by Dave Duncan
“Say I was deceived if you wish, brother, but don’t go farther than that, please. I remind you that I was questioned for days on end by Grand Inquisitor, and she never called me on a lie. I admitted that I might have been deluded by enchantment, but it all seemed real to me and the ten million crowns had been real enough. Six men went to Fitain and only two of us returned. That was real, too.”
As the voyage dragged on, the talk turned more and more to women. And hot, fresh food. Constant dried beef and salt fish became almost worse than chastity. The moon went through its ancient dance of phases and started over.
The changing relationships amused Rhys. Dad was the oldest by far, carrying fifteen years more than even Orca, and anyone else aboard would cut him to tatters in a fight, because of his limp and his long lack of practice. And yet, subtly, he had come to be recognized as their leader. Sharp’s sarcastic jest about Spender’s Army had now become fact. Age and experience had helped this transformation, yes, but most of it came from strength of character, the quality that Commander Montpurse had sensed in him so long ago. Good metal makes a good sword.
The long confinement and the ever-present menace of the sea had changed the others too. The unfamiliar environment had taught Sharp to curb his tongue somewhat and defer to Orca, but he missed the wider company of the Guards, an ever-present audience for his sarcasm. Trusty, who was more of a loner, seemed to find the mechanics of sailing fascinating, and studied Orca’s every movement. When Orca needed sleep, he usually put Trusty in charge. Orca clearly hated having to risk his ship on a long and dangerous voyage into unfamiliar seas. He resented his unwanted passengers, but never forgot that their mission had released him from even worse prospects back in Brimiarde.
Then came that glorious day when they hailed a fishing boat and the reply came back in Fitish. Dad had not forgotten his Fitish. After much shouting back and forth, he turned to Orca with a grin. “We’re just south of White Cape. They say we must have passed it in the dark and we’re lucky not to have run onto the rocks.”
Orca jumped into the hold and came back with the portoplan, which he spread on the deck for all to see. Grubby fingers pointed. “Two days to Casa Marítima!” More cheers. “Ask them when high tide is just now,” he added.
With the wind favourable, they cover their final lap in slightly less than two days. Dad pointed out the royal residence with its trees, its many buildings, and the pier where Burl had died. Sea Devil stayed well out to sea, and no one came to investigate the intruder. A couple of hours past that, as the sun sidled towards the horizon, Dad recognized the anvil-shaped sea stack that marked the beach they sought, under the ruined castle on the cliff.
Chapter 3
They expected to be staying a day or two, and Orca judged that the tide was presently high enough to risk beaching. This involved everyone jumping overboard as soon as the keel grated, all helping to drag Sea Devil up beyond the waves. Then Rhys and Trusty carried the anchor farther up, and planted it firmly in the sand.
When all that had been accomplished, they could look around and assess the cove, which was exactly as Dad had described it. No one had ever said openly that his memories of Fitain were all sprung from the delirium of wound fever, but everyone must have wondered that at times. Rhys knew he had, so to see this scenery with his own eyes was both a huge relief and marvellously exciting.
The cliff enclosing the cove was steep and high on the south side, but became lower and gentler toward the north. Beyond the beach, out of reach of winter storms, lay a small area of level ground furred in windblown tough grass, and at the southern end of that stood four red-roofed cottages. Everywhere the skyline was graced by a fringe of green forest, except on the highest point of the cliff, where the ragged high points of a ruined castle poked over the treetops.
“Castel Velho,” Dad said. “That’s its real-world guise. The northwest tower on our left, in the fairyland version is striped in black and white stonework to represent the element of Time. The tower to the right is built of red, indicating Love. I suggest we leave exploration until morning, though.”
“I know what I want first,” Trusty said. “And that’s a thorough wash in fresh water.”
“Not just want. Also need,” said Sharp. “Badly.”
“You should talk!”
No one took offence, because they were all shaggy and stinking after weeks in a floating dog kennel. Orca said he had some soap somewhere.
“Why don’t we leave soap for tomorrow?” Dad suggested. “Have a rinse now, and then build a fire of driftwood and cook up some hot food?”
Rhys led the way in the direction of the stream, hearing the others’ chatter as they followed. Above the strip of seaweed that marked the limits of high tides, years of wind and rain had swept the sand smooth. He hadn’t gone a hundred yards before he came to a complete stop, staring at the beach. Until then it had been pristine, but across his path ran a ruffled track, all pitted by marks of human feet. The prints were so indistinct in the soft sand that he could not tell whether the walkers had begun at the sea and headed for the cottages, or begun at the cottages and gone to the sea.
The other Blades gathered at his side and contemplated the tracks.
“If those huts were inhabited,” Sharp said, “there would be footprints all over the place.”
“Most likely a boat landed,” Orca said, “when the tide was lower. They came ashore, went to look at the cottages; and then came back again and sailed away.” That made more sense. Four prints per man, not two.
“I assume,” Dad said, “that a galleon like Ranulf must carry a rowboat of some sort?”
“Ranulf is a carrack,” Orca told him, “and, yes, she would have a jolly boat. You think the king sent a ship after us?”
Dad answered. “I wouldn’t be surprised by anything that man did. Assuming it was Ranulf until we know better, she could have outrun us, yes? Now, did they also send men up to search the castle?”
“Or did they leave some men up in the castle to wait there until we arrived?” asked Sharp.
After a moment, Rhys said, “And how soon do they plan to come back?”
“Let’s first make sure that they did all leave.” Dad strode off toward the cottages and the others followed, although only Sharp had thought to bring his sword. At close quarters it was obvious that the huts were uninhabited and had been so for many years. Roof tiles had fallen, all the window shutters and a couple of doors had gone—most of them wrenched off their hinges, probably for firewood, certainly not taken by the wind. The floors were covered in detritus, guano, and animal droppings. One hut was divided into stalls and had obviously been used as a stable.
Dad was mainly interested in the largest of the four, which was also the most southerly. He stood for a long while staring at the interior. “I spent half a year in here, Son. I lay on a pallet in that corner all winter.”
“With Mother looking after you?”
“She did, yes, but there was also the boy Joel, who brought us fresh food every day, but would never say who gave it to him.”
“The Marquisa?”
“Must have been. I wonder if she ever leaves her castle.”
Trusty and Orca had gone to explore the trail that led ultimately up to the castle. They returned to report that it was overgrown, as if rarely used but not completely abandoned. They had seen traces of crushed weeds and trailing branches broken off, so it was a reasonable guess that some of the feet that had crossed the beach had continued on up the hill toward the castle.
Sharp chuckled and clicked Speedy up and down in her scabbard.
“Let’s not be the ones to start trouble,” Dad said. “No one’s going to interfere with us until we’ve found the treasure for them. Even if there is anyone still up there, they can see Sea Devil, so they know we’re here. Let’s just have our wash and get that fire built.”
The food was the same
as always, but tasted better when roasted and swerved hot on a stick. Orca produced a flask of brandy, which he said he had been hoarding to celebrate finding the treasure, but now thought ought to be drunk at once, in case they never did find the treasure. This motion was carried unanimously, and when the stars came out, they were welcomed by raucous songs from five men seated around a bonfire.
Soft, dry sand made a much more comfortable mattress than Sea Devil’s oak planks, but Orca chose to sleep aboard in case the night tide tried to steal her away.
They were all awake before sunrise, blaming the screaming sea birds and the never-ending surf, but all of them well aware that they were just excited like kids on birthdays. The tide had begun to ebb again, so even Orca was willing to set off up to the castle. He retrieved the ropes and lanterns they had acquired in Isilond, and distributed them. Then he bowed to Dad and said, “Yours is the honour, Sir Spender. Lead the way.”
Although Dad grumbled that thorns and thistles were no honour, at first he did lead. He found the going hard, though, and his rapier was useless as a machete. After a while he stepped aside and let Trusty take over. Trusty refused to dishonour his sabre by applying it as a scythe, but he found a stout stick, which he broke into a usable length, and used to push thorns aside. After that they took turns being pathfinder.
The day soon grew hot, bringing sweat and flies. Here and there they saw clear evidence that a man or a few men had preceded them in the recent past, but no sign that horses had. Rhys found this a bad omen.
“What do we do if the ruin turns out to be no more than a ruin?”
Dad scoffed. “You hang me from the yardarm. Except we don’t have one, and you’ll have to settle for a tree. But the more the castle looks like a ruin, the more likely that nobody’s found the treasure yet.”
After about half an hour, they reached the top and turned to look back at the cove. They were all puffing from the climb, Dad little more than the rest of them. Sea Devil was still down there, very tiny and lonely and a long way from the waves. Then they turned and made their way through the trees and tangled shrubbery to the ancient remains of what must have been a proud fort in its day.
“I thought you said there was a moat, Dad?”
“There is—on three sides. There isn’t room between the wall and the cliff here, on the west. There used to be a postern in this tower.”
Rhys forced a way through more shrubbery, and there was indeed a small door in the ashlar wall, set back in a slight alcove. He felt a surge of delight at this further confirmation of Dad’s story.
“Is odd!” Orca declared. “Good, stout oak planks, reinforced wi’ iron studs. No rust at all. Is that new, sir, or was it loik that when yo were here?”
Dad thought for a moment. “I think it looked just like this, but you’re right—it’s unweathered. Of course it’s set back and sheltered from the rain.”
“The stonework around it looks to have aged about five centuries,” Sharp said, “and yet the wood seems younger than Thursday. No hinges in sight, so it must open inward?”
“I wasn’t able to open it.”
Trusty went forward and pushed, first with one hand, and then using a shoulder and applying all his considerable strength. There wasn’t room for anyone else to join him. He drew True and hammered one of the quillons against the timber. A timber door ought to respond with heavy, hollow thuds, but that one sounded as solid as the stones of the wall. He sheathed his sword and emerged from the alcove.
“Your turn, sir,” he said. “You once called it an invitation.”
Dad smiled. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He opened his pouch and brought out the velvet glove. “Right hand or left?”
“Right,” the others said in chorus.
“I lied about it, you know, that evening in the Bael’s Head. I said it felt like an invitation, but it was more like a summons. And it still feels like that, only much stronger. Let’s see what happens.”
He stepped into the alcove and pushed at the door. Nothing happened. He pushed again, harder. It swung wide open. He staggered forward, tripped over a threshold, and fell into darkness. The door slammed against stonework, rebounded, and clicked shut.
The other four all yelled and jumped forward. Trusty was first, but Sharp slammed into his back. Their combined weight made no impression whatsoever. Castelo Velho had swallowed Sir Spender.
Chapter 4
Rhys found a fallen tree that was the right height to sit on, and did that, while his three companions indulged in fruitless efforts to bully the postern into opening. They kicked it, cursed it, hammered it with rocks and logs, and even spat on it. Finally, they all gave up and came marching over to where their one-man audience sat, calmly chewing a grass stem.
“Why aren’t you more worried?” Sharp demanded. “This damned ruin just ate your father.”
Rhys shrugged. “Worrying won’t help.”
“Yes it will,” Orca said, “if that bloody bastard just tricked us all into bringing him here so he could get his hands on—”
Rhys was on his feet, rapier flashing in the sunlight.
Orca backed up a step. “Sorry. Don’ mean it.”
“Apology accepted.” Rhys sheathed Dragon and sat down again. “You don’t break into a castle with your bare fists.”
“Then what do we do?” Sharp snapped.
“I suggest we leave the ropes here and walk all the way around this edifice until we are certain that this is the only way in. Dad told us that there was a gate on the east side.”
No one came up with any better ideas. Orca insisted in going back along the path until he could see down into the cove and be reassured that no one was stealing Sea Devil. The ocean to the west and south was a sheet of blue, void of shipping.
When Orca returned, they set off to explore. Again agreeing to a suggestion from Rhys, they went due east, along the north wall, because Spender had never mentioned examining that side. They had not gone far when they saw another path leading off into the forest. It was narrow, but it had been used recently, for they found fresh horse droppings.
“A sign of life,” Sharp said darkly.
“The plot thickens,” Rhys agreed. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he had confidence that Dad was as competent to handle it as any man could be, whatever it was. Their mood had changed to frustrated anger, not helped by buzzing insects in the air and ticks in the undergrowth.
They found the start of the dry moat, choked now with bushes and fallen stone. They rounded the northeast tower and saw an archway just where Dad had described it, in the centre of the eastern face. There was no sign of the drawbridge he had mentioned, though, and when they came level with it, they stopped, baffled.
No drawbridge, and no easy way across that tangled ditch. The mouth of the tunnel was blocked by a fallen portcullis, a ferocious snarl of rusty iron. There was no space to crawl under it, and no practical way of climbing over it without incurring scrapes and cuts that would almost certainly fester. Rhys could see over the mess at one side, but he glimpsed no fairytale palace beyond, just more tumbled ruin and forest.
He looked at the three angry faces and felt compelled to defend his continuing faith in his father. “So this looks like a ruin, a complete ruin, and nothing but a ruin? So it’s telling us that we’re six hundred years too late? But you saw that postern open. It refused to budge for the rest of us, but at the touch of that glove it swung wide and then slammed shut again. You think that was just a coincidence, a freak gust of wind, maybe? After all these centuries? I say there’s more here than meets the eye, and I’m not going to give up, go away, and abandon my dad.”
When no one spoke, he said, “Trusty?”
Trusty nodded. “I agree.”
Sharp was scowling, but he shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Orca said, “I’ll give it ane more day. We’re low on rations, mates, and
we don’t know where on this coast we can buy more. Don’ those footprints in the sand bother yo?”
“And just what do yo do tomorrow?” Sharp asked.
“We bring tinder up here,” the sailor said. “And we burn through that door. That ought to smoke the bees outta thur hive.”
No one had any better ideas to offer. They completed their circumnavigation of the fort and went back down to Sea Devil, fresh water, and soft sand to sleep on.
Chapter 5
Spender cried out in alarm and pitched headlong onto a flagstone floor. The fall drove all the breath out of him, banged both elbows, and severely jarred his left knee. For a few moments he just lay there, letting the world steady while reflecting bitterly that today was likely his birthday—he had not kept exact count of the calendar, but if this was not the day, it would do as well as any. He hadn’t mentioned it. Understandably Rhys had not remembered it, but sometime this week he turned fifty, and geriatrics so ancient should not go adventuring in wild foreign lands. Fortunately, there was no one present to see his loss of dignity and bleat over him. And he had broken no bones.
Ever since that glove had dropped out of the box, back in Willows Hall, he had wondered about Desidéria. Even if the glove had been a summons—and it had felt like one—it had to be thirty years old. There had been a powerful physical attraction between them back then, but they had both been hot-blooded adolescents. He had changed. She must she have done so also. Common sense insisted that she might well be married or long dead. Could mutual lust survive the erosion of time? When did love ever listen to common sense?
But now he was certain that she was still alive. The behaviour of that door proved it, and he felt a rush of relief and excitement.
He sat up, found his cane, and used it to explore his surroundings. The postern was in a corner of a very small room. It was not a cell, though, because there seemed to be another door in the opposite corner, and now that his eyes were adjusting to the dark, he could see a faint streak of light under it. Using the cane and one wall for support, he struggled to his feet, still feeling winded and disgusted with himself. First he examined the postern. There were no bolts or latches on this side, so it must be controlled entirely by enchantment, which was not a comforting thought. The glove had no power over the door from this side, but he could still feel spirituality on it as he tucked it back in his pouch.
