by Angus Wells
It was scant solace, Calandryll thought as he scanned the cliffs that fanned to either side of the bay, but the best they had. Varent den Tarl—Rhythamun! he reminded himself bitterly—had thought his seizure of the Arcanum, the demise of its ancient guardians, would close the occult gate, sealing his unwilling dupes forever within the ruins of Tezin-dar. And he might well have been right had Bracht not reacted so swiftly, propelling them back through the portal to re-emerge from the stones close to the Syfalheen village. From there they had returned to the warboat and commenced this journey into new unknowns. He shoved a hand through hair grown long, bleached near pale as Katya’s flaxen mane by weeks of sun and sea wind, and wondered what chance they had of victory.
In the body of Varent den Tarl, Rhythamun enjoyed influence and power in Aldarin, and he had told Calandryll that the cantrips of transportation could work only in relation to places already known. Ergo—Calandryll forced himself to think logically, like the scholar he had once hoped to become—Rhythamun must return to his palace in Aldarin. There, perhaps, they would find such clues as might lead them to the sorcerer. That hope was all they had, but between them and its investigation lay obstacles that seemed—at times such as this!—insurmountable.
His eyes narrowed as he saw signal flags along the heights: Sathoman ek’Hennem raised the banners of revolt in Kandahar, and likely the Tyrant’s legions would find questions aplenty to put to such wanderers as they, likely find use for the warboat. He raised a hand, tanned and weathered, pointing to the signalers.
“I see them,” Bracht confirmed, the black tail of his hair swinging as he raised his head, right hand light on the falchion at his waist. “Likely we’ll be met.”
“But perhaps not by enemies.” The grey of Katya’s eyes clouded as she spoke, revealing the doubt behind her optimism.
“I think we’ve few friends in Kandahar,” Bracht returned, teeth gleaming white against the deep tan of his face. “And enemies enough.”
“Still, we’ve a cargo of dragon hides,” returned the warrior woman, “and those should win us favor.”
Of them all, hers was perhaps the fiercest determination, for the defeat of Rhythamun had been her quest from the beginning. For her there had been no betrayal, no souring of trust as believed-in friendship stood revealed as foulest treachery. From distant Vanu she had come, sent by the northern holy men in quest of the Arcanum that it might be forever destroyed, the resting place of the Mad God lost to those like Rhythamun, who would again bring the world down into the chaos of the godwars. In her that purpose burned with a fierce, bright flame, unsullied.
It burned no less in Calandryll, but in him it was darkened, befouled by treachery, by the knowledge that Rhythamun—in Varent’s form and guise of friendship—had tricked him, had played on trust and hope and youthful dreams of glory to make him a dupe. To know that his had been the agency through which the mage had attained the forbidden book was a scouring current of bitterness that stripped away the mantle of innocence he wore when first he fled Secca. His lips stretched in a grim smile as he thought on it: for him this quest meant more than the saving of the world; revenge now played its part.
“What amuses you?” he heard Bracht ask, and answered, “I think on the past; and what I was.”
“Best look to the future,” advised the freesword, “for it approaches fast.”
Calandryll looked to where his comrade pointed and saw two galleys driving toward them, ghostly in the early morning mist. Small arbalests were mounted on the foredecks and bowmen manned the rails. Atop the closer cliff a knot of soldiers gathered. Katya turned, sunlight glinting on her mail shirt, and called in the lilting tongue of Vanu to Tekkan. The helmsman answered with an order that slowed his rowers, the warboat riding the tide as the galleys shifted course to either side.
One hung back, its arbalest menacing as its companion came alongside. Calandryll saw the scarlet puggaree that marked the archers as Tyrant’s men wound about the conical helmets of dragon hide. From the foredeck an officer shouted.
“Name yourselves or we sink you.”
“I am Tekkan of Vanu,” came the answer. “Come with a cargo of hides to serve the Tyrant.”
“Vanu?” There was disbelief in the officer’s voice. “What do Vanu folk do in Kandahar?”
“Trade, I’d hope,” Tekkan returned. “And bring passengers safe home to Lysse.”
Across the distance separating the two craft Calandryll saw confusion on the swarthy face and shouted, “I am Calandryll den Karynth, second son to Bylath, Domm of Secca. Do you grant us harborage?”
The Kand’s frown deepened beneath the beak of his helm and he stroked his oiled beard. Then he nodded and bellowed, “Move ahead. No tricks, I warn you, lest we send you to Burash.”
Tekkan relayed the command to his rowers and the warboat plunged again into motion, flanked by the galleys, the Kand archers staring with unfeigned curiosity at the flaxen-haired Vanu.
“So far,” Bracht murmured, “the gods favor us.”
“Or toy with us,” Calandryll said.
“You become a skeptic.” Bracht slapped a hard hand to Calandryll’s shoulder. “Ahrd knows, but perhaps I liked the innocent better.”
Calandryll grunted and forced a smile: Bracht spoke the truth. “That innocent died,” he said. “In Kandahar or Gessyth, I know not—only that he’s gone.”
“We shall find him.” There was no need to name the sorcerer. “In time, we shall find him.”
“Shall we?” Calandryll glanced at the Kern and Bracht grinned, nodding.
“Two thousand and five hundred varre, he owes me—aye, we shall find him.”
Once Calandryll would have found offense in such pecuniary consideration. Now he grinned back, despite the chafe of impatience, and said, “On my safe return to Aldarin, that was.”
“And so it shall be,” Bracht promised. “My word on it.”
“Does your word hold sway in Kandahar?” A measure of pessimism returned. “Shall the Tyrant’s soldiery listen to you?”
Bracht shrugged, leather-clad shoulders rising, and said gently, “We shall see. Ahrd willing, we’ll not delay here overlong.”
“The Sea God holds sway here,” Calandryll retorted. “This is the domain of Burash, not your tree god.”
“Even so.” Bracht’s voice softened, bantering no longer. “I think that Ahrd plays a part in this. Why else send the by ah to us?”
His intention was to reassure, but mention of the tree spirit that had appeared to warn of treachery served only to remind Calandryll how soundly Rhythamun had deceived him. His mood blackened again and he turned away, studying the escorting galleys.
Bracht looked to Katya and found concern in her eyes. Gently she said, “I think perhaps Tharn stirs, dreaming, and sends doubts to weaken our purpose. We must stand firm.”
As with Bracht, Calandryll knew she meant well, but still he could not bring himself to answer or turn to face her. Instead, he grunted a noncommittal sound and fixed his gaze on the city ahead.
They drew close to Vishat’yi now, the cliffs rising steeper, cut through on the west with a great inlet, the settlement spreading upward to either side. A makeshift boom defended the anchorage, heavy chains suspended from moored boats, and where moles thrust out from north and south, huge catapults stood cocked, ready to rain missiles on any approaching vessels. Beyond the moles stood two barbicans, defensive walls spreading back from the harbor to the city proper. That in turn was become a redoubt, streets sealed with barricades and the highlands topped with more catapults. Within the sea walls only a handful of vessels rode the tide, most fishing boats, a few galleys, three wearing the rakish lines of corsair craft. On the moles stood waiting soldiers in dragon-hide armor, their helms and cuirasses marked with the Tyrant’s colors.
The boom was drawn back enough the Vanu boat could enter, a galley ahead, the other to her stern, and Tekkan swung her round against a wharf where archers and pikemen thronged, their eyes hard and suspi
cious.
The commander of the escort—a navarch, Calandryll saw as he sprang ashore—saluted as a tall man whose breastplate and helm were overlaid with golden scales came forward. A scarlet cloak was draped about his shoulders and from his waist hung a sheathed scimitar. He answered the navarch’s salute with a peremptory nod, his stern visage turned toward the newcomers. They spoke briefly and the senior officer beckoned the visitors to him. For long moments he studied them, the hook of his nose and his cold green eyes reminiscent of a falcon considering its prey. When he spoke his voice was harsh.
“I am Quindar ek’Nyle, vexillan of this city. You say you are of Vanu? That you come with dragon hides and passengers?”
Tekkan set himself to the front, meeting the cold green stare with no hint of submission as he bowed a formal greeting. “I and my crew are of Vanu,” he said calmly. “I am named Tekkan and, yes, I carry a cargo of hides and two passengers.”
“Who are?” ek’Nyle demanded.
“Calandryll den Karynth of Secca in Lysse,” Tekkan answered. “Son to that city’s Domm; and his bodyguard, Bracht ni Errhyn, a freesword of Cuan na’For.”
“A curious cargo,” ek’Nyle retorted, his voice dubious. “I’d hear of its provenance. Come, you three—you shall explain yourselves.”
He spun on polished heels, clearly accustomed to instant obedience, and strode toward the barbican. Katya moved to follow, but Tekkan motioned her back, indicating that only Calandryll and Bracht should accompany him as the soldiery parted, forming an avenue of suspicious faces, pikes held at the ready, as if they anticipated treachery.
The vexillan’s stride was long and brisk and he was inside the fortification before they reached the door, seating himself behind a scarred table as they entered. Guards stood outside, and more were stationed along the interior walls, their hide armor dull as old blood in the light that shone down from three high windows. There was an air of palpable tension, increased by the absence of chairs so that the three were forced to stand facing ek’Nyle as he lounged back, studying them, his hands toying with a curved dagger. The place reminded Calandryll of the fortalice in Mherut’yi. He trusted the civil war had prevented any word of his and Bracht’s escape reaching this bastion.
“So,” ek’Nyle said at last, “explain yourselves.”
They had agreed on their story beforehand, and that in such circumstances Tekkan should act as spokesman; he said, “I am a boatmaster, come out of Vanu to learn what transpires in the world—a voyage of exploration, if you like. Harboring in Seeca, I made the acquaintance of Lord Calandryll, who himself was embarked on a scholarly journey and bought passage with us. We cruised your coast and found our way to Gessyth, where we learned no ships had come, thus allowing us to take on a cargo of dragon hides that I’d now trade.”
The vexillan’s green eyes remained inscrutable as he said, “Trade?”
“Aye,” Tekkan answered, “we’ve need of repairs and supplies, and I understand the Tyrant fights a war—the hides should command a good price.”
“You’d profit from our troubles?”
The question was put flatly; beneath its surface lay a threat. Tekkan shook his head, essaying a smile. “I’d aid the Tyrant,” he said, “and hope for a reasonable return. No more.”
Ek’Nyle grunted, his gaze shifting to Calandryll.
“The son of Secca’s Domm, eh?”
“I have that honor,” Calandryll returned.
“I think you Lyssians hold scant regard for Kandahar,” the vexillan said. “Indeed, I’ve heard rumors that you build a navy to bring against us.”
Calandryll held his face still as presentiment laid cold hands along his spine. “There was talk of building boats ere I left,” he agreed calmly, “but only as a measure of protection against those corsairs as harry the trade between our countries.”
“There’s little enough of that at present,” ek’Nyle declared, thin lips curving in a cold smile. “The trading cities of the east coast lay under blockade.”
“Indeed?” Calandryll raised eyebrows in what he hoped was a suitably languid expression of aristocratic indifference.
“Indeed.” ek’Nyle nodded. Then: “And you lack the appearance of a Domm’s son.”
Of that there was no denying: the past months had stamped their mark on the youth who had fled Secca. He stood straighter now, his body leaner, hardened, and likely his eyes reflected his impatience and his disillusion. The leathers he wore were beaten by wind and sun, his skin tanned; he was not aware he stood balanced in a fighter’s stance, for that was habit now. He smiled and said, “I have traveled far, vexillan, and done my share of boat work. Such things change a man, but you’ve my word I am Calandryll den Karynth, son to By lath of Secca.”
“You’ve proof?”
Calandryll’s smile faltered. He endeavored to transform the shift into a look of outrage, such as an insulted noble might wear. “I am not accustomed to the questioning of my word,” he said coolly.
Ek’Nyle snorted soft laughter. “You’ve the manner of a Lyssian aristocrat, I’ll grant you that. But you’ve the look of a warrior.”
“Is it not your custom, too, that the nobility train for swordplay?” Calandryll demanded, struggling to maintain a disdainful air.
“It is also our custom to walk cautiously about those who may be our enemies,” the Kand responded.
“How might you name us that?” Tekkan interrupted. “What quarrel exists betwixt Vanu and Kandahar? Do we not come with hides?”
“As might spies sent by Sathoman ek’Hennem to probe our defenses,” ek’Nyle retorted absently; and abruptly turned his questions to Bracht: “You’re this one’s bodyguard?”
Bracht nodded.
“And you are?”
“Bracht ni Errhyn of the clan Asyth, from Cuan na’For.”
“You’re a long way from your homeland, Kern.”
Bracht shrugged. “I went awandering. I found myself in Lysse. I took employment with Lord Calandryll.”
“A horseman at sea?”
Again Bracht shrugged.
“You I’ll accept as a freesword,” ek’Nyle said, his voice speculative now. “But a warboat out of Vanu? A roving aristocrat? These things are . . . unusual.”
“But nonetheless true,” said Tekkan.
“Perhaps,” the Kand allowed. “So tell me, boatmaster, where you would go. If I let you.”
Calandryll stiffened at the implicit threat of delay. At his side, Tekkan said, “Why, back to Lysse, vexillan. To return Lord Calandryll to his home. Thence to mine.”
“The coastal cities are closed,” ek’Nyle said.
“Therefore I’d empty my hold of hides and take on such supplies as will see us safe across the Narrow Sea,” Tekkan replied, his voice even. “Without touching your coast again.”
“Or creep ashore to bring word to the rebels.” Ek’Nyle’s hands tightened on the dagger, drawing the blade partway from the embossed sheath. Sunlight glittered on the steel. “You present me with a problem, boatmaster. You and your passengers.”
Calandryll saw them held here, Rhythamun gaining all the time. He frowned, seeking to emulate his father’s manner, to overwhelm objection. “Vexillan,” he intoned, making his voice curt, “I repeat that I am Calandryll den Karynth, of Secca, and I’d return home swift as I may. Would you delay me? Such action runs contrary to the accords between our countries and I think your Tyrant must take a dim view.”
Ek’Nyle was unimpressed: “The Tyrant sits in Nhur-jabal,” he said carelessly. “I command in Vishat’yi and I repeat that you bear scant resemblance to a noble of Secca. Nor do you carry such proof as would confirm your claim. Rather, you’ve the look of some freesword; perhaps one employed by Sathoman ek’Hennem.”
“That I resent!” Calandryll barked, endeavoring still to emulate his father, to summon up that admixture of authority and threat that characterized Bylath.
“Prove me wrong and I’ll willingly apologize,” the vexillan offered ne
gligently. “But until such proof is forthcoming, you’ll remain in Vishat’yi. As my guests, of course.”
The dagger thrust hard into the sheath, punctuating the sentence. Calandryll asked, “How shall I prove it?”
“First,” ek’Nyle declared, “I shall inspect your cargo. Do you truly carry dragon hides, then, aye, I shall accept you’ve made the journey from Gessyth. As for the rest”—a hint of malice hid behind his widening smile—“perhaps I must send to Nhur-jabal.”
“That would confirm our probity”—Calandryll nodded, steeling himself to patience—“but take far longer than I care to linger here. Surely our cargo will confirm the rest—were we in the rebels’ pay, we’d hardly deliver so valuable a cargo to the Tyrant’s legions.”
Ek’Nyle’s smile warmed a fraction, as if he welcomed such debate, or found pleasure in cunctation. He shrugged eloquently and said, “Unless it be subterfuge—a ploy to win my trust. Come south from Gessyth I must ask myself why you failed to offload your cargo in Kharasul.”
“We’d word of your war,” Tekkan interjected, “and guessed your need would be greater the closer to the fighting.”
“This smacks again of profiteering,” ek’Nyle responded.
“We ask only that you allow us to haul our vessel and stock our hold with supplies for the crossing of the Narrow Sea,” said Tekkan. “Does that sound like profiteering?”
“No,” ek’Nyle admitted, smiling, and Calandryll felt hope soar. Then fall as the smile froze and the vexillan added, “Nor like the usual greed of common traders.”
“We are not common traders,” Tekkan argued, “but explorers. All we seek now is to return home unhindered.”
