketplace, his optimistic mood buoyed with simple pride at the raw yellow of new stonework gleaming here and there in the deepening dusk. It was deeply satisfying to see such tangible proof of his success in locating those quarry sites. Elsewhere the gloom was being held back by the light of flambeaux and braziers set around the dancing floor where determined revellers were already forming lines for round-dances. Temar noted with some surprise that some of the craftsmen and traders who had marked out these first lines of their new settlement had still found the time to plant up odd-sized half-barrels and battered kettles. Bright with flowers, the improvised gardens masked the worst deficiencies of the wooden houses and halls that had sheltered the colony through that first summer, giving the place a suitably festive air.

  It might be a primitive celebration by D’Alsennin standards, Temar decided, but judging from the noise already echoing around the broad estuary, the colonists were intending to make this a holiday to remember, regardless of what they might be lacking. He nodded as people passed him, waving at half-remembered faces from the voyage and hoping a warm smile would suffice instead of the coin he was used to distributing on the streets at such times of year. The wealth he was carrying tonight was intended for only one recipient.

  Temar took a deep breath and paused at the gateway of Messire Den Rannion’s steading, checking that no wisps of hair had escaped their clasp and brushing at the worn patch on his jerkin in a futile gesture. He lifted his chin and set his jaw; it wasn’t as if he was going to be the only one wearing last year’s finery, was it?

  “Temar!” A hefty slap on the back caught him completely unawares and nearly sent him sprawling on the beaten earth of the roadway. “Hold on, I’ve got you!”

  “Vahil, you idiot!” Temar shook off the hand that had saved him from the fall, tugged at his belt and straightened his shirt, checking the pocket with a hasty pat.

  “Come on in.” Vahil’s good humor was undiminished as he hammered on the pale wood of the gate with the hilt of his belt knife. “Everyone’s longing to see you.”

  The gate-ward opened to them and Vahil breezed past him with a cheery greeting that surprised Temar. “Drianon’s favor to you,” he muttered a little awkwardly to the man as he passed him.

  “And to you, Esquire!” The gate-ward raised his tankard to Temar in an affable
salute.

  Temar moved to one side of the entrance and looked curiously at the changes made in the season and a half that he had been away. The steading was still surrounded by a fence rather than a decent stone wall, but the gardens were starting to take shape. Lanterns glowed among spindly fruit trees planted in a sparse avenue and vines were endeavouring to soften the rough-cut wood of the palings. The formal patterns of a herb garden were waiting for the plants to start spreading themselves in their new beds, but faint scent was already rising from the little clumps of bee-balm, meadowsweet and moth-bane. Temar wondered in passing where the shingle that crunched underfoot had come from to make the paths, and then he remembered the heap of ballast down by the wharf.

  “Your steward’s been busy!” he noted with approval.

  Vahil shook his head. “This is all Mother’s work. Come on, let’s find a drink!” He strode purposefully in the direction of the wine standing on a trestle table under a rather scrawny arbor of climbing plants with startling scarlet flowers. “Well, Mother and Jaes, the porter.” He waved an arm in the direction of the gate.

  “Since when have you been on first-name terms with the outdoor servants?” Temar helped himself to a modest goblet of golden wine since there didn’t appear to be any servitors doing the usual duties.

  Vahil paused and then shrugged as he found himself a flagon of red. “I don’t know really. It just seemed a bit silly to keep everything so formal. Things are a bit different here, somehow, don’t you find?”

  Temar nodded as he sipped his drink, blinking a little at its unrefined newness. “I suppose so. It was certainly like that up river, all of us getting on with the tasks to be done. You caught me a bit by surprise, that’s all.”

  “We’ve been too busy breaking and planting enough land and getting the harvests in to worry about making sure the right people sit below the salt.” Vahil’s expression turned fleetingly somber. “After losing those ships at sea, we’ve needed to set every pair of hands to work.”

  “We?” Temar raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “That’s right.” Vahil met the challenge in Temar’s expression with a direct gaze and unmistakable emphasis on his words. “We have a great deal to be proud of and we can look forward to a secure winter.”

  “So what exactly have you”—Temar stressed the question lightly—“been doing?”

  Vahil took a pace backward and swept an extravagant bow. “I have the honor to represent the Secretariat on the First Council of Kel Ar’Ayen. Oh, sorry!” He raised an apologetic hand to the passing man whom he had narrowly missed in spilling his wine. “Yes, Temar, give me a couple of chimes and I could show the records of everything that’s been planted, plucked or poleaxed since we made landfall here.”

  “Vahil Den Rannion, bonniest buck in a brothel turned bean counter? I don’t believe it!” Temar laughed to cover his astonishment.

  “You wouldn’t be alone there.” Messire Den Rannion appeared at Temar’s shoulder, an unmistakable note of pride in his voice as he looked at his son. A harder edge replaced it however. “You’re late, Vahil. Your mother has been wondering where you were.”

  Vahil bowed low, neatly avoiding answering. “I’ll go and make my apologies.” He walked rapidly away and his father watched him go with a faint sigh.

  “Come, Temar.” The Messire briskly dismissed whatever was concerning him. “There are some people here very eager to hear your news.”

  Temar quickly checked the pocket in his shirt again through the breast of his jerkin. “Is Demoiselle For Priminale here?”

  He found he was speaking to Messire Den Rannion’s departing back and remembered that the older man was more than a little deaf. Temar shrugged and followed obediently toward a knot of stern-faced men deep in discussion.

  “D’Alsennin!” One took a step forward to greet Temar with a brief bow. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Master Grethist.” Temar smiled broadly. “How’s the Eagle?”

  “Safely high and dry on the mud flats,” the mariner assured him. “Those rocks didn’t do as much damage as we feared, in any case.”

  “That’s as may be, but if that cataract can’t be navigated, we can’t use the river to get to the interior.” A thin man with tired eyes folded his arms in a gesture of finality.

  “I’ve heard the ship needs the best part of a season’s work on it if it’s to be seaworthy again.” A taller man with a receding hairline sank his beaked nose into his goblet and took a long swallow.

  Grethist shrugged and winked at Temar. “What else would sailors be doing over the winter? There aren’t any brothels hereabouts as yet, are there? I shan’t have too much trouble keeping the lads at their caulking if there’s nowhere for them to soften a stiff rope.”

  “We will be sending expeditions along the coasts in the spring, Master Dessmar,” Den Rannion addressed the thin man seriously. “Messire Den Fellaemion’s charts from the original voyages show several estuaries which warrant exploration. It will be some seasons before people are ready to strike out on their own from here and by then we will have navigable rivers and good sites to offer them.”

  Dessmar nodded, lips pursed. “Perhaps they’ll find some trace of the ships that were scattered by that appalling storm.”

  The balding man continued as if no one else had spoken. “It’s all very well saying the Eagle can be repaired, but more than half the vessels that reached this land need beaching and cleaning now. A goodly number of ropes and sails are in need of repair and materials are severely limited. I hate to think what state the timbers are going to be in by next spring.”

  “Finding suitable woods for the shipwrights was one of the reasons for D’Alsennin’s expedition up the river, Master Suttler.” Messire Den Rannion’s tone was relaxed but Temar caught a calculating light in his eye.

  “Indeed,” Temar nodded firmly. “We found some excellent stands of mature timber, didn’t we, Master Grethist?”

  “We’ll start felling once the growing season ends and the undergrowth dies back,” the sailor confirmed. “I’ve already set those that can be spared from the mines to digging out a dock so we can get a keel laid and work started over the winter.”

  “You see, Master Suttler, we’ll have new boats busy along the coasts and up the rivers long before the present fleet are spent.” Den Rannion nodded his discreet approval to Temar. “The larger ships are still in good repair, in any case.”

  “We’ll only need ocean ships if we have something worthwhile to send them home with.” A ruddy-faced individual had been following the exchange with an impatient expression. “So, Esquire, what are these mines like? If we’re to get anymore interest in this venture, it’s vital that we prove it’s not simply a singularly ill-timed drain on the Empire’s resources.”

  “We have found significant outcroppings of copper in the tributary valleys leading down to the main river, Master Daryn,” stated Temar confidently. “Some of the men with Gidestan experience made a short trip into the plateau and think there is an excellent chance of tin as well.”

  “Useful but not exactly news to set all Toremal talking.” The man frowned a little and looked thoughtfully into his wine cup.

  “Come on, Sawney, it’s early days yet,” Messire Den Rannion encouraged Master Daryn with a familiar slap on the shoulder. “Who knows what Temar and his men will find over the next hill come the spring.”

  “How soon will we know the quality of this ore?” asked Master Daryn.

  “The initial assays were promising.” Temar hesitated a little. “I’m afraid it’s not a craft I know much about, but the miners were looking very pleased.” He wondered if he should show these men what he had secure in his shirt pocket but decided against it; Guinalle should see it first.

  “So we’ll be able to send ingots home in the spring?” demanded Daryn. “Something to encourage a second fleet, more settlers?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Temar stated confidently. “You’ll have excellent news to con
vey.”

  “You wait and see.” Messire Den Rannion smiled broadly. “It’s just as we told you; we will supply the craftsmen at home with all the materials they can desire while as our settlements here spread. Those same goods will find an eager market among our people. Our fellows at home will soon need spend no more effort struggling to sell to rebellious Caladhrians and the like.”

  “It might not be gold and silver but the Empire could be grateful soon enough for copper and tin,” Master Suttler observed dourly. “Things were going from bad to worse in Gidesta before we left, weren’t they? His Imperial Uselessness could have been driven back clear over the Dalas by now.”

  “Has that lass of Den Fellaemion’s had any information for you recently?” Sawney Daryn turned to Den Rannion. “It’s all very well having Artificers along but I can’t say I’ve noticed her putting herself about much.”

  “Demoiselle For Priminale has been busy looking for plants and herbs to replenish the stores and find alternatives for medicaments.” Temar realized he had spoken a little too quickly and certainly too forcefully.

  Messire Den Rannion moved smoothly to gloss over the awkward moment. “You know my wife’s sister, Avila? She brought their grandmother’s old still room manuals with her and the women have been trying to remedy their new situation on the far side of the ocean from their favorite apothecary!”

  “Trust the ladies to see to their own comforts first!” Master Suttler lifted his beak of a nose above a mocking smile.

  Temar laughed with the rest but remembered what Guinalle had told him. He wondered what these men would think if they found themselves lacking soaps for their linen, out of mugwort to dissuade the lice and moth from their gowns, with no bay leaves to keep the weevils out of the flour. He caught Messire Den Rannion’s elbow as Master Dessmar began interrogating Grethist about the precise nature of sailing conditions up river.

  “Is Guinalle here?” he asked, hoping he didn’t look too eager.