by Angus Wells
Bracht nodded and Calandryll realized that he had unwittingly spoken the truth: to concede the game had not occurred to him; only that they might not win. His smile grew stronger and he raised his pot, draining the ale.
It was a stouter brew than the somewhat thin Kandaharian beer and he felt it fill his belly with memories. He was back in Lysse and to the east lay Secca—he wondered what transpired in his home. Tobias would by now be wed to Nadama: did they reside there, or might his brother be in the shipyards of Eryn, overseeing the construction of the promised warships? Did he believe his brother dead, slain by the Chaipaku? Or might he have received word from the assassins that Calandryll lived, their hands stayed by the god they worshipped? He chuckled at that thought, grimly wishing that he might see Tobias’s face at the moment he got such alarming news. Someday—did he survive—he would likely face his brother, and what shock that must surely be. Doubtless Tobias remembered the youth who had lost himself in the palace libraries, thinking him still a bookish stripling. What would he think now of the hardened swordsman who downed his ale with such relish, contemplating attack on a wizard of proven power? Melancholy left him suddenly as it had come and he banged down his pot, calling for more ale.
“Your spirits lift,” Katya observed, studying his smile, and he grinned at her, nodding: “Aye.”
He offered no further explanation, though she continued to watch him, as if confused by his abruptly changing moods. He had become, he realized, increasingly like Bracht, accepting the moment for what it was, without undue brooding on where it might lead. That part of him that yet retained the vestiges of what he had been still brought him into melancholy contemplation from time to time, but those pessimistic humors were discarded with ever-increasing rapidity, lost under the tide of his resolve. He knew not where their quest would lead them, nor—if he was honest with himself—if they had any real hope of victory, but to quit was unthinkable: the only direction was forward. He found his tankard refilled and drank with renewed relish.
Beside him Bracht grinned and said, “You take your ale better now.”
“It tastes better now,” he returned, smile widening as he recalled their first meeting, “and I know my limits better now.”
The freesword’s grin remained, but in his eyes there was a hint of conjecture, as if he doubted the cheerful statement. Not, Calandryll recognized, where ale was concerned, but in other matters; and in those he, too, remained unsure. No matter, he decided, he would press onward, trusting in the gods and fate.
The landlord produced food then, great salvers of sausages and smoked meats, vegetables pickled in brine and vinegar, loaves of bread and thick wedges of milky cheese, and any questions Bracht or Katya might have pressed on him went unasked as they fell eagerly on the meal.
When they were finished they drained another mug and quit the tavern, choosing to divide their numbers among several hostelries in hopes of confusing potential observers. They were not aware of being followed or watched, but still it seemed the wisest course to separate, trusting that their disguising cloaks would render it impossible for any spies to decide which among the small groups finding lodgings in the Harbor Quarter were the three Rhythamun might seek and which only crew.
Calandryll, Bracht, and Katya, accompanied by Tekkan, left the rest while some seventeen remained to continue the false trail, securing rooms in a place called The Eagle. It seemed anonymous enough, a typical lodging house, three stories high, surrounded by a walled courtyard with stabling to the rear, the ground level occupied by a kitchen and a common room where meals might be had. The three men took one sizable chamber on the second story and Katya—smiling as she rejected Bracht’s suggestion that they had all, or at least he and she, better remain together—a single adjoining room.
Chuckling at his own defeat, the freesword inspected the chamber with professional expertise. It held little more than the three beds, a small armoire, and a single washstand. The planks of the floor creaked and plaster flaked from the walls. The door granted egress to a landing that looked down onto the common room, the stairs in clear view. He grunted his satisfaction and crossed to the one window, throwing open the shutters to check that exit, should it be needed in a hurry. Peering over his shoulder, Calandryll saw a modest drop to the courtyard, the wall low enough to climb without undue difficulty, and went to a bed, unlatching his swordbelt before stretching out with a contented sigh. He felt calm now, knowing that they were committed and that what they must attempt was best done with aid of darkness.
“At dusk then,” Bracht said, his confirmation further sign of the increasing similarity of their thinking.
“Aye.” Calandryll clasped hands behind his head. The room was warm and his belly was full: he felt drowsy. “At dusk.”
The Kern, too, flung himself down, removing his swordbelt and carefully placing the sheathed falchion across his legs.
He came instantly upright as a light tapping sounded against the door, blade flashing from the scabbard. An instant later, Calandryll was on his feet with the straightsword drawn and ready, not needing Bracht’s gesture to station himself by the window as the Kern faced the door.
“It’s Katya,” Tekkan declared, favoring them both with an almost-disapproving glance as he swung the door open to confirm his guess. “Could even Rhythamun have found us so soon?”
Bracht shrugged unabashed, sheathing his blade. Calandryll said, “Perhaps. And I’d not take the chance.”
“Likely he’d employ magicks,” Katya remarked as she entered.
“There was no scent of almonds,” Calandryll reminded her. “As well we remember that, for it’s likely all the warning we shall have.”
The warrior woman nodded, smiling as Bracht motioned for her to join him on the bed, but seating herself beside Tekkan. “Do we go at dusk?” she asked.
Calandryll and Bracht exchanged smiles and the Kern said, “We think alike. In most things, at least.”
He ignored the admonitory look Tekkan gave him, beaming innocently at the woman, who hid her answering smile from her father and said, “We three alone?”
“Aye.” Bracht raised a hand as Tekkan began to protest, his swarthy features earnest as he turned to the boatmaster. “This must be a thing of stealth.”
“To take more can only arouse suspicion,” Calandryll elaborated. “The palace lies in a residential quarter and a crowd would be unusual.”
Tekkan’s face grew somber and he drove a hand through the heavy thatch of his greyed hair. “But only three?” he argued. “Against a sorcerer whose power is so great?”
“It seems we three are elected to the task,” Calandryll returned. “Why, I know not; only that all the portents have spoken of we three alone. Besides, I think Rhythamun’s power is great enough that whether we go alone, or with all your folk at our backs, it will make no difference,”
“And if we fail,” Katya said slowly, “then you must take word back to our homeland.”
“A few, at least,” Tekkan pleaded.
Katya reached out to take his hand, her grey eyes solemn. “As Calandryll says,” she murmured, “be we few or many, it will make no difference.”
“Save to warn of our coming,” Bracht added.
“And should it come down to battle, then best your crew not be involved.” Calandryll lent his advice to the argument. “Should the city watch take part and find your people with us, likely you and your boat will be held, and you’ll not have chance to take word back.”
“No harm shall come to Katya while I live,” Bracht vowed. “You’ve my word on that.”
“I know it.” Tekkan graced the Kern with a thin smile. “But shall any of you live?”
“That chance was accepted when first we sailed,” Katya declared, squeezing her father’s hand. “And you’re no bladesman.”
“No.” It was the first time Calandryll had seen Tekkan express regret at his unwarlike nature. “But Quara and her archers . . .”
“Are stout enough in honest fight
,” Katya said, “but of little use against magic.”
“And your swords are?” Tekkan gestured at the sheathed blades. “I cannot doubt your courage—but your wisdom?”
“The gods stand with us,” she answered, “and we must trust in them. Did Burash not prove that?”
Tekkan stared awhile at the hand she held, then sighed resignedly. “You are decided,” he muttered in a low, gruff voice.
“I think it has been decided for us,” Katya returned.
“Then so be it,” her father allowed reluctantly. “But, Calandryll—you’ll offer prayers to Dera that she aid you?”
Calandryll nodded; meeting the older man’s grim stare. Tekkan forced a smile, grasping Katya’s hand in both of his, and asked, “Have I no part to play, save waiting?”
It was Bracht who answered: “Best that you pass word among your folk to stand ready. Gather them discreetly in some harbor tavern, prepared to sail do we need take flight.”
“And how shall I know?” asked the helmsman.
The Kern thought a moment and then, with a questioning glance at Calandryll and Katya, said, “Gather them together in that tavern we visited. How was it called?”
“The Seagull,” Calandryll supplied.
“In the Seagull then,” Bracht continued. “Ready to fight or sail. Does it come to fighting, you’ll know soon enough; if we do not return by dawn, then you sail.”
“I’ll stand off the coast,” Tekkan said in a voice that brooked no argument, “and wait out the day.”
Bracht ducked his head in agreement. “A day, but no more.” He looked to Katya and then to Calandryll. “If we are not returned by then you need wait no longer.”
“I can think of no better plan,” Calandryll said.
“This is sound,” said Katya, and smiled. “And if all goes well, then we shall drink together in the Seagull and celebrate our victory.”
Tekkan’s face showed that he recognized this as encouragement and nothing more, but he forbore to dissent further and nodded his agreement.
“Then let’s rest,” Bracht suggested. “This may be a long night.”
“Aye.” Katya rose; Tekkan released her hands with obvious reluctance. “And I shall lock my door, for fear of intruders.”
She looked to Bracht as she spoke, laughter in her eyes, and he feigned resentment, shrugging. As she went through the door he said, “For such a woman a man would gladly die,” his voice pitched deliberately loud enough that she would hear.
She paused, turning back just long enough to say, “I hope none shall,”
“Amen,” whispered Tekkan as the door thudded shut.
“The gods willing, it shall not come to that,” Calandryll offered, knowing it was poor enough reassurance, but not what else to say.
“Pray so,” came Tekkan’s forlorn response, no more confident than Calandryll’s weak words.
“We do what we must,” said Bracht, blunt as ever, and settled himself once more on the bed.
His eyes closed and in a little while his breathing softened into sleep. Calandryll wondered at his ability to find that haven so easily when, were he honest with himself, he shared all Tekkan’s doubts. He glanced at the boatmaster and saw that Tekkan stared blindly at the beamed ceiling, his gaze unsighted. He tried to find words confident enough to comfort the man, but none came and he left Tekkan to his private thoughts, folding his arms like a lover about his scabbard as he dropped his head to the pillow.
Then started as Rhythamun’s face formed against a backcloth of darkness, smiling wickedly as his hands reached out to shape some malicious glamour. He could not make out the words of the spell, nor did he want to hear them; only to snatch out his sword and cut the warlock down. He could not, for powerful fingers locked about his wrist and a hand pressed him back against the bed as the words pierced his sleepy mind.
“Dusk draws nigh and I’d eat before we venture out.”
He groaned, the dream dissolving as he recognized Bracht’s face, and sighed his relief.
“I thought”—he shook the last remnants of sleep from his mind—“I dreamed of Rhythamun.”
The Kern released his grip, smiling. “I guessed as much. Indeed, I feared you’d cut me down,” He motioned to the window. “The time nears.”
“Aye.” Calandryll saw the sky was gone dark blue, the crescent of a new-risen moon suspended over the city. From below came the smells of food cooking and a low murmur of conversation. He rose, going to the washstand to splash chill water over his fevered face, then belted on his sword. He crossed to the window as Bracht roused Tekkan, seeing the lights of Aldarin twinkling golden below. “Go down and order food,” he asked. “I’d be alone to commune with Dera.”
If I can, he added to himself as Tekkan performed his own ablutions. Then, aloud: “I’ll not be long.”
He felt Bracht’s hand on his shoulder, comradely, and turned toward the Kern’s grave face. “As best you can,” the freesword said gently. “And if she does not answer, well”—gravity became the familiar grin as the hand dropped to touch the falchion’s hilt—“we’ve still these, and they’ve served us well enough so far.”
Calandryll nodded, waiting for them to be gone. He watched the door close and looked again at the night sky.
Try as he might, he could feel nothing in him that suggested any ability to communicate with the goddess. Nor, he was surprised to realize, was there any fear; rather, he felt a tremendous calm, as if, his feet now firmly set upon the path, he accepted whatever lay ahead. He thought perhaps he should kneel: after all, he came as a supplicant, even though Dera’s own fate likely rested in the balance of this night’s events. The boards creaked as he sank down, his arms spreading wide as he bowed his head and called to the deity.
In silence he sent out his voice, asking that she aid them, that she lend them her strength in battle with Rhythamun, who would see her and all her kindred gods ground down beneath the heel of Tharn, the Mad God. Could she watch that happen? he asked. Would she allow it? Could she forsake her unwitting worshippers, or stand with those who sought to defend them and her, and all the Younger Gods? Help me, he begged. Show yourself to me as Burash, your brother god, did. Show me how to defeat Rhythamun. Give me that power.
He heard no answer, nor inside himself felt any stirring. He lifted his head, seeing the sky before him, framed within the rectangle of the window, a cobweb traced by moonlight across one corner, the silver sickle a fraction farther westward along its implacable journey. The chamber felt cold now and he shivered, arms dropping to his sides, the left slapping the hardened leather of his scabbard. It seemed, as Bracht had said so cheerfully, that blades must be their only weapons, for he felt no godly touch, no presence come responding to his prayers.
“So be it,” he said aloud as he rose. And sighed once; then laughed once. “We shall do what we can; and do we fail, it shall not be for want of trying.”
He ran fingers through his long hair and smoothed his tunic, the leather cracked and weathered by now, more mercenary’s garb than prince’s, and crossed to the door, striding out onto the landing and down the stairs to where his comrades waited with expectant faces.
His own told them he had no answers.
“No matter.” Bracht raised a pitcher of the rich red wine for which the Alda valley was famous, filling a glass. “You offered no prayers to Burash but still he came; mayhap Dera, too, shall come in time of need.”
Calandryll smiled thanks for that encouragement and took the proffered cup, drinking deep. Katya pushed a bowl of thick fish stew toward him and he ladled a generous measure onto his plate. “How shall we approach this palace?” she asked.
“By coach, I think,” he replied around a mouthful of the spiced stew. “A coach will hide us from prying eyes.”
“But not conceal us from such glamours as he might set,” she murmured.
Calandryll answered with a shrug: words seemed redundant, for Katya stated the obvious and if they approached in fear of magicks, to
approach at all was pointless. They had no choice save to hope.
“Do we discern spell-making, then we run,” said Bracht, adding with a wry grin, “if we can.”
“And if all seems well?”
“Then we enter,” the Kern said firmly. “I left a horse in Varent’s stable and I’d take him back.”
“And if Rhythamun is gone?” Tekkan demanded.
All three looked to the boatmaster at that and it occurred to Calandryll that they had all chosen to forget that possibility. This return to Aldarin had acquired the feeling of approaching confrontation, and the thought that Rhythamun might be already departed had not figured in their thinking. He broke bread from the loaf at his elbow and said, “Then we must seek information from whoever remains.”
“What does that stone you wear tell you?” asked Bracht, head ducking to indicate the talisman hung about Katya’s neck.
“That he is here,” she replied.
The Kern nodded. Tekkan seemed almost disappointed. Calandryll felt nothing: he wiped his plate with a hunk of bread, not much interested in further talk. It seemed to him that they must proceed on the assumption that Rhythamun remained in Aldarin, in the body of Varent den Tarl, and that speculation concerning his possible moves was fruitless: the sorcerer led the game and they could only follow. Were he departed, they could only hope to discover his destination and continue after; if he remained they must attack as best they could. Suddenly he felt a great impatience. He swallowed the bread and pushed his plate aside; took up his glass and drained it. “Shall we find out?” he demanded.
Without awaiting a reply he shoved his chair back, rising and drawing his cloak about his shoulders. Bracht’s grin was fierce as he followed suit, Katya a little slower, pausing to speak with her father in the Vanu tongue, her words eliciting a wan smile from Tekkan.
“Until later,” Calandryll murmured. “In the Seagull,”
Tekkan nodded and said, “Aye, until later. And may Dera and all her fellow gods go with you.”
THE coach was such as gentlefolk favored, a phaeton drawn by two deep-chested horses, the cab secured against the elements with narrow doors and windows covered by curtains of thick felt. Katya and Bracht, the hoods of their cloaks concealing their faces, sat side by side, Calandryll on the other bench, where he might direct the driver. The vehicle swayed on its leather springs, bouncing as it carried them away from the Harbor Quarter into the bowels of the city. The night was yet young and for a while they traveled busy streets, along the course of the Alda, the river hidden by the buildings that stood along its banks, then they turned across one of the many bridges and the roadway grew smoother, confirmation that they entered a more salubrious quarter. Soon the streets grew empty, the taverns and emporiums and their concomitant crowds left behind, replaced by the walled mansions of the wealthy. Neither Calandryll nor Bracht recognized the avenue along which Varent den Tarl’s palace was situated until the coachman slowed his team, studying the insignia that marked the stuccoed walls.
