With Pfnaravin still missing, John uncertain of his own acceptance here, he'd decreed that four guards accompany him wherever he went, their shields and bucklers clanking, swords swinging at their sides, leather under-armor squeaking in counter-point.
He ordered the same number of sentries to be posted outside his bedroom at night. (Not that guards and more guards assured your safety, John knowing that, in the late Roman Empire, it was usually the Emperors' "protectors" who assassinated them. Who guards the guards?, was a question as old as time.)
Zwicia and Platinia were installed in separate, but connecting quarters, John ordering soldiers for the women's protection.
* * * * *
Donning his white silk Mage robe in the early morning, armed men accompanying him, John breakfasted alone in the stone banquet hall -- had broth, cooked meat, candied eggs, and warm wine -- his guards then having to squeeze him through passageways clotted with mop wielding cleaning women. Also past minor officials: Aber, the prolocutor (whatever that was,) Bachur, Plenipotentiary (whatever that was,) Qrig the barber, Heimg the Vice Legate -- all eager to do him service.
Finally to reach his destination, the "war room" on second, its rectangular table dominating the sizable space, twenty, heavy chairs around it, the Mage-ordered map of Bandworld on its stand at the back.
A flanking table was still laden with charts -- showing sea currents, blowups of harbors and the like -- another, lower table, offering ink and vellum, everything just as he'd left it. After John's victory over the evil Mage, the room had apparently become a kind of shrine, the room's smell backing his "shrine theory." Stale.
Closing the door, as yet undecided about what problem to attack first, he approached the barely translucent window overlooking the island's "Beakward" side. Pulling open the casements, he leaned out to see, at extreme angles, the corner turrets of the palace, Stil-de-grain flags topping the turret spires, the banners limp in the early morning damp, though soon to gleam in gold and silver under a gilded sky.
At a distance, he could see a corner of the cobble stone courtyard, the final wisps of every morning's fog obscuring its gushing fountain, the mist now snaking away from the light as serpents slide for cover at the sight of man.
Farther down the rocky hill on which the palace stood, he could make out the city; fabled Xanthin; capital of Stil-de-grain; sparkling like a jewel in it's island setting, the island out-riggered by the fleet of Stil-de-grain. (At least the island used to have naval protection -- before outright defiance of John's battle plans had lead to disaster.)
Beyond the city lay Xanthin harbor, at that distance a mirrored glint of gold reflecting the egg-yoke sky. Though poorly protected at the moment, peace had produced a harbor crowded with merchantmen.
Later that morning, he must remember to make his customary visit to the child-King Yarro II. Followed by meetings with the king's tutors: the tutor Head, Haelb; Eidiz -- history and geography; Gera -- economics, trade; and Isab -- military.
Shutting the window, turning, he found the room itself to be as he remembered: marble and dark wood, this place the nerve center of the Mage of Stil-de-grain.
But not for long. Only until Ellen was well enough to make the return trip to Hero Castle -- and home.
As for Ellen, art historian that she was, she'd wanted a morning's tour of the palace, John asking around to find her a guide. Guards would accompany her, of course; plus a troop of soldiers should she insist on venturing into the city.
There was a knock on the door. Someone of importance, the guards instructed to keep out the run-of-the-mill flatterers, Mage worshipers, menus preparers, Mage-robe seamstress, and office seekers. John needed his privacy.
Leaving the window, sitting in the large, ornately carved chair at the head of the table, John was ready to impress.
"Enter."
A pause ... the door opening a crack, an eye atop a short body peeking in.
Though half a face was not much to go on, John recognized the man as Gagar, the messenger bird handler.
Gagar -- spy master. Trainer of bird groomers; the man responsible for shipping agents and their birds to all bands, messenger birds the fastest way of long distance communication.
"Come in, Gagar," John called, John coming to have respect for the little man, Gagar far from the mincing, head bobbing, sycophant he appeared to be on first acquaintance. "I'm glad to see you."
And, after a moment -- a golden parrot on his gloved arm -- the birdie man did as John commanded, Gagar tripping along the side of the table on tiny, timid feet.
As for the bird-on-glove, it was much like a parrot, this one yellow, meaning it had been hatched in Stil-de-grain, messenger birds the color of the Band from which they came. Taken to other Bands, when released, they flew back to their home Band, in this case, to the trainer, Gagar. In this way, resembling homing pigeons.
The parrot side of their function was to repeat whatever message they'd been taught to say. (When John had suggested just tying a message to the bird's foot, Gagar had been shocked at that suggestion, explaining that no self-respecting bird would leave the ground until pecking off such an offensive impediment!
Like the bird, Gagar had beady eyes, a long, downward sloping beak of a nose, and head bobbing movements. Talk about dogs resembling their owners!
Gagar and parrot arriving at John's end of the table, pausing for a few eye blinks -- man and bird -- it was time to find out what was up.
"Where is this bird from?"
"I cannot tell, great Mage. Until I hear a bird speak, I will be unable to divine its origin." Even Gagar's voice was bird-shrill, no doubt an asset in the training process.
"And you haven't heard the message, yet?"
"Impossible, sir!" Gagar was taken aback. "The message is for you to hear. Since the bird will forget what it's learned as it speaks it, I know not what it will say."
John had forgotten. The bird spoke, then forgot what it said. Useful in the spy-bird business; no worry about secret messages "shared" later with the wrong people.
"Of course. I knew that. I've been gone, as you know. Long enough to have forgotten a lot of little things."
Gagar again looked offended. How could any detail concerning his beloved birds slip the Mage's mind?
"Now that you've brought it, make it spill its guts."
"What, great Mage!?" Gagar shocked again at even the thought of a bird's "guts" falling out!
"I mean, make it talk," Gagar breathing a sigh of relief at John's explanation.
Taking a hop forward, the man transferred the bird from his wrist to the back of the chair nearest John, the talking parrot close enough for John to smell it. An observation John was careful to keep from Gagar -- who also stunk of bird.
The spy man first waving to attract the bird's attention, the creature's yellow eyes rotating, one eye on the trainer, the other on John, Gagar made a convoluted movement of thumb and forefinger -- the signal for the bird to talk.
"The . Malachite . Navy . In . Sea . throat,"
squawked the parrot in the unaccented patter of all brainless, talking birds.
"Thank you, Gagar. As usual, you have brought me interesting news."
Bowing his pleasure at being useful to the Mage, Gagar motioned to the bird, the fowl (in more ways than one) stepping back on the spy-man's arm, Gagar turning to hippity-hop from the room.
The door closed, John had some thinking to do about what he'd just heard.
Malachite War ships in Sea throat? No reason for them to be there ... unless positioning themselves for an attack on Stil-de-grain!
Jumping up, John hurried to the door, opening it to call to the nearest guard. "I need Admiral Coluth immediately. I don't know where he is at the moment, probably at the harbor. So send runners everywhere he could be."
"Yes, sir!" the guard said, saluting smartly, taking off at a run.
That course of action set in motion, John had to consider the possibility that Malachite agents had already been smuggl
ed into Stil-de-grain.
"I have reason to believe we are under threat. I want my personal bodyguard doubled, similar increases for the rest of my party. My companion, Ellen, is on tour in the building. Under no circumstance is she to leave the palace. I want maximum protection for all important personages."
"Yes, sir."
At that, the other three guards didn't know what to do. To accomplish the multiple tasks they had been assigned, they would have to abandon their post, leaving John open to assault. John could see it in their eyes. "I don't think any of us is under immediate threat. You can leave for now. I'll bar the door and be safe inside."
Still, they hesitated.
"Mage Magic will protect me, if necessary.'
And they were off, magic the answer to any vulnerability.
As for John, he was thankful Golden had "relieved" John of John's Mage-Gem, hiding the dangerous disk in the Palace before John's last return to earth, the Crystal so dangerous to the sanity of its user it must never be activated for any purpose short of a back-against-the-wall emergency.
Turning to enter the room, John bolted the door, thinking that even if the Malachites had failed to penetrated Stil-de-grain security, Pfnaravin was on the loose. No reason to think he was on Xanthin island, however. Also no reason to think he was not.
After that, the day went as John structured it. Coluth arrived, the Admiral agreeing that a Malachite attack was possible, Coluth as much in the dark about why this should be as John. A naval strike conceivable, the two men agreed that the harbor mouth should be blocked, John ordering that to be done under Coluth's supervision, John and Coluth taking a fast cart to the harbor, tugs soon struggling to drag the heavy, blocking stones into position, enemy ships now unable to enter Xanthin harbor without the risk of ripping out their bottoms on the submerged boulders. (Though merchant ships were now trapped in the harbor -- complaints sure to follow -- national security always trumped commerce.)
John was going to have the blocking stones moved after down-light -- in case spies were watching the tugs at work. It would be difficult to get the sailors to work after dark, he knew, everyone here afraid of night monsters: leviathans unleashed by the dark. But as Mage, he could get that job done, people more afraid of Mages-in-the-flesh than of nameless terrors from the deep.
Leaving no "stone unturned," John activated his secondary plan for harbor defense, another innovation he'd put in place on his last cross-world journey. As a secondary approach to harbor security, he'd installed rock throwing catapults on the heights; calibrated to guarantee "can't miss" bombardments on any ship "lucky" enough to get past the underwater rocks.
The harbor secure, John called a war council to meet in the Mage room -- Coluth, Leet, and the new army Head, Yona, the old Head dying during John's absence, Yona looking much like the last military leader -- stocky build, close cut hair, slitted eyes -- all officers in white uniforms, yellow stripping, gold sash of rank angled across their chests.
John thought about inviting Gagar and several Head Seconds ... but decided not to, "the more the merrier" a saying inappropriate to swift action.
Time to start the meeting. "Are we ready at the harbor?"
"Yes, sir." Coluth. Seated to John's left.
"What about the navy? How long until it's up to strength?
"Though progress has been made ...." Coluth need go no further.
"Are rams being built into the new ships?" Rams had been another innovation John had brought to this world, if by "innovation," you meant the introduction of the latest weapon in naval warfare on the Mediterranean Sea -- in 600 BC.
"Yes, though our sailors are ill-practiced in their use."
What Coluth meant was that there was still resistance to any innovation in the service, even one that had proved decisive when it had been tried. Nothing as hide bound as a military man, as John had discovered to his grief.
"What we've got now will hold them. How to break a Malachite blockade -- should there be one -- will be a problem to be tackled later." John hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
"If, great Mage," said the new Army Head, "their ships dare to block our exit, your Crystal-Magic will ...."
Same as always. If all else fails, blast them with magic, much of John's authority here depending on people thinking he possessed his Mage-Gem.
"We'll, see," John said, continuing the fiction that he could use Crystal force any time he choose. "In the meantime, everyone stay sharp." Nods all around.
"Admiral Coluth to remain, the rest of the council, dismissed."
Crisp salutes from everyone, the rest departing to supervise Stil-de-grain defense -- John hoped.
With the chamber door closed, John turned to Coluth, the Admiral stoically awaiting new orders.
"I want you and your men, plus the tug boat crews, back at the harbor just before down-light. We've got a little night work to do."
Coluth didn't flinch. At the same time, was unhappy.
"This is to fool potential spies who might have been watching us plug the harbor this afternoon. I want the blocking stones moved when no one is around to chart their new locations. And don't worry," John added, Coluth continuing to frown, "I'll be there, too. In my Mage rig."
"Rig?"
"Mage clothing. Pointed hat of magic, all that. You don't have to force the crews to work at night. I'll see to it that they do. Anyway, have you ever, in your life at sea, seen what's frightening them -- these so-called monsters of the deep that the darkness is supposed to set loose?"
"Ah ... no."
A hedged answer if ever John heard it. "What do you mean by that?"
"Not seen, them."
"But?"
"In the long ago," -- the way time was measured here -- "at a tie-up dock, a number of ships at the end of their ropes ...."
Coluth paused to see if John understood him, the admiral referring to the practice of sea-going ships rowed to shore at the end of every day, to what were called tie-up stations. Sailors would then tie one end of a long rope to the wharf, row their boat away from land, then fasten the other end of the rope to the boat. Since there was no tide, the boats remained moored that way throughout the night. Far enough from land to prevent attack by the night's land-monsters; close enough to shore that the terrors of the deep couldn't reach them through the shallows.
Every ship.
Every night.
John used to play down this monster business as superstition -- until he'd seen night-activated horror-creatures for himself.
"I've seen the Lxlop." Said to encourage Coluth to continue his tale, the Lxlop a savage combination of wolf and termite, these creatures of the night like owls, with eyes useful for hunting in the dark, but reduced to bat-blindness by the faintest light.
"One boat was not tied securely," Coluth continued, his rough, seaman's voice down to a whisper. "Somehow, drifted out to sea. Perhaps rowed by drunker sailors not knowing what they did. Out there, in the fog, I heard...."
Again, Coluth came to a stop.
"What?"
"A terrible noise! A bellow! Followed by the shattering of timbers, the ship being ... eaten. Screams. Silence."
Coluth, turtle like, drew inside himself, clearly saying all he was going to on that subject.
"But inside the harbor?"
"I agree. Unlikely. Even more so now that the harbor is blocked against ships ...." the underwater stones also serving to fence out the huge horrors. Not what Coluth said. But, clearly, what he meant.
* * * * *
Down-light approaching, John was at the harbor once more, dressed in his pointy-hat Wizard outfit.
John had just finished his speech in which he promised to wither the sailors with crystal conflagration should they fail to obey him when ....
"Ship coming!" all turning to see what the wharf lookout meant.
And sure enough, through the gathering fog, came a boat; rowed at flank speed and aimed at the harbor mouth.
Looking farther, John could
make out other ships, their oars flashing at double time, as if chasing the lone ship.
"What's the nationality of those cutters, Coluth?"
The admiral looked. Squinted to see.
"Malachite."
"The entire navy? Shouldn't they be at tie up by now?"
"Three ships only. No more behind them. Risky to be in deep water this near down-light -- unless allowed to enter the harbor."
"It's a chase?"
"They must want that ship more than life itself," Coluth muttered, thinking of the dread sea monsters that down-light would release.
"I want to see what's going on. You know of any reason why letting a single ship in the harbor could be a danger to us?"
Coluth thought about it in his leisurely, seaman's way. "No."
"Then send a tug to guide the first ship past the rocks, but not the others."
Saluting, Coluth pivoted to face the sailors, still lined up along the wharf.
"You! Captain of the lead tug!"
"Sir?"
"Guide that front ship in. But only that ship."
"At once, sir."
Sailors scrambling into the indicated boat, slamming their oar handles in the locks, pushing off, the rowers pulled for the harbor's mouth, the steersman avoiding the under water rocks from his memory of their location.
The tug boat "launched," Coluth made more signs, this time to the catapult crews on promontories above the harbor. To stand down. To let the ship in.
Fifteen minutes later, now near full dark -- John having to get out of there before people found he couldn't speak Stil-de-grain after down-light! -- the quarry ship scraped to a stop along the dock, the sailors backing their outer-oars to avoid crashing into a half-loaded merchantman.
As for the chase-ships, they'd turned back to row off at a fear-inspired pace, no doubt headed for the nearest tie up dock on the mainland before being "eaten" by some after-dark daemon.
The escaped ship's crew -- in the garb of Malachite sailors, some Malachite soldiers intermixed -- cast ropes to dock hands, the hands snubbing the ship tight against the wharf.
Ellen Under The Stairs Page 9
