Emissary

by Thomas Locke

  Finally the fires burning in the stone towers atop the harbor’s twin arms drifted past, and they entered open waters. Hyam took that as his sign and pressed the two boats to greater speed. Then more, and more still, until the wind that was supposedly blowing from behind them pushed the sails into a backward position. When Gimmit came forward to protest, Hyam cut him off with, “Lower the sails.”

  “Lower—”

  “We are sailing in the forbidden direction. It’s a moonless night. We must make all possible haste. Lower the sails.”

  Gimmit stared at him a long moment, then turned and called softly to his sailors. He used a signal lamp to direct the second vessel.

  Hyam moved apart from the others and shut his eyes. He centered upon the orb, then willed his attention down, down through the ocean depths and farther still, out to where he sensed the flow of power. He opened his eyes and said to Joelle, “Have the helmsman steer us in that direction.”

  But Gimmit himself came forward to protest, “You’re asking us to steer farther from shore and our destination.”

  Hyam had no choice but relinquish his bond to the orb and the distant source. “I am.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, these sows are just begging to founder and sink with the loss of all hands.”

  Trace saved him from needing to explain. “Do as he says.”

  “But—”

  “And fast,” Hyam said. He could feel the orb’s power waning.

  Gimmit sputtered, but in the end stamped back and roared his opposition in the form of angry commands. Hyam shut his eyes once more, searching down, down, and out.

  Finally the orb began humming in harmony with the power deep below, and the light spilled over Hyam’s clenched lids. “Tell Gimmit to steer a bit farther to port.”

  “You’ve found a river of power?” Trace asked.

  “A big one,” Hyam confirmed, and filled himself with the orb’s force, then extended it out. First to their vessel, then the other. Sealing the hull, cleansing the deck, scrubbing away the filth, scraping off the burdens of barnacles and seaweed. The vessels sliced through the water more easily after that and rode higher. The stench of caged animals was replaced by the fresh sea breeze.

  His work completed, Hyam sighed against the flood of weariness and asked Trace and Joelle, “Can you keep us moving? I must rest.”

  As he fashioned a pallet of sailcloth and sacking, Trace asked, “Why are we hurrying?”

  “Tomorrow,” Hyam replied, and was gone.

  The dream followed him out into the open waters, and his sleeping senses were soon filled with the reek of old ashes. A roan trotted above the cinders and the residue of death. Upon its back rode the crimson one. The sightless eyes searched the distance. Hunting.

  When Hyam shifted and jerked, he felt a gentle hand settle upon his cheek. The woman’s heart spoke through the touch, quieting him and easing him and forcing away the rider and sending his dreams into a calm and welcoming mist.

  Joelle left her hand in place, though Trace watched her, as did two of Gimmit’s sons. She knew they thought it was an act of growing affection, and perhaps it was, at some deep and mysterious level. But in truth Joelle used the moment mostly to accustom herself to this man she was only now coming to truly see. Not as the one who broke her free from her prison and made fast the friendship with Trace. Not the one of power. But the man whom she could trust.

  Hyam defied her every expectation. He gave because it was his nature. He wanted, but discounted his own desires. He was lonely. He hurt. And he masked it all very well. She wondered if she was the only person who saw the inner fragility, the aching wound where his home should have been. She had heard fragments of talk between him and Trace and Adler, about an orphan who had only recently learned he was in fact not sired by those he had called parents. She understood his fear over the unanswered questions. She saw how others expected him to push all this aside and do what needed doing. For what they called the greater good. And he accepted this. Because this was who he was.

  Her emotions were as confused as her own internal state. Touching his face was enough to create a hurricane of conflict within her heart and mind. She had survived by showing the world an iron-hard determination. Without speaking a word, he asked her to set down her barriers.

  Hyam terrified her.

  The next morning they breakfasted with the maps that had almost spelled Hyam’s doom. The mapmakers had felt guilty over seeing Hyam captured. So they had charged a fair price and gifted Adler a gilded compass. Hyam and the others admired the instrument over tea and bread and cheese and chutney in the first vessel’s stern cabin. It smelled far better now, but the walls were scarred and the furniture decrepit. Gimmit urged Hyam to leave things as they were, since nobles might be made to holystone decks but not be transformed into skilled carpenters.

  Gimmit traced their way along the course Hyam insisted upon, though it took them far out to sea. Ahead and to port rose the Great Headlands, a massive spit of land that marked the realm’s official end.

  “When we round the headlands, what then?” he asked.

  “I will find a new course,” Hyam said.

  When Gimmit looked ready to argue, Trace said mildly, “I trust the lad to do as he says, and so should you.”

  Gimmit ground his teeth for a moment, then said, “Two hundred leagues beyond the headlands lies Falmouth Port and the entry to the badlands. I visited Falmouth once as a lad. The approach gives me nightmares to this day. The port’s entry is narrow and guarded by black spears that rise high as the castle towers. You wait for the quiet between tides, and you beg the winds to give you just that one nudge to see you safely inside.” The squat sailor did not actually shiver, but his hands quivered as though still gripping the tiller. “You are allowed one chance. And for what? In the harbor there is only hardship and gloom, for all of Falmouth is built from that same dark stone. The castle is called Dragon’s Tooth, and for good reason.”

  “I wonder why the Oberons chose to reside there,” Trace said.

  “It is as I have said,” Meda replied. “The Oberons handed Ravi the crown and offered fealty, if Ravi would grant them Falmouth in perpetuity.”

  “But why?”

  “That has been argued over for four years. And the answer is, no one knows.”

  Gimmit set his mug aside and glowered at the map. “I can tell you about the port and the approach. But what lies beyond Falmouth itself, I have no idea.”

  “I served there,” Meda offered, and sketched out a swift overview of fiefdoms and feuds that filled the craggy land. “The clans are all related, and this only makes their feuds more vicious. They fight over everything. Water, sheep, gold, a gemstone that is as black as the rock from which it is drawn. Some say the badland clans could conquer the realm if only they were somehow forced to make peace among themselves. For they love nothing better than a good fight. And loathe nothing more than an outsider.”

  “A surly lot who shun the realm,” Trace mused. “It would be an easy place for chaos and destruction to go unnoticed.”

  “The Havering banker said there is only the Ashanta financier in Falmouth, and not another until Emporis,” Joelle said.

  “Emporis.” Gimmit shook his head. “There’s a name from childhood fables.”

  Hyam felt a vague unease, like a dark flower opening in his gut. “What is Emporis?”

  “A caravan city,” Meda replied, pointing to the unshaded region beyond the badland borders, right on the edge of the parchment. “I never visited there.”

  “If it exists at all,” Gimmit said.

  “Oh, it’s real,” Meda assured him. “I have met caravans headed there. They claimed it was the last remaining city of the ancients. A place beyond time, built of brick and stone as yellow as the surrounding mountains.”

  Joelle’s quiet intake of breath turned them all around. Trace demanded, “What is it?”

  “Dreams. Perhaps nothing but imaginings and . . .”

 
“I see in your face that it is far more,” Trace replied. When Joelle remained silent, he softly pressed, “Lass, look around you. You are surrounded on all sides by friends. Now tell us what you think might help us.”

  Her breath became unsteady as she said, “I have been traveling beyond my physical form.”

  Trace halted Gimmit’s outburst before it formed. “It is a common enough trait of the Ashanta. You did this while residing at the Long Hall?”

  “For a few months. It was often not under my control. Sometimes I went where I wished. Other times . . .”

  “You were taken,” Hyam offered.

  “I saw you once, or at least, I think it was you. In a desert valley. Not the one above the badlands, a different place. You held the orb. You were lost to a light that blinded me.”

  Hyam liked that enough to smile. Their eyes met for a time, then he pressed, “What does this have to do with Emporis?”

  “I have been taken to a city beyond time. Yellow and surrounded by desert ridges sharp as razors. A round citadel rises from the city’s heart, built from yellow stone.”

  “A vast tower that dominates the city,” Meda said. “I have heard Emporis has such a keep.”

  Joelle nodded slowly. “I have seen the crimson mage walk the battlements. And ride out through the city gates. And gather a ghoulish army in the valley below. Just as Hyam warned.”

  The grip upon Hyam’s core grew so fierce he could scarcely draw breath, much less ask Meda, “Tell me what else you know of this place.”

  Something in the way he spoke lifted all the other gazes in the cabin. Meda said, “Beyond the badlands is a great arid plain. No water for days. Where the badlands end and the desert begins rises a last lone mountain. The peak has been carved away, and in its place stands a walled city.”

  “Emporis,” he breathed, and felt a sense of locking down. Taking aim.

  “It has stood for so long, the caravan masters say it was a city before mankind ever laid claim to the realm.”

  “That is our destination,” Hyam said, his breath almost choked off by the turbulent power that gripped him.

  The room went quiet, save for the creaking timbers and the rush of water beyond the hull. Finally Trace said, “You’re sure?”

  “He is there,” Hyam said. “The crimson one has taken over the city.”

  Hyam turned and walked to the stern window. Behind him, the others began making plans. He knew he should join them, but just then he was too consumed by one other certainty.

  The crimson one had found him as well.

  42

  Hyam left them peering over the unfurled parchments and clambered back on deck. The sunlight did not dispel the tension that gripped him. Instead, he found it hard not to wince as he scanned the sparkling waters. A few clouds sailed along overhead. The sea was empty, the ships moving steady.

  Joelle climbed the stairs to stand on the bow deck beside him. “Something is wrong,” she declared. When Hyam hesitated, wondering whether he should worry someone else, Joelle pressed, “Tell me. I can’t help you unless you speak.”

  “The crimson rider knows we are coming.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  He struggled to describe the sensation he had felt when hearing the city named. He thought he had failed, but she cut him off and said, “Wait here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The others need to hear this.”

  She returned with Adler and Meda and Trace and Gimmit and three of the sons. She made Hyam repeat what he had tried to explain. The words came no easier the second time.

  And yet, when he was done, they all shared the same worried scowl. Joelle finally said, “In my travels, I sensed he was hunting me. And perhaps . . .”

  “Tell us,” Trace pressed.

  “Sometimes I wondered if perhaps I was hunting him as well.”

  Gimmit scanned the horizon, then told his oldest boy, “You’ve got the sharpest eyes. Scale that pole and plant yourself in the crow’s nest. Anything that don’t fit, be it spouts or clouds or the ruffle of a wrong wind, you sing out.”

  “Aye, Pa.” He scampered up.

  “What do we do?” Adler demanded.

  There was an uncommon comfort in these seasoned few trusting him. Hyam hefted the sack that held the orb, cinching it tight to his chest. “I need to push us as hard as I possibly can.”

  “If any see us, we might as well fly a wizard’s flag,” Gimmit warned.

  “The sea is empty, and speed our only friend,” Hyam replied. “Give me the compass heading for our destination.”

  Gimmit pointed ahead and to his left. “Five points off the port bow.”

  “Tell your helmsman to be ready to turn on my word.” Hyam walked to the bowsprit and shut his eyes. Gathering his forces, he extended his arms and senses both. Behind him the roar of commands and the swift padding of bare feet on planks faded away. He searched down, connected with the distant coursing power, and extended out and ahead, hunting.

  A vein opened not far from where they traveled, not as great as he would like, but coursing toward their destination. Hyam lifted his left hand higher still.

  “Ready about!” Gimmit roared. “And signal the other vessel!”

  Hyam pointed, the vessels turned, and he focused more intently still. He faced three tasks. First, the sea ahead must be flattened to a glassy expanse, smooth and slick and safe. Second, the two ships had to be linked so that the pace of one was matched by the other.

  And finally, they had to speed up. Hyam had no idea what the crimson one would throw their way, but he was certain the enemy was coming. Winning the race was their only chance of survival.

  There were shouts of alarm as the two ships drew ever closer. Hyam did not move.

  Gimmit called from somewhere, “Hyam?”

  Joelle answered for him. “Leave him be.”

  He could not actually lift the ships from the water. He tried, but because of either their size and weight or some force linking them to the ocean, they would not come completely free. Yet he could lift them higher, reducing the sea’s drag. And he could certainly increase their pace.

  The sound of rushing water grew steadily, and with it the crews’ alarm. Finally Gimmit roared loud enough to be heard on the second vessel’s deck, commanding them to be silent and hold steady to their new course. Hyam took this as a sign that the skipper was with him. He gripped the ships in his energy and pushed them as hard as he was able.

  The rushing sound grew to a crescendo, a sibilant tide of liquid cymbals. He knew the ships could go no faster when water began cresting up over the bow, splashing him in the face. Hyam opened his eyes to the sight of a long silver ribbon of calm water extending out before them, while to either side clamored both wind and waves. Their vessel plowed a great furrow down the center of the glassy lane. Their speed was astonishing. Hyam turned and saw the second vessel was following in their wake, so close a sailor could have leapt from their tiller to the other ship’s bowsprit. The men on both vessels watched him now in wide-eyed silence. The only sound came from the constant rushing seas.

  Hyam asked Joelle, “Can you do this?”

  Trace climbed the bow stairs. “We can and will, lad. You rest.”

  “If there is any sign—”

  “Rest,” Joelle agreed.

  He threw himself down and shut his eyes. But he did not sleep. The sound of rushing water formed a comforting backdrop, however, offering the faint hope that they still might outrun this threat.

  Hyam was up and eating a late lunch in the shade of the lee railing. He had twice tried to retake control of their progress, but Trace had sternly ordered him to hold off and stay rested for whatever loomed beyond the horizon. Hyam liked how the old mage spoke quietly with Joelle, extending his arms and inviting her to copy his example by shutting her beautiful eyes and facing the ribbon ahead, sensing the dominions beyond human sight and reach. Trace spoke words too soft to carry, and Joelle opened her eyes to smile
her thanks.

  The day was warm and the air sea-sweet. Hyam tried to tell himself the empty sea held no threat. But his gut said otherwise. Every now and then he lifted his head above the railing and checked their surroundings. But mostly he trusted the youth in the crow’s nest. And the skipper, who made sure his son remained alert by calling up, “Anything?”

  “Nothing, Pa.”

  “You better not be dozing up there!”

  “I’ve never been more awake. Though there’s nary a thing to see, not even a gull.”

  “Keep a tight eye on the horizon, boy!”

  His son sat with his back on the mast, his feet dangling over the roost’s narrow ledge. “I am, Pa. Don’t fuss so.”

  Gimmit had scarcely turned away when the lad called down, “Pa!”

  “What is it?”

  The entire vessel watched as the boy rose to his feet. He squinted into the distance beyond the second vessel, followed by a hundred and more pairs of eyes.

  “Speak to me, lad!”

  “I thought I saw . . .”

  “Where away?”

  “Dead astern. But now I can’t . . .” He jerked and pointed. “There it is again!”

  Hyam still saw nothing. But he no longer needed to. He turned to Trace and said, “It’s him.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Hyam gave a grim nod. “I can feel it.”

  Gimmit heard the exchange and called over, “The crimson rider?”

  “Yes. He’s coming.”

  Soon, too soon, their foe arrived. The sight was so incongruous it was hard to take in. At first it appeared as merely a great lump drawn skyward from the sea. But the nearer it drew, the more ferocious became the spectacle. For this was no mere wave. No rush of water they might seek to ride over and escape.

  It was alive. A great heaving mass pounded upon hooves of sea and froth. These liquid fiends raced toward them, driven by a single unified purpose. To attack, to devour, to destroy.