by David Drake
“I thought…,” Protas said, then looked away again. “I thought when I heard about you that you were like my father. With your art, I mean. That you didn’t use wizardry to hurt people. That’s so, isn’t it?”
“Well, I try not to hurt good people,” Cashel said. “I’ve met my share of the other kind, though, and some of them got hurt. By me.”
He understood what the boy was getting at now. Though he didn’t want to be unkind to Protas, he didn’t intend to let him think Cashel was going to be some kind of father to him.
He grinned broadly. “Look, Protas,” he said, “being a, well, a wizard the way I am isn’t anything to be proud of. It’s like Sharina having blond hair: it’s the way she was born and I was born. The way she reads things, though—that she worked to do. Sharina’s a scholar and Garric too; that’s something they did all by themselves. And I’ll show you what I did and I am proud of.”
Cashel looked both ways to make sure not only that there was room but also that nobody was about to step where he was going in the next instant; then he hopped to the railing. The ship heeled a trifle; Cashel was a solid weight, and The Shepherd of the Isles was both slender and perfectly balanced.
Master Lobon, the sailing master, turned and snarled, “Hey, you moron!” When he saw he’d shouted at Cashel, Lord Cashel the Prince’s friend, he swallowed the rest of what he was going to say with a look of horror. Lobon’s opinion of what Cashel was doing hadn’t changed, but he wished he hadn’t been quite so open with it.
Cashel was facing seaward on the stern rail. He crossed one bare foot over the other and turned so he could meet the eyes of everybody on the Shepherd’s deck, then started his staff spinning slowly in a sunwise pattern.
He grinned. The sailing master was right about the foolishness, but it was in the good cause of lifting Protas’ mind out of whatever bad place his father’s death had put him in. Besides, Cashel needed the exercise after a day at sea.
The staff spun faster. The gentle sway and pitch of the ship wasn’t a problem; Cashel was used to crossing creeks on rain-slicked logs, carrying sheep which were still muddy and kicking in terror from the bog he’d dragged them out of.
Everybody was looking at him now. Garric grinned with his hands on his hips; Sharina’s expression was a mixture of pride and love. How amazing it was that she loved him! The ferrules blurred into a gleaming circle.
Cashel lifted the whirling staff overhead, feeling the tug of its rotation fighting the strength of his powerful wrists. He gave a shout and jumped from the railing, letting the hickory carry him around so that he faced seaward again; shouted, jumped, and faced the ship, the staff still in his hands.
Cashel jumped down to the deck, flushed and triumphant. The pine planking creaked dangerously at the shock; he’d hit harder than he’d meant too. He was making it look easy—that was half the trick, after all—but it’d taken a lot out of even his great muscles. After the strain, his judgment wasn’t as good as maybe it ought to’ve been.
“There!” Cashel said to Protas, fighting the urge to suck in air through his mouth. “That’s not something I was born to or given. That I can do because I worked till I could. That’s something I’m proud of!”
But as he spoke, his skin itched like hot coals. Wizardry was building to the breaking point in the world about him.
Ilna os-Kenset squatted on the foredeck of the cutter Heron, a hand loom in her lap and her eyes on the sky. She was weaving a pattern that’d be abstract to the eyes of those who viewed it: blurred, gentle curves of grays and blacks and browns, the colors of a coast soon after sunset. All the hues were natural; Ilna didn’t trust dyes.
She smiled faintly. She didn’t trust most things. In particular she didn’t trust herself when she was angry, and she’d spent far too much time being angry.
Though the plaque Ilna wove looked to be only an exercise in muted good taste, the pattern would work deep in the minds of those who glanced at it. They wouldn’t be aware of the effect, not consciously at least, but they’d go away soothed and a little more at peace with the world and themselves.
Ilna smiled again. It even worked on her, and her disposition was a very stiff test.
“Give us a song, captain!” called the stroke oar, a squat fellow with his wrists tattooed to look like he was wearing bracers.
“Aye, give us The Ladies o’ Shengy, Cap’n Chalcus!” agreed one of the rowers from the lower tier, sitting on deck now that the ship idled along with only the slow strokes of four oarsmen to keep her steady in the swell.
The Heron had a crew of fifty rowers in two tiers, with a dozen officers and deck hands for the rigging when her mast was raised. She was a stubby vessel, neither as fast nor as powerful as the triremes that made up the bulk of the royal fleet let alone the quinqueremes which acted as flagships for the squadrons and fleet itself.
For all that, the cutter was a warship. Her ram and the handiness of her short hull made her a dangerous opponent even to much larger vessels.
Ilna’s smile, never broad, took on a hint of warmth. A fishing skiff would be a dangerous opponent if Chalcus commanded it.
“I will not sing such a thing and scandalize the fine ladies here with us,” said Chalcus, but there was a cheery lilt in his voice. He bowed to the ten-year-old Lady Merota, seated on the stern rail like an urchin and not the heiress to the bos-Roriman fortune, then bowed lower yet to Ilna in the bow. “But I’ll pass the time for you with The Brown Girl if there’s a swig of wine—”
The helmsman lifted the skin of wine hanging from the railing by him where the spray kissed it. He slapped it into Chalcus’ hand though neither man looked at the other as they made the exchange.
“—to wet my pipes,” Chalcus concluded as he thumbed the carved wooden plug from the goatskin and drank deeply.
He was a close-coupled man, not much taller than Ilna herself. Chalcus looked trim when dressed in court clothing; he was hard as mahogany statue when he stripped to a sailor’s breechclout, as he did often enough even now that Garric had made him the Heron’s captain.
In a breechclout you saw the scars also. Several of the long-healed wounds should’ve been fatal. If one had been, Ilna would never have met him. It was hard to imagine what value she’d find in life at this moment were it not for Chalcus.
“ ‘The Brown Girl she has houses and lands…,’ ” Chalcus sang in his clear tenor. His eyes continued to smile at Ilna till she leaned around to look at the sky again while her fingers wove. “ ‘Fair Tresian has none…’ ”
Chalcus had sailed with the Lataaene pirates in southern waters. He didn’t talk about those days or other days of the same sort he’d lived in the course of collecting the scars on his body. Ilna supposed Chalcus had as much on his conscience as she did on hers, though he carried the burden lightly as he did all things.
“ ‘The best advice I can give you, my son…,’ ” Chalcus sang, his voice shining like a sunlit brook, “ ‘is to bring the Brown Girl home.’ ”
Ilna didn’t ask whether Chalcus was a good man or a bad one. He was her man, and that was enough.
Something rippled and seethed behind the sky’s curtain of thin clouds. Ilna’s fingers worked, weaving contentment for people she didn’t know through ages she couldn’t guess. Her patterns would last for the life of the wool, and that could be very long indeed.
Ilna’d always had a talent for yarns and fabric that went beyond mere skill. She could touch a swatch of cloth and know where the flax had grown or the sheep had gamboled; and she knew also what’d been in the heart of the one who wove it.
By the time she was twelve everyone in the borough knew that Ilna os-Kenset wove fabrics softer and finer than anyone else around. Before she left Barca’s Hamlet at eighteen, two years past, merchants came from Sandrakkan and even Ornifal to buy her subtly woven cloth.
“ ‘He dressed himself in scarlet red…,’ ” Chalcus sang. The Heron’s crew, sailors as coarse as the hemp of the ship’s rigging, listened
to the lovely, lilting voice. Other men lined the near rail of The Shepherd of the Isles. “ ‘He rode all o’er the town…’ ”
Ilna’s road had led from Barca’s Hamlet to Carcosa, the ancient capital on the other coast of Haft; and from Carcosa she’d gone to Hell where at the cost of her soul she’d learned to weave as no human could. She’d used her new skills in the service of Evil and in her own service, because she’d returned from Hell as surely an agent of Evil as any demon was.
Garric had freed Ilna from the darkness she’d sold herself to for love of him, but nothing—no deed, no apology, no remorse—could undo the things she’d done while she rejoiced in the power to make others act as she and Evil chose. So be it. She’d live the best way she could, helping the friends who’d been wiser and stronger and knew Evil only as an enemy. And whenever she could, she’d weave patterns that would make life a little less bleak for those who saw them.
The patterns helped even Ilna os-Kenset, who’d never forgive herself for the harm she’d done through anger and pride in her own skill. Her fingers worked, and her lips quirked wryly. She wasn’t good at forgiving others either, if it came to that.
“ ‘… they thought that he was the king,’ ” Chalcus sang, and Merota joined in on the harmony. Ilna glanced back. The child was clasping the sailor’s left hand in both of hers, her face bright with delight.
It was remarkable the way the noble Lady Merota had taken to them, the peasant girl and the sailor who’d once been worse things. Merota had tutors, of course, and advisors to manage the properties and investments to which she’d fallen heir; but her parents were dead, and she’d never had anything like real friendship until she met Ilna.
Ilna knew how people treated an orphan girl without anyone to protect her. She couldn’t change the whole world; but while she lived no one was going to use Merota as a stepping stone on their route to wealth and power.
The clouds on the eastern horizon had grown into an overcast smearing the heavens like lime wash over gray stone. The sun, barely past zenith, was a bright patch to the south. The sky wasn’t stormy, and the sea moved as gently as ripe barley ruffled by a breeze. The threat, the lurking power, was no part of the natural world.
But it was present nonetheless.
“ ‘What news, what news, Lord Thoma?’ she said,” sang Merota, taking the women’s parts alone now. “ ‘What news have you for me?’ ”
Sailors were hard men, and sailors willing to serve under Captain Chalcus were often harder still; some of the Heron’s crew were little more than brutes. They listened to the girl with pleasure as innocent as her own.
It should come very shortly, Ilna thought, trying to read the pattern above the heavens.
“ ‘I’ve come to ask you to my weddin’,’ ” Chalcus sang, and the heavens split with a continuing roar.
A blue-white glare hammered down, brighter than the sun in the first instants and growing brighter still. Ilna jerked her eyes away, but even the reflections from the wave-tops were so painfully vivid that she found herself squinting.
The clouds bubbled back like mud shocked by a thrown stone. Something was coming, and it was coming fast.
“Man your bloody benches!” Chalcus said. He was shouting, but even so the words were little more than a whisper over the sound of the sky tearing apart. “Get a way on, ye beggars, or the Sister’ll swallow us down to Hell where we belong!”
As Chalcus spoke, he grabbed Merota by the back of her tunics and tossed her aft, under the rising curve of the stern piece where the helmsman stood. It wasn’t a safe place, but there was no real safety on a cutter; and as for gentle, that could wait for when there was time.
Ilna unpinned her hand-loom, folding it with the warp and weft still in place and returning it to its canvas bag. She worked methodically, making the same motions at the same speed as she would if the Heron had landed in Mona Harbor and she was preparing to go ashore. She always moved as quickly as she could without error; and if putting away her loom was the last thing Ilna os-Kenset did, then it too would be done properly.
The roar pounded the sea and the ships, a weight like a storm-wind that made men flinch from its force. Not all the oars were manned but most were, and rowers were hauling back on their looms. Chalcus’ orders were driving them, but reflex drove them also. Men try to do the thing they know in the midst of a chaos they don’t understand.
Ilna slung the strap of the loom bag and rose to her feet. The blaze in the sky threw her shadow as a black pool at her feet. She didn’t know why Chalcus had ordered the rowers to their posts; perhaps it was merely to give them a task and prevent panic. Another man might’ve been trying to get away, but the thunder raced too fast for the Heron or any other human device to escape.
Besides, Chalcus wasn’t the sort to think first of running.
The object struck the sea with a cataclysmic flash, as far to the south of the royal fleet as the island was to the north. Steam and water spouted skyward. There was a moment of silence, broken only by ringing in Ilna’s ears from the punishment they’d taken during the thing’s passage.
“Port oars stroke!” Chalcus shouted. “Starboard back water! Bring us bow on, you dogs, or the fish’ll kiss our bones!”
The Heron jumped as the sea slapped its keel, knocking Ilna and every standing man save Chalcus to the deck. The blast of sound through the air followed, noticeably later and less violent.
Water lifted in a mountain-high ring about the column of steam, racing outward at a pace beyond that of a galloping horse. The wave’s height lessened as its circle expanded, but it’d still be of immense size and power when it reached them.
“It’s the Shepherd’s sling stone!” cried a sailor, weeping over his oar loom. “Ah, mercy on a poor sinner!”
“It’s a meteor!” piped Merota, hugging the sternpost with both arms. “It’s a stone from the sky and we’ve seen it! We’ve seen it!”
“All oars stop!” shouted Chalcus. “Now together boys, forward and put your backs in it. Stroke! Stroke! Stro—”
The squadrons to starboard, south of the Heron and the flagship, were in confusion, dancing like straws in a millrace. Ships lifted on the rising wave, then slid or tumbled off the back. Some capsized and one trireme, older or harder used than most, broke in the middle like a snake under a spade.
“Ship oars!” Chalcus cried. “Wait for it my buckos, my heroes, for—”
A wave washed the cutter’s deck bow to stern. Ilna, caught unaware, grabbed a jib stay. She hadn’t been consciously aware of it, but in the crisis her instinct went to a rope and saved her. The sea rushed past, bubbling and powerful, but a lifetime of working looms had given Ilna a grip and muscles equal to this test and worse ones.
The Heron lifted from the back of the wave and bucked onto an even keel. Here the cutter’s short hull glided over what meant danger to a longer vessel.
Chalcus stood silent, surveying the whole situation while the officers under him sorted out their divisions. The crisis was over for the Heron. The wave-crest moved on, shaking ships like rats in a dog’s jaws and leaving flotsam in its wake.
“Ahead slow!” Chalcus called. “Holpa, Rennon, Kirweke and Lonn—fetch yourselves lines and stand in the bow. There’s men in the water as’ll drown if we don’t get them out!”
Ilna joined him. Merota, cautiously holding the rail, got up also and took the sailor’s hand when he reached back for her.
“There’s many that’ll drown despite us, too,” Chalcus said in a voice pitched for the pair of them. “We’re one small ship and there’s a dozen foundered or I miss my bet. But we’ll do what we can.”
“Chalcus?” said Merota. “That was a meteor, a really big one. Can we go see where it landed?”
“Where it landed, child…,” Chalcus said, looking toward the pillar of steam now piercing the roiling overcast. “Is a trench deeper than any man’s plumbed. There’d be nothing to see, whether it’s your scholar’s meteor or the Shepherd’s sling stone as
simple folk like me were raised to think.”
“You don’t believe in the Shepherd or the Lady, Chalcus,” Merota said sternly.
“Aye, there you have me, dear one,” said the sailor, but the banter was only in his tone and not his eyes. “Nor perhaps in the Sister who rules the Underworld. But if there was a Sister and a Hell for her to rule, I think we might find them in a place that looks much—”
Chalcus nodded toward the column of steam, still rising and now seeming to sparkle at the core.
“—as that one does.”
“Yes,” said Ilna, her eyes on the horizon. “And I’ve never found such a lack of trouble in this world that I needed to borrow it from the heavens.”
Chapter 2
This is the palace,” Protas said, standing in the stern of the barge that was carrying Cashel with the delegation returning to Mona, the island’s capital. He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’ve seen much better ones, though? Haven’t you, Cashel?”
Mona had a good harbor unless the wind came from the southwest, but it wasn’t big enough by half to hold the battered royal fleet. That wasn’t a surprise: Cashel didn’t guess there was a handful of places in all the kingdom that could. There’d be ships dragged up on every bit of bare shore for miles around the city tonight, trying to make good damage from the meteor.
At least the beaches of First Atara seemed to be sand, not the fist-sized basalt shingle that lay beyond the ancient seawall of Barca’s Hamlet. That was hard on keels, and for all their size warships were built lighter than the fishing dories that were the only ships Cashel’d known while he was growing up.
“I’ve seen bigger places, palaces and temples and even the main market-building in Valles,” he said. “I don’t know I’ve ever seen a nicer one. Still, I’m not one to talk. I spend most of my time outdoors when people let me.”
Cashel had thought about the question instead of just saying something. Sheep were better than people about waiting for you to think before you said something; people were likely to push you to answer right now. Cashel’s mind didn’t work that way, that quick, unless there was danger. Besides, it seemed to him that the folks who were quickest with words were likely to be the last folks you wanted beside you when danger came at you—out of the woods, up from the sea or maybe roaring down through the heavens like just now.
