by Dave Morris
‘So, if you’re not Jablo in person, you admit you’re his accomplice? Either way, you’re under arrest.’
If Caelestis had learned one thing in his life, it was not to waste time arguing with city militia. He snatched the night-lamp and dashed it to the ground. The watchmen scattered in panic as burning oil spilled out around their feet.
Caelestis darted away, froze by instinct, and ducked as a sword-blade whispered through the air an inch above his head. It was one of the Knights Capellar. Although no mean swordsman himself, Caelestis was no match for warriors of their skill. He pulled off his cloak, flung it in the Capellars’ faces, and ran off across the square.
He ran until he was quite sure he had lost them. Leaning on a barrel by the side of the road to get his breath back, he counted the cost of his run-in with Jablo. He had lost the gold-threaded cloak he’d bought in Ferromaine, dropped his hat while running, and now the militia would probably post a warrant for Jablo’s arrest using Caelestis’s description.
And worst of all, the Knights Capellar were looking for him. How could he make his rendezvous with Altor now? If he showed up at the Temple of the Roc they would kill him on sight.
Two:
The Sailor’s Story
Altor’s evening had been very different. At the Temple of the Roc he found a quadrangle teeming with warriors who were clad in chainmail despite the leaden heat. One of the Knights Capellar, seeing him enter the gates, came striding over. He made the sign of the cross look like a military salute.
Altor explained he was a warrior-monk of Ellesland and needed a place to stay the night.
‘You’re welcome here, brother,’ said the knight. He shouted something and a Ta’ashim servant came scurrying. ‘Go with this fellow. He will take you to the commandant.’
The servant conducted Altor into a high-roofed hall behind the quadrangle. It was like stepping into a cool bath as he passed out of the ruddy blaze of sunset and the shadows deliciously enfolded him. Altor breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Does hardship not agree with you, then?’ snapped a stern voice. A grim-faced knight stepped forward and sized Altor up. ‘If you seek to join the Capellars, young man, you must learn to tolerate the extremes of heat and cold—aye, and all other discomforts. We are prepared to die for Our Lord. Compared to that vow, the desire for luxury is merely frivolous.’
‘In fact I do not wish to join,’ said Altor, adding hastily when he saw the glare in the knight’s eyes: ‘I am already a novitiate of the Leandrine Order.’
‘The Leandrines, eh?’ The knight nodded, slightly mollified—though he still looked like a wolfhound with an evil temper. ‘Not a bad lot of warriors, I suppose. You’ve just arrived in Outremer, I suppose?’
‘Outremer?’
‘The Holy Land. But we Capellars have sworn never to call it by that name till every Ta’ashim heathen has been driven into the Gulf of Marazid.’ He spat on the floor. ‘I am Tobias of Vantery, provincial commander of the Capellar Order here in Crescentium.’
‘Altor of Osterlin.’
‘Well, Altor of Osterlin, if you have come seeking hospitality you’ll soon find we don’t go in for soft indulgence around here. The Knights Capellar are the soldiers of God. Hard tack, hard beds and hard training are the principles we live by.’
‘Of course.’ Altor nodded politely. Secretly he recognized Tobias as a fanatic of the worst kind: one so immersed in his religion that he sees no goodness in others.
Tobias beckoned the servant as though swatting at a fly. ‘Now you can sleep,’ he said to Altor. ‘Tomorrow at breakfast we will have a chance to talk.’
The servant led the way into the further recesses of the hall. Altor made to follow, then hesitated and looked back to where Tobias stood outlined in the doorway against the pale evening sky.
‘Sir Tobias, do you by any chance know anything of an artefact called the Sword of Life?’
Tobias did not even bother to turn around. After a long pause, he replied, ‘Have I not said we will speak on the morrow? Patience is one of the seven virtues by which Man comes closest to God’s perfection, is it not?’
Altor thought it wiser to say nothing. Shrugging, he bid Tobias good evening and followed the servant along a corridor. The man halted beside a threadbare tapestry, yanking it aside to reveal an alcove strewn with reed mats.
‘It’s a good job Caelestis went off to find more comfortable accommodation,’ said Altor out loud. ‘He would never have tolerated a pokey little hole like this.’
The Ta’ashim servant seemed to misunderstand Altor’s words. Tugging at the young monk’s sleeve, he led him to an opulent suite of apartments at the end of the corridor. High windows ran the length of the east wall, opening onto a veranda floored with delicate mosaic. Silk curtains patterned with sequins fluttered in the evening breeze.
‘This is quite the lap of luxury!’ declared Altor, looking around in amazement.
‘The knights slept here before,’ said the servant haltingly. ‘Not now. New commandant, he says no. Blankets of horsehair for them.’
‘Suffering is good for the soul, admittedly,’ said Altor. ‘But I think I’ve earned a spot of comfort for a change. Thank you, these chambers will suit me very well.’
‘You want supper, master?’ enquired the servant as he withdrew.
‘Yes. And... oh, why not? Just the one glass of wine can’t do any harm.’
As the servant scurried off to comply, Altor threw himself down on a satin-covered bed and yawned, sleepily content. Some monastery! Surely even Caelestis could not had found himself such an agreeable place to spend the night.
‘Welcome to the Tower of the Throne of Purple. I am Alexius of Ferromaine, your host.’
Caelestis looked around the inn with open distaste. Its only claim to the title of ‘tower’ was that it was exceedingly narrow, the furnishings would not have been appropriate for any kind of throne that Caelestis would care to occupy, and as for Alexius—the way he leered at Caelestis in the yellow lamplight suggested a man of unhealthy personal habits.
In an alcove at the back, half a dozen sailors were squatting around a gaming board throwing dice. Caelestis eyes strayed briefly to a shadowy corner of the room where a puffy-faced woman in violently coloured silks sat cradling a goblet of wine. She winked and showed a grey-toothed smile. Caelestis hastily turned his attention back to the host.
‘Will you require food?’ asked Alexius. ‘A room? Anything that you need, you have only to ask.’
Caelestis surveyed a plateful of greasy buns on a table beside the sailors and shook his head. ‘I’m hungry, but not that hungry. I’ll take your best suite.’
Alexius licked his lips, his long jaw and rolling eyes making him look like a horse. ‘I must warn you, sir, it is not cheap. For a night’s lodging, whether you take breakfast or not, the fee is twenty florins.’
‘Twenty florins? I could take ship to Ferromaine, reside in luxury there for a week, and still have change to spare!’
Alexius gave him a simpering smile. ‘I very much doubt it, sir.’
‘I’ll give you one florin—two if the bed sheets are clean.’
‘The authorities are very strict, sir. I must stick to the agreed tariff, which is twenty florins.’
Caelestis stared around in amazement. ‘But this is absurd. Your hostel is a ramshackle slum. You cannot possibly expect me to pay that much. Oh, never mind—I’ll take my custom elsewhere.’
Alexius, despite his gangling frame, skipped lightly enough to the door. ‘Allow me to summon the watchmen, sir, and they can escort you safely to another establishment.’ He stared Caelestis significantly in the eye.
Caelestis gritted his teeth. Somehow or other this wretch had tumbled to his secret. Naturally enough, in fact—why else would a stranger in fine clothes come in through Alexius’ door, unless he was in trouble with the law. Inwardly Caelestis cursed himself for being careless, but he favoured Alexius with a smile. ‘Let’s make it twenty-five florins
, and you can throw in a mug of ale for everyone here.’
The sailors heard this and raised a cheer. While Alexius went to fetch the ale, Caelestis strolled over to them. ‘What is the game?’ he asked.
‘Hard-a’-port Hornpipe. You know the rules?’
Caelestis affected an expression of mild puzzlement. ‘I’m sure I can learn, if you fellows will indulge me for the first few throws.’
The sailors laughed. ‘Sure we will. Draw up a seat and join in.’
Caelestis’s intention was to let the sailors win for a few throws before substituting the weighted dice that he kept up his sleeve. That way he hoped to sucker them into playing for high stakes. All the more worrying, then, when he found himself winning the first throw, and the second, and the third.
‘Must be beginner’s luck,’ said one of the sailors. His lugubrious face was not entirely convincing.
‘If this goes on we’re ruined men,’ said another, crying into his beer. Or was he crying? Caelestis peered at the man, a frown slowly clouding his face. The fellow’s mouth was pressed to his cup and his shoulders were shaking, but whether from misery or mirth Caelestis could not quite tell.
Caelestis was not comfortable with games of chance. It was time to introduce the weighted dice. He shook his sleeve, dropped the dice into his palm, and went to switch them with the sailors’ pair.
‘More ale, gentlemen? Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir.’
Caelestis looked round in annoyance as Alexius, coming up behind him with a tray of drinks, splashed foam onto his velvet jerkin.
‘Mind what you’re doing! I—‘
Caelestis broke off and jerked his gaze back to the gaming board. He had thought he saw a flicker of furtive movement out of the corner of his eye.
The sailors gazed back at him placidly. The man to his right pointed at two dice lying in front of Caelestis. ‘Your roll, youngster,’ he said with a broad smile.
Caelestis’s heart sank. He knew that his winning streak had come to an end.
An hour later the sailors finally allowed him to escape from the game. He had lost his waistcoat, a jewelled scarf-pin, the silver buckles off his boots—and, worst of all, the magic gold ring containing the Faltyn.
He had managed to salvage a few copper coins, in return for which Alexius led him to a dormitory at the back of the hostel. The rows of cots contained an unsavoury assortment of drunken pilgrims, filthy street hawkers, crippled soldiers and pox-ridden wanderers. The smell of unwashed humanity was almost overpowering.
‘Here is your bed. This pitcher contains fresh water,’ said Alexius. His manner had changed since Caelestis lost his money. He pointed at a shuttered lamp. ‘Do not extinguish that. Its fumes help to drive off biting insects.’
Caelestis watched him go, then sat down miserably on the bed. It comprised just a thin grubby sheet laid on a rickety wooden board. As Caelestis shifted his weight the bed made an agonized creaking sound, provoking a curse from someone dozing on the other side of the dormitory.
‘Lovely,’ said Caelestis under his breath. ‘I should have taken my chances at the monastery after all.’
‘Do you know the port of Shahmir?’ asked a voice out of the gloom.
Caelestis looked round. On the next bed perched a Ta’ashim sailor sucking a pipe.
‘I was once on a ship bound for Shahmir,’ the sailor went on. We carried our usual cargo of sandalwood, silk and ebony, and also we had a passenger—a learned sage from the land of Khitai. When he came aboard, he brought with him a very large crate which was placed in the hold.’
Caelestis had been on the point of telling the man to shut up, but now his curiosity got the better of him. ‘What was in this crate?’ he asked.
‘Ah, I began to wonder just that. Day after day I brooded on it, till at last curiosity got the better of me and I stole down into the hold. It was late at night and I was supposed to be on look-out. With a belaying pin I broke the crate open, and inside I found a statue—the statue of a horse made of ivory and ebony, as big as life.
‘Even as I inspected this marvel the ship lurched, throwing me to one side, and I heard the timbers of the ship being split like brittle twigs. A cry went up, by which I knew we had encountered the Dendan, a monstrous fish that inhabits the Gulf. If only I had been at my post in the rigging I might have spotted it and given the signal to change course. But now, because I had succumbed to foolish curiosity, the ship and all of us aboard were surely doomed.’
The sailor puffed at his pipe, filling the space between them with reeking blue smoke.
The story reminded Caelestis of his own encounter with the sea serpent, Jormungand, in the Mistral Sea. ‘And then?’ he urged. ‘How did you escape?’
‘As you value what a poor wretch like me can tell you,’ cried the sailor with sudden passion, ‘be charitable. I have no belongings left in this world, save for these ragged clothes, my trusty pipe and a half-ounce of hemp weed.’
Caelestis tossed him a single copper penny. ‘There is the last of my cash. It’s no use to me, any more than half a drop of water will save a man dying of thirst. Now continue your tale.’
The sailor bit the coin before pocketing it. ‘The ship was tossed to and fro across the waves by the monstrous fish, and I was flung into a corner of the hold. As I lay there, I beheld the Khitan sage scurrying down the ladder. He did not see me, but when he saw his crate was broken into he gave a deep groan. However, upon discovering the horse to be intact he became quite cheerful—not at all the manner of one who thinks he is about to die. Giving thanks to the idols of his homeland, he mounted the horse and touched a peg on its saddle. Immediately—and I implore God to strike me blind and dumb if I lie—the horse rose up into the air with the infidel sage on its back!’
Suddenly the sailor rolled his eyes up and stuck out his tongue, gurgling incomprehensibly. Caelestis gaped in amazement. Had God’s curse struck him so quickly for lying?
Seeing this thought in Caelestis’s eyes, the sailor burst out laughing. ‘Forgive me,’ he said between chuckles. ‘No tale, however grim, is complete with a comic interlude. To return to events on the ship, however: I, seeing that the infidel intended to escape on his flying horse, ran forward before he could gain altitude and dashed out his brains with the belaying pin.
‘By now the dendan was beginning to chew the timbers in its mighty jaws. I could hear the screams of my comrades as they were cast off the deck into the sea. I lost no time in clambering onto the horse’s back and pressing the peg. The horse rose up and up and up—out of the hold and into the sky. I looked down and it seemed as if, far below, a goldfish was nibbling at a paper toy.’
‘Intriguing,’ said Caelestis. ‘And so you escaped. Where is the flying horse now, may I ask?’
‘Ah, it was not as simple as that. For as I circled the ship, the infidel appeared on the broken deck. My blow had sorely wounded him. As the sea rose it lapped at his robes and I saw blood in the water. Then he spoke and, though he was a mere ant from up there, yet I heard his voice as clearly as thunder.
‘ “Fly, you foreign devil!” he screamed at me. “Fly, but you will not escape my curse, which is that your wife will do you a worse wrong than infidelity and your sons a worse wrong than ingratitude—” ’
The sailor paused. ‘The sea swallowed him up then, so if the curse has further stipulations I do not know them. However, flying on...’
Caelestis held up his hand. ‘Your tale is fascinating, but I’m tired and I need to get some sleep. Are you familiar with the phrase ‘to cut a long story short’?’
The sailor was so shocked that he removed the pipe from his mouth for a few seconds. ‘But I have yet to tell you of the island of singing flowers, the beautiful princess whom I wed, the return of the Yamatese sage—‘
‘You said he was from Khitai.’
‘Er, indeed, so he was. And the story of the lovesick ghoul and the pomegranate, my second ride on the flying horse, my travails in the desert of glass, and my eventual re
turn to Crescentium.’
Caelestis fixed him with a cynical glare, by now quite sure that the whole story was complete fiction. ‘You have summed it all up admirably. And so, good night.’
‘Wait,’ said the sailor.
As Caelestis closed his eyes and lay back on the bed, he was suddenly aware of something being pressed into his hands. He looked up to see the sailor bending over him.
He found he was holding a wooden peg. ‘What’s this?’
‘It is the peg that controls the flying horse. The thing brought me only misery, and I only wish now I had drowned those many years ago. I do not know where the horse is now, but if you find it and replace this peg then it may be of some use to you.’
Now Caelestis didn’t know what to believe. He turned the peg over in his hands. If he had still had any money he would have suspected a scam of some kind, but he had given the sailor his last coin. ‘I shall keep it, thank you.’
He lay back slightly more content. Tomorrow he would find Altor and together they could search for more information about the flying horse. If it really did exist it would be worth far more than the ring with that obstinate Faltyn.
The door of the dormitory banged open. Three soldiers of the night watch stood there.
‘Jablo the Knife,’ said the sergeant. ‘You’re under arrest.’
Three:
Imprisoned
Despite his protests, Caelestis was frogmarched to the city prison and flung into a cell.
‘Let me out!’ he yelled, hammering on the door. ‘I am not Jablo.’
A panel slid open and an ugly hunchback showed his face there. ‘Who are you?’ demanded Caelestis.
‘Your jailer. I am in charge of your wellbeing, but I’m afraid I don’t always take my duties very seriously. Enjoy your stay.’
The hunchback snorted with laughter and closed the panel.
