by Angus Wells
So, best I reunite you with your vessel. It sails for Lysse, and there you must go if you are to succeed.
His visage was benign, prompting trust, and while Calandryll could not forget the multitentacled image of oceanic wrath, he was no longer afraid. He dared to ask, “Shall we find Rhythamun in Lysse, Lord Burash, or must we go farther?”
Such knowledge is not mine to give, the god replied. The one you seek has quit my domain and I cannot tell you where he may now be.
“You know he seeks Tharn’s resting place,” Calandryll ventured. “Do you tell us where that is, then we may go there; await him there.”
Neither is that knowledge vouchsafed me, Burash returned gravely, voice and visage solemn, for only the First Gods know where their sons lie. Tharn and Balatur both were hidden well before I and my fellows were made, and Yl and Kyta alone know where those sepulchres may be.
“The Arcanum holds that knowledge,” Calandryll protested, emboldened by the god’s obvious goodwill, “and Rhythamun holds the book.”
It had been better the Arcanum was never made, the god replied, his tone regretful now, but Yl and Kyta allowed it, or cared no longer; I know not which, nor is it my place to question what the First Gods do, I cannot tell you where, only grant you what help I may. This much is mine to offer—to bring you safe to your vessel and speed that craft to Lysse. My domain is the sea, and all those places touched by the sea. On land, where salt water holds no sway, I have no power. To Lysse I shall bring you, but there you had best seek help of my sister, Dera, or Ahrd, my brother.
“How?” Calandryll asked.
Burash laughed afresh, the silent sound like rippling water splashing merrily upon a strand.
As you asked me, man. They shall hear if your voice is loud enough. Now come—time wastes, and god though I be, even I must bow before that passing.
Calandryll would have pressed further, but Burash allowed him no opportunity and he sensed the god deemed enough was said and would reveal no more. He stood silent as the great arms curled about them all, encompassing them in sea scent, and between the closing and opening of a fast-blinked eye they were speeding underwater, fishes darting from their path as the god carried them through the depths of his realm.
Past shoals and shipwrecks they sped, over reefs and wrack, sharks and other great fishes sometimes swimming awhile in escort, but all left behind by the god’s tremendous speed. Lost in wonder, aware of little more than that they were saved from certain death, Calandryll stared about, his eyes wide as he observed Burash’s oceanic domain. He saw that Katya and Bracht clung together, and that the bruising of the Kern’s face was healed, his expression mute evidence that he marveled no less than Calandryll. Whether they breathed air, or were imbued with the god’s own amphibian dexterity, none knew, only that Burash brought them far swifter than any ship might sail through the deeps of the Narrow Sea.
How long that wondrous journey lasted they could not tell, but it seemed little time before they broke surface and saw the Vanu warboat before them, Tekkan’s face gaping as he watched them raised up and deposited on the aft deck. Archers held bows readied for defense and Calandryll shouted for them to lower their weapons, his cry echoed in the Vanu tongue by Katya.
“What . . .” Tekkan mumbled, his customarily impassive features twisted in amazement. “Who . . .”
“Lord Burash aids us,” Calandryll explained. “The rest we’ll tell you as we travel.”
Bring down your sail lest it tatter, the god advised, and take firm hold—to Lysse I bring you.
Still gaping, Tekkan relayed the command and Burash sank beneath the waves. Then the warboat shuddered and, like an eager horse springing into stride, began to rush across the sea.
COLD no longer held any meaning for Cennaire, save as an abstract sensation. No more than hunger or thirst; neither light nor dark, which now were equal in her eyes. Like all the fleshly limitations she had known, they were shucked off in her reincarnation, memories of what she had once been, left behind like a snake’s shed skin. Though she still wore the delineaments of mortal flesh, and those seductive as before, she was now more than human and she gloried in her newfound powers. Had Anomius not commanded that she conceal the reality of her being from mortal eyes she would as readily have come naked to Vishat’yi to do her master’s bidding as assume the accoutrements of normality that he ordered.
As it was, she wore a tunic and pantaloons of fine green silk such as high-born ladies favored for traveling, and over them a cloak of darker green, lined with silver-tipped black fur, a cap of matching shag upon her head and dark green boots upon her feet. All this she adjusted with feminine care after descending from the winter night into an alley not far from the harbor, composing her pale features in an expression she deemed suitable for the role assigned her. Quindar ek’Nyle was vexillan here, Anomius had told her, and as such would surely know if her quarry had come to Vishat’yi; might even hold them, or know where they went. It was possible she must also seek information of the sorcerer Menelian, though it were better she avoid him, for if he thought to use his talent, he might discern what she truly was and perhaps seek to destroy her. If he could—her master had been confident that it would take considerable magic to thwart her and she herself felt such dread strength within her seemingly frail form that she believed she could likely best even one of the Tyrant’s sorcerers. Still, her master had commanded and she was his creature: she would present herself to the vexillan as a lady, an emissary sent down from Nhur-jabal, complete with the letter of marque Anomius had supplied her, and hope to find the three; if not, then learn where they had gone and follow after.
She composed her dress and features and trod delicately through the garbage littering the alley to the plaza beyond. From among the detritus a cat watched her, hissing viciously as if it sensed her wrongness, its fangs exposed and its tail fluffed huge. She glanced toward the sound and returned the sussurant threat: the feline slunk back, seeking the refuge of the shadows. Cennaire smiled and proceeded on her way.
Lanterns blazed around the plaza, defying the dull twilight of a season no longer fully winter, but not yet spring, gleaming from the lintels of tavern doors and the windows of eating houses. Hints of fog wreathed serpentine above while below moisture glistened on cobbles: Cennaire drew her cloak closed across her full bosom, pretending to feel the chill as she negotiated a way through the citizens thronging the square. Most, this close to the waterfront, were sailors or longshoremen, a few soldiers, as many doxies; all glanced at her as if surprised one clad so well should venture unaccompanied into so rough a quarter. She felt completely at home and ignored both the lewd stares and the ribald invitations that followed her passage as she walked down toward the anchorage.
At the street’s end she encountered a barricade manned by soldiery in dragon’s hide armor, huddled about a brazier. The serask commanding them halted her with an upraised hand, his voice rough as he demanded to know what she did here.
Smiling, she answered, “The Tyrant’s business,” and drew the letter of marque from beneath her cloak. “You can read?”
“Aye,” the serask grunted, granting her the courtesy of a “milady” as her brown eyes flashed anger. She watched him pore over the document, more sure of the seal than of the words. Then he asked, “What would you here, Lady?” as he returned the parchment.
“I’ve business with the vexillan, Quindar ek’Nyle,” she replied, enjoying the exercise of authority. “Bring me to him.”
The serask frowned, then shrugged, detailing a man to escort her through the barricade to the tower of the barbican overlooking the wharves. The soldier brought her to the gates, where more armored men stood watching, and explained her presence. The guards examined her with interested eyes as she tapped an impatient foot, and then one disappeared inside, returning moments later to announce the vexillan would see her.
Inside the barbican her nostrils pinched at the odor of stale sweat, leather, oiled metal, dragon hides, food, a
le, and narcotic tobacco: if there was any disadvantage in what Anomius had made her, it lay in the animalistic heightening of her senses. She assumed a disapproving expression—a lady of high birth unaccustomed to such crude surroundings—and followed the plutarch who led her through the common rooms to the more comfortable chambers occupied by the vexillan.
Quindar ek’Nyle rose as she entered, a tall man, neither old nor young, his hair black and his bearing military. He wore loose breeks of scarlet cotton, folding over uniform boots, his shirt white, cinched by a leather belt from which hung a dagger. His eyes were frankly admiring as he motioned for the plutarch to leave them. He bowed and said, “Greetings, Lady. I understand you carry a letter?”
“Indeed.”
Cennaire offered her credential, removing her cap and casually shaking loose her hair as the vexillan perused the document. He folded it carefully and returned it, gesturing to a chair.
“Please, be seated. You’ll take wine with me?”
It was a matter of indifference to Cennaire, but she nodded, favoring him with a smile, surveying the chamber as he turned to a table on which stood a decanter and several glasses. It was a room neither better or worse than many she had known while servicing soldiers in Nhur-jabal, comfortable enough in a masculine way, the chair she occupied set across from another, logs burning in the hearth between them, a shuttered window defensively narrow above the table, the floor cold stone, a second door suggesting ek’Nyle’s bedchamber lay beyond. It smelled of woodsmoke and metal, but as the vexillan turned back toward her those odors were surmounted by the scent of his mounting arousal. She took the glass he offered, concealing her amusement. She had ever enjoyed men’s reactions to her physical charms, but now that pleasure was increased by the sense of superiority her new being afforded: to smell their thoughts was vastly amusing. She set her glass down and unclasped her cloak, sliding it from her shoulders. Ek’Nyle’s scent grew stronger.
“So how may I serve you, Lady Cennaire?” he asked, gallantly raising his glass in a toast.
“I seek information.” She sipped the wine, her eyes intent on his face. He was not unhandsome, in a pompous, martial way, and his desire was obvious,-even without the guidance of her nose, it would be easy to manipulate him. “Information concerning travelers whose presence threatens the Tyrant.”
The odor of ek’Nyle’s arousal faded somewhat as she described Calandryll and Bracht, replaced by the scent of tension, a wafting of alarm. Her interest was immediate, though she curbed herself, awaiting his response, sipping her wine.
Ek’Nyle sought to hide his alarm, smoothing his oiled beard as he mustered his thoughts. “I have seen them,” he said with the merest hesitation. “They came on a black warboat filled with Vanu folk, a woman of that land with them.”
Anomius had said nothing of a woman or a warboat, or Vanu folk: she filed that information and asked, “And where are they now?”
Ek’Nyle heard the anticipation in her voice and essayed a regretful smile. “Gone,” he said, “five days since.”
“Gone?” Cennaire realized the glass was about to shatter in her hand and eased her grip. “Gone where?”
“To Lysse, they said.”
“Lysse holds cities enough to hide in,” came the response, the huge brown eyes sparking threateningly. “Where in Lysse?”
Ek’Nyle sensed something of the power in this beautiful woman then, something he could not define, feeling it with those senses that operate below the conscious. It was beyond the authority granted her by the letter of marque, though that alone was enough to blight his career should he be held to blame. He swallowed hard, his skin prickling uncomfortably, and sought to divert both the responsibility and her clearly mounting anger.
“I suspected them,” he said quickly. “I seized their cargo of dragons’ hides and took them prisoner, but Menelian—the sorcerer appointed to defend Vishat’yi—examined them and declared them honest. They offered no danger to Kandahar, he said, and advised me to free them. More—he took them into his home like old friends. The men and the woman.”
His fear hung in the air, a heady scent. Cennaire savored it. She nodded coldly and demanded, “Where is this Menelian?”
“Most likely at his villa.” Ek’Nyle smiled nervously, not sure why he experienced so chill a sensation of apprehension as he met her gaze. “A house in the upper city.”
“Take me there.”
It was a command the vexillan obeyed with alacrity. This woman lacked the authority to so order him and he would usually have objected, but thoughts of dissent never entered his mind: for all her beauty he no longer contemplated her seduction, wanting for reasons he could not define, to be rid of her as quickly as possible. He nodded his agreement and rose to his feet.
“Do you give me a moment.”
Without awaiting her reply he went into his bedchamber, hurriedly tugging on a jerkin and his swordbelt, draping his scarlet cloak about his shoulders. It was a measure of his discomfort that he came close to forgetting his plumed helm. When he returned to the outer room she was standing, dressed, her lovely face set in austere lines.
“Please,” he opened the door, bowing her through, “I’ll summon an escort. It’s not too far.”
He heard himself stumbling, seeking to retrieve his dignity as he bellowed for a squad to form. Cennaire stilled her smile as she drank in his confusion, waiting as grumbling soldiers quit their dice and hurried to snatch up cloaks and weapons. At the entrance ek’Nyle offered his arm—a motion born of habit—then began to draw it back. Enjoying herself, Cennaire denied him the chance, setting her hand firmly upon his forearm before he could hide it beneath his cloak. “Describe this Vanu woman,” she demanded as the uncomfortable vexillan escorted her toward the barricade.
Ek’Nyle complied, telling her of Katya and of Tekkan as they passed into the streets of the city and began to climb toward Menelian’s residence. Cennaire listened in silence, knowing that she must relay word of these new players to Anomius even as she contemplated her forthcoming encounter with the sorcerer.
Best met, she decided, without witnesses. Should the mage detect what she now was he would likely denounce her, and while the letter she carried invested her with such authority that she might easily command the temporal forces, Anomius had warned her against revealing her true nature: such necromancy, he had explained, was frowned upon and would certainly turn all against her. It was unlikely these weak men could harm her, but they might well hamper her mission. She would, therefore, seek solitary audience with the sorcerer.
She nodded as ek’Nyle indicated the walls surrounding Menelian’s villa and removed her hand from his arm. His relief was palpable, rendering her suggestion more easily accepted.
“You need not linger, vexillan. No doubt you’ve duties to attend, and this may take a while,”
Ek’Nyle offered no argument, only nodded and sounded the bell that brought a servant to the gate. “The Lady Cennaire would speak with Menelian,” he announced. “Bring her to him.”
Without further ado, he saluted and spun about, beckoning for his men to follow. Cennaire ignored his departure as the gateman bowed and ushered her respectfully into the courtyard.
“My lady.” He closed the gate and led her toward the house. “Do you wait here and I’ll alert my master.”
Cennaire waved dismissal and he left her in the vestibule. She glanced around, at the mosaic patterning the floor and the image of Burash standing in its niche. Then the far door opened and she was escorted deeper into the villa, to a chamber of rosewood panels that glowed warmly, reflecting the radiance of the fire and the single chandelier suspended above a table littered with scrolls and parchments. The servant bowed and departed as a man rose from behind the table.
“Lady Cennaire? I am Menelian.”
His voice was light, a soft tenor, and he was younger than she had expected, rather handsome, his jaw shaved clean, his hair a dark reddish-brown, his eyes a surprising violet color. He wore a l
oose robe of black, woven with occult symbols, open over a white shirt and nigrescent breeks tucked into short, soft boots. His gaze was curious, but when she tested the air she sensed no alarm, only calm confidence overlaid with intrigue. She smiled, curtsying, and said, “Forgive me for so late an intrusion.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he replied as he gestured at a chair. “Will you sit? Shall I send for wine?”
“Thank you.”
She removed her cap and cloak, taking the offered seat and the opportunity to study him further as he went to the door, calling for a servant to bring wine. She thought perhaps he employed his art to mask himself, for on him she detected no scent of desire, only that cool curiosity. She adjusted her tunic, drawing it down from her slender neck, tauter over her breasts; no longer properly human, she yet retained the habits of her previous life.
Menelian returned with a salver and filled two goblets, smiling as he settled across from her. She saw his eyes stray to her neckline and felt the satisfaction of briefly scented desire. He asked, “What brings you here, Lady?”
“Please,” she replied, “call me Cennaire.”
“A pleasant name—Cennaire it shall be.” He sipped, watching her face over the goblet’s rim. Then: “And your business in Vishat’yi, Cennaire?”
“I come from Nhur-jabal,” she answered, “on Tyrant’s business.”
Menelian nodded as if unsurprised, his expression unfathomable. Cennaire experienced a momentary confusion. Accustomed, even in life, to more positive male reactions, she found his apparent indifference to her charms somewhat disconcerting, even irritating. Save for that transient waft of unhidden lust he evinced no sign of attraction. Long-practiced artifice prompted her to lean forward, allowing her tunic to fall lower from her breasts as she reached beneath the silk to extract the letter of marque. She passed it to him, suspicious now that he used his magic to conceal his desire; that suspicion furthering another—that if he hid his true feelings, perhaps he hid more. Perhaps his own suspicion. She watched him glance carelessly at the letter, nod, and hand it back.
