by Allan Cole
He'd thrown it away when the meeting was over, but Myrna, Safar's mother, had saved it as a souvenir—just as she saved all of her scholar son's cast-off scribblings.
She'd remembered it when Eeda had asked if there was something personal of Safar's she could have as an aid in casting a spell to locate his position. Armed with the sketch, Eeda had labored hard in the days that followed. Making many false starts, but gradually working out a magical method.
At first, as Coralean studied the parchment he could see little difference from the original. Then he noticed faint lines—appearing like the marks of an artist's brush moistened only with water, which had since dried.
Still, he was bewildered—uncertain of Eeda's intent. “You'll have to explain this to me, my sweet,” he said. He shook his mighty head. “Sometimes, I must confess, your beloved husband—sage that he might appear to be—is not as wise as he makes out."
The caravan master immediately became alarmed at this admission of weakness. “But only sometimes,” he hastened to add. “Such as when I'm weary, or have not regained my sea legs. For as even Coralean's enemies will admit, lying jackals that they are, when it comes to wisdom, no man—"
Eeda put a slender finger to his lips, shushing him. Coralean saw the coldness had vanished from her eyes and her smile was once again tender and loving.
"Say no more, please, lord husband,” she said softly. “Lest you spoil the gift you have just given me."
Coralean didn't have the faintest idea what she meant, but he took her advice and said no more. Although he was not always wise he was never a fool, and so he let it rest, thinking understanding would most likely come later.
Then she plucked the parchment from his fingers, saying, “Here, let me show you, lord husband, what I have done."
Eeda took a small pouch from an inside pocket in her robe. She dipped two fingers into the pouch and drew out a pinch of glittering green dust. This she carefully sprinkled on the parchment.
"As you know, dear lord husband,” she said, “I've tried many spells, but all have failed. Partly because I was afraid to spoil the parchment, making it useless to us forever. And partly because I am young and lack experience in such things. However, this morning I attempted something new. A spell of my own invention. I was only waiting for your return to test it."
Eagerly, Coralean sat up in his bunk, pushing pillows behind him. “Pray, continue, O wisest of women,” he said. “Coralean is but a young, ardent student crouched humbly at your pretty feet."
Eeda gave him a sharp look, but then saw he was not attempting to make a feeble jest at her expense. It was only his way of speaking and there were no hidden meanings or insults. Once again her eyes softened and her smile became gentle.
She held the parchment up to her lips and blew. Coralean heard a sound like temple chimes swaying in the breeze. The green dust flew away, sparkling in the cabin's dim light, and hung suspended in a cloud.
Then faintly, ever so faintly, Coralean could see Safar's face forming in the cloud. He looked sad and careworn. His lips moved, forming a word, but no sound issued forth.
However, the canny old caravan master, a past master at eavesdropping on his competitors, was quite skilled at reading lips.
"Safar said, ‘Palimak',” Coralean whispered. “Palimak!"
Then Safar's face—and the green cloud—vanished.
Eeda held up the parchment for Coralean to see. A thin green line was now etched on its surface. It ran in a long arc, following the trade winds from Syrapis all the way to Aroborus, where it stopped.
"That's where he is now, lord husband,” Eeda said, tapping the place where the line ended.
She glanced at the mileage figures Safar had scratched on the side. “Shouldn't he have made better progress than this?” she asked.
Coralean nodded, brow knotted in worry. “Yes,” he replied. “His plan was to bypass there and strike for the islands beyond, where he would take on water and replenish his provisions. His thinking was that there was so little known about Aroborus it wouldn't be wise, or safe, to tarry there."
"I wonder why he stopped?” Eeda said.
Coralean shook his big head. “There must be something wrong,” he said. “And whatever that wrongness is—it has to do with Palimak!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
IRAJ'S SONG
The search for Palimak was stalled half the night by a swift-moving rainstorm that first reduced visibility to only a few yards, then became so strong they were forced to heave to and lay out a sea anchor to hold position.
As Brutar, the captain of the Nepenthe, said: “If we let the blow take us, we'll never find the place where the lad went off."
Biner took the airship above the storm, circling in the cold, thin air until just before dawn when the storm passed on to bedevil the lands beyond.
Then they resumed the search, retracing their path beyond the point where the battle with the tree-creatures had begun. Safar sent out two longboats to help scour the area, with Leiria and Jooli taking command of each of them.
Although he had little experience at sea, Safar was a skilled hunter—as were all Kyranians—and he used an old trick the mountaineers used to employ when speed was paramount—such as finding a lost child after a blizzard had passed, obliterating all trail signs.
But instead of human trackers he used the Nepenthe and the airship. The tall ship started in the center and circled outward, while Biner started at the most distant point and circled inward toward the center. This way the same area was scoured twice in a very brief time period and there was little chance of missing Palimak if he were still afloat.
Although he didn't say anything, Safar could tell by Captain Brutar's dark expression that he thought the search was pointless after so many hours had passed. Like most sailors, Brutar and his crew could barely swim—if at all—and thought Palimak had most probably drowned not long after he had jumped from the ship to escape his pursuer.
Brutar's expression became darker still when he saw how infested the area was with sharks and sea crocodiles. Fins constantly criss-crossed the calm seas, while hungry reptilian eyes poked just above the surface, looking for opportunity.
Once they came upon an enormous crocodile fighting with two equally huge sharks over bloody remains.
Leiria and Jooli moved up in the longboats as the terrible fight raged. Then dispatched all three of the creatures with their longbows.
To Safar's relief, the remains proved to be not human but the corpse of a serpent whose body was twice the girth of a man's.
Finally, Captain Brutar made bold to approach Safar. Embarrassed, he hawked and spat over the rail.
Then he said, “Beggin’ yer pardon, me lord, and it pains me somethin’ awful to say this to a father what's boy has gone missin'. In this old salt's opinion the lad's a goner and that's for certain. We can hunt ‘til the Hellsfires burn themselves out and we won't find nothin’ but what we already found—which is nothin'!"
Safar shook his head. “He's still alive,” he said. “And if I have to, I'll turn the sea upside down and shake it out to find him!"
Brutar sighed. “Dammit, man,” he said, “yer talkin’ like we was lookin’ fer a worm in a biscuit. Knock it ‘gainst a table and the worm falls out, real easy like."
He made a wide gesture, taking in the long, empty horizon. “The sea ain't no biscuit. And the lad, bless his soul, ain't no worm livin’ and eatin’ in its natural born home. This is the sea, man. Which means she'll even kill her own!"
The captain braced for an argument, but was prepared to stand fast. Personally, he didn't give a thin fishbone about Palimak, much less about Safar's tender fatherly feelings. He wanted to get on with the voyage and either collect his promised bonus or toss Safar and the Kyranians over the side if for some reason the bonus wasn't forthcoming.
Actually, it was his cherished dream to accomplish both—collecting the money and ridding himself and his crew of this pesky lot once and for all. And get b
ack to honest pirating, instead of fighting another man's enemies for pay.
However, instead of arguing, Safar's eyes lit up. He slapped the captain on the shoulder, saying, “Thanks, Captain! You may have just solved the problem!"
And he rushed away, leaving a bewildered Brutar staring after him. What in the hells had he said to be thanked for?
Safar burst into Palimak's ruined cabin and quickly found the doughmen as well as the two pieces of worm, which still showed faint signs of life. Then he sped to his own quarters where he dug out a wine jar, emptied the contents into a basin and knocked off the jar's narrow mouth with the blade of his silver witch's dagger.
Next, he waved the dagger over the worm parts and cast a regeneration spell. Sparks leaped off the point and each piece grew the part it was missing. A moment later there were two whole worms wriggling across the table. Safar imprisoned them with an overturned cup, then went on to the rest of his preparations.
After moistening the doughmen with wine, he formed them into a single ball. Then, with his skillful potter's fingers, he sculpted a single doughman of his own. Except, instead of Palimak's rather clumsy figures, this one looked like a tall, slender, broad-shouldered youth.
Using the dagger point Safar pricked in the features and in scant minutes Palimak's face appeared like magic—although it was art, not sorcery, that Safar used.
He slit the belly, pressed the worms inside, then smoothed over the wound. The Palimak doughman went into the wine jar, whose mouth was sealed with wax. He paused, taking in a deep breath to clear his mind. Now he was ready for the spell.
He went up to the main deck, the jar cradled in one arm. Leiria was already there, face pale as death, thinking the search had been called off. Jooli was just clambering on board from the longboat. Safar signaled the airship for Biner and Arlain to join him. And when all were gathered at the bow he asked their assistance in casting the spell to find the lad they all loved.
When he thought their minds were all fixed on the single goal he gestured, and burning incense appeared in his hand, filling the air with its heady scent. He heard murmurs from behind him, where Brutar and the crewmen watched, fearful of the wizardry he was about to perform.
Then, drawing on Asper for inspiration, he whispered:
"When in your mother's womb
You did dwell;
Tarrying between love's tomb
And life's Hell;
Did you ever wonder if the fearful Path
Where you tarried
Was close or distant from Fate's wrath?
Or were you carried,
Into this world not knowing
From whence you came
Or where you were going;
Bound for Nowhere on winds of pain?"
Then he threw the jar into the rolling waves. It bobbed about for a moment, then retreated swiftly as the ship sailed on. A great shark's fin cut in front of it. Everyone held their breath, whether from the sight of the shark or in anticipation of the spell, Safar couldn't say.
Suddenly, the jar reversed course. As if powered by a mighty sail it shot forward against the waves, moving past the ship's bow, then heading steadily away to the thin green line on the horizon.
Safar pointed. “That's where he is,” he said. “In Aroborus."
And then he gave orders to set sail and follow the magical device to wherever it might lead.
* * * *
The shores of Aroborus were a dazzling green, as if some wastrel god had cast emeralds from Heaven's treasure house into the sea. The wind blew fragrant, carrying the heady scent of spices and fruited vines. Clouds of birds wheeled in the sky, filling the air with their mournful cries.
The wine jar came to rest on a wide beach of white sand, pebbled with broken shells of many colors—swept up from the sharp coral reefs that ringed the narrow-mouthed bay. Somehow the jar had been swept over the reefs unscathed. But at no point was there a place the longboats could get through, much less a tall ship the size of the Nepenthe.
Safar could see the wine jar bobbing in a tidepool and for the life of him couldn't imagine the circumstances that would have allowed Palimak to reach the beach unscathed.
Brutar said as much, pointing out that common reason said if the lad had made it this far alive, he surely would've died when he was hurled against the reefs to be shredded by their razor edges.
"Makes me shiver just to think about it, me lord,” he said gloomily. “The poor boy comin’ so close to safety, like. Gettin’ his hopes up when he saw dry land. Then bein’ ‘et up alive by them reefs, like he'd run into a school of sharks."
He sighed. “And ain't it a wicked world we was born to, me lord,” he said, “to allow such an innocent lad—a lad loved by all—to come to such a terrible end? Makes a simple man like meself question his faith, it does.
"Damned priests are al'ays sayin’ the gods smile on the good folk who mind their laws. But if truth be known it's the bad ‘uns who al'ays get through this life the easy way, ain't it?"
Worried as he was, Safar had to bury a smile at this speech, coming as it did from the lips of a committed cutthroat and pirate. Not that he entirely disagreed with Brutar's philosophy. Which was that under the unspoken laws of the heavens, it was the wicked, not the meek, who endured and prospered. While priests made themselves and their client kings rich and powerful by preaching the opposite to the masses.
It reminded him of a blasphemous drinking song from his days as a rebellious student in Walaria. He'd taught it to Iraj after they'd joined up again and it had become Protarus’ favorite ditty.
He sang it whenever they got together in private to drink and talk as equals. As young brothers of the blood oath, whose sworn common goal was for the good of all.
An image rose up in his mind—so strong, so real, that it swept away the terrible present and replaced it with the pleasant past. In his mind's eye he could see Iraj sprawled on thick pillows. The slender waist of a nubile wench clasped in one hand, a cup of cheer lifted in the other.
And he was singing, the remembered voice so real it strummed Safar's own vocal chords. He had the odd feeling that if he opened his mouth it would be Iraj's voice that came forth, instead of his own.
Although he didn't humiliate himself in front of the others, he let the scene play out in his mind. Then suddenly he lost all sense of time and place, waves of peace and half-drunken joy thrilling his imagination as the man who was once his friend sang:
"Rich man, poor man,
holy man, thief.
The rich get heaven,
the poor man grief.
Alms for the holy man,
To the thief, baksheesh!"
Then the other Safar—the Safar of the vision—joined in, slapping his knee in rhythmic time and singing the chorus:
"Oh, there's dancing on the altar
For those who do not falter.
Sin and gold for the bold.
To the meek, lash and halter ... “
And then Leiria's voice cut through, bursting the vision like a knife thrust into a swollen bag of wine. And all the images spilled out, weakening him as if they were his life's blood.
"Are you all right, Safar?” she was saying.
He gasped, sucking in air like a man rising from watery depths, and emerged into the painful present. The wine jar still bobbed in the tidepool, but with Brutar nowhere to be seen. Instead of the captain, it was Leiria standing before him, looking up at him with worried eyes.
Safar coughed. Then he managed to nod, but the movement was jerky, clumsy. “Yes,” he croaked. “I'm fine."
He glanced about and saw that Brutar was some twenty feet distant, standing with some of his officers. Safar had no recollection that they'd parted.
"Are you sure?” Leiria asked. And for the first time, Safar realized she was whispering so the others couldn't hear.
"A few minutes ago,” she continued, “you were talking to the captain, then you suddenly turned and walked off as if he'd anger
ed you."
"I'm not angry at anyone,” Safar said, puzzled. “Why should I be?"
Leiria put a gentle hand on his arm. Its loving warmth seeming to act as a catalyst to cleanse the remaining dregs of unreality from his mind.
"Actually,” she said, “when I came up to see what was wrong, you were smiling. You looked so peaceful I hated to disturb you."
She made a faint motion with her head to indicate Brutar. “But I didn't want them to get the idea their commander had suddenly gone mad."
"I was only thinking,” Safar said. “About ... well, it doesn't matter now."
He knew this was an insufficient explanation, but was uncomfortable about saying more. Especially since it involved Iraj, whom Leiria hated with a passion.
"Whatever it was you were thinking about,” she said, “I'm glad it made you smile. It's been a long time since I've seen you look so happy."
She moved closer, soft breasts brushing against him. Familiar perfume and fragrant breath rising to fill him up like wine.
And they were suddenly just a man and a woman—lovers from another time and place come together once more.
Safar had the overpowering urge to embrace her and kiss her. To carry them both away to the bower of joy they'd once shared together.
Only the presence of Brutar and the crew kept him from acting on his impulse.
Leiria shuddered, aching for the embrace. “You can come to me anytime you like,” she whispered. “I won't send you away again."
"I know,” Safar said, voice rasping with effort.
Hurt came into her eyes. “But you won't,” she said, nearly weeping.
"I want to,” Safar said. “But I can't."
The hurt softened. And she recovered, smiling sadly. “For the old reasons?” she asked.
Safar nodded. “And more,” he said. “There's ... there's ... something that...” and he gave up the struggle and broke off the rest. “I can't explain,” he said again.
