by Angus Wells
“Is that it?”
He gasped as Varent entered the chamber, the warm air momentarily filled with the odor of almonds.
The ambassador shed his obfuscating cloak and stepped up to the table.
“Excellent! You have done well, my friend. Now, would you do even better and offer me a cup of wine?”
Calandryll gaped, nodding, and filled a goblet. Varent smiled his thanks, sipped, sighed, and said, “Delicious. Dinner was so tedious! You brother shares the bovine attributes of the creatures he takes such pleasure in slaughtering. And your father—I can see why you want to leave Secca.”
He emptied his glass and set it aside, resting a companionable hand on Calandryll’s shoulder.
“But I digress—the curse of the diplomat!—and you have triumphed.”
“It is the map?” Calandryll asked. “The one you—we—need?”
Varent bent over the table, studying the chart.
“It carries Orwen’s seal; it shows Gessyth. Yes, my friend, it is the one.”
“But it shows so little,” said Calandryll. “Where is Tezin-dar? It show no cities at all, only lines that might mean anything.”
“Ah, but it will.” Varent tapped the yellow skin confidently. “It will lead us—you!—to the Arcanum. My word on it.”
“But there are no cities marked,” he protested again. “It appears utterly random.”
Varent tapped his nose. “Thomus had foresight,” he murmured. “Alone of all the Domms Lysse has known, he saw that this might be needed. But he was careful! He knew that such a chart fallen into the wrong hands might well prove the undoing of the world, so he took precautions. Do you know how this was drawn?”
Calandryll shook his head.
“Thomus sent Orwen to Gessyth,” the ambassador explained. “Orwen and a band of his most trusted men. For years they remained in that godforsaken place, and more than half died there. Still more of fevers when they returned. All were sworn to secrecy, and Thomus employed sorcerers to set glamours upon them, that they could not speak of what they saw. He was a wise man, Thomus.”
“But how does it help us?” Calandryll demanded.
Varent chuckled. “Thomus was a very wise man, my friend. He had Orwen draw two maps.”
Enlightenment dawned: Calandryll chuckled in turn.
“And you have the second!”
“Yes,” said Varent. “To the unknowing eye, it is no more than some arcane antique—a seemingly random collection of notes jotted on a skin like this. But finer, thinner—transparent, in fact. Of itself, useless, just as this is useless. But place the one upon the other …”
“And you have a true map of Gessyth,” Calandryll finished.
Varent nodded, beaming.
“The only true map in existence, Calandryll. A map that shows exactly where Tezin-dar is to be found. More, it shows the dangers that lie in wait. Without both, Tezin-dar remains hidden in the swamplands; a legend. The two combined, however, enable staunch-hearted explorers to locate the fabled city; warns them of the perils they must face.”
He paused, his aquiline features growing solemn.
“You have done much already. Are you sure you would do more? Safer to remain in Secca, let there be no doubt of that.”
“And risk Azumandias’s success? Risk his raising the Mad God?” Calandryll shook his head. “No, Lord Varent—I am with you.”
Varent grasped his hands. “Dera guided me to you, Calandryll, and I thank her that she gave me so stout a comrade.”
Calandryll smiled. Varent gestured at the map.
“Best keep that with you. I do not entirely trust your father to leave my baggage unexamined. Now, as to your … is escape the right word? I found your mercenary and he will be waiting for us beyond the walls. I have paid him one hundred varre, and promised four hundred more on arrival in Aldarin; another five hundred on your return from Gessyth—his loyalty is secured.
“As for you, my promise stands. Can you gain my quarters unseen?”
Calandryll nodded.
“Good,” said Varent. “I depart after the morning meal—come to me then.”
“There will be ceremony; my father will escort you to the walls,” Calandryll said nervously. “How shall I go unseen? I am forbidden to venture beyond the confines of the palace, even. The guards have orders …”
Varent waved a casually dismissive hand, stilling his protests.
“Trust me. Come to my quarters and I assure you, you shall depart Secca with me.” His dark eyes twinkled with amusement, conspiratorial. “We play a magical game, Calandryll, and magic shall win you freedom.”
Calandryll would have plied him with further questions, but Varent smiled and retrieved his cloak, draping the sable cloth about his shoulders as he crossed to the window. Once again Calandryll gazed in wonderment as he stepped onto the balcony and murmured a few words in a voice too low to decipher, seeing the moonlit air shimmer, like water disturbed by the submarine passage of a fish, rippling silvery where Varent stood and then was gone, the scent of almonds fading behind him.
He closed the window, bemused by the ambassador’s occult talents.
Magic was not unknown in Lysse, but by no means common, and those glamours he had experienced were of more mundane variety. He had seen magicians perform for the amusement of the court, producing live animals from thin air, causing borrowed objects to disappear, and the Domm’s necromancer had several times raised ghosts on Bylath’s command, but he had never witnessed a man transport himself as Varent did. Perhaps that was how the ambassador intended to bring him out of Secca. With that thought in mind, he hid the chart among his clothing, then prepared to sleep.
He dreamed again, but this time there was no fear, no apprehension of danger. Instead, he flew above the city, looking down on the close-packed, crowded streets, where his father and brother scurried hither and thither, seeking him but never thinking to look to the sky, where he soared. Excitement filled him as he drifted toward the walls, passing over the ramparts to sail above the fields beyond, and then laughter as Secca dwindled behind him and he tasted the heady wine of freedom.
He woke with the dream fresh in his mind and early sunlight on his face, leaping instantly from his bed so that he was waiting when servants brought hot water and food.
He bathed swiftly and gobbled his breakfast as he dressed. Breeks of supple brown leather and high boots, a loose white shirt, a jerkin of sturdy leather: clothes suitable for travel, but not so obvious that alert eyes might discern his intent. He thought to buckle on a sword, but forwent that protection, deeming it too manifest an announcement of his hopes. He tucked the map beneath his jerkin and, assuming a casual air, left his chambers.
Servants worked in the corridors of the palace, but they paid him little enough attention as he strolled toward Varent’s quarters, accustomed to his random wanderings, so that he reached the ambassador’s door without attracting undue notice.
Outside, he glanced around. Three women scrubbed the tiled floor, their faces turned from him: he tapped on the door and slipped inside.
Varent awaited him behind the remains of a hearty breakfast. He was already dressed, splendid in blue and gold, the insignia of Aldarin emblazoned on his chest, his dark hair oiled, held back from his handsome face with a fillet of silver. He rose, beaming, as Calandryll entered.
“You were not seen?”
“No.” Calandryll shook his head. “Only some servants, and they did not see me come in.”
“You have the map?”
Calandryll nodded, patting his jerkin.
“Good.” Varent beckoned. “Now come here—it is time to effect your disguise.”
He moved close to Calandryll, his hands raised, palms outward, and began to murmur softly. The smell of almonds wafted on the air. Varent extended his hands, cupping Calandryll’s cheeks, the touch intimate and oddly embarrassing. Calandryll felt his skin tingle, his hair prickle; Varent placed both hands on his head, still murmuring: a droning und
ertone. The odor of almonds grew stronger, then dissipated. Varent stepped back.
“It is done: you will not be recognized. Stay close to me and any who see you will assume you one of my retinue.”
Calandryll looked down: his clothes remained unchanged. He turned to a mirror: saw himself. He frowned.
“Trust me,” urged Varent. “You see yourself as you are because you know yourself. To anyone else you now appear a somewhat homely fellow, with brown hair and a sizable wart on your chin. I rather like that touch.”
“Shall I remain so?” Calandryll asked warily.
“No!” Varent laughed, shaking his head. “Once we are beyond your father’s boundaries I shall change you back. I promise!”
Calandryll nodded, nervous now despite his excitement.
“We need only await your father’s summons,” Varent said, confidently, “and then we shall be gone. There’s no need to look so wary—my word on it.”
Calandryll nodded again: he was anxious to go, to end this waiting. His mouth was dry now and his heart beat alarmingly against his ribs. For all Varent’s casual confidence, he was still not entirely sure of success, and the servant who brought the announcement that the Domm awaited the ambassador seemed both the harbinger of good tidings and the bringer of alarming news; he was not certain which.
“So, let us go.”
Varent clapped him on the shoulder and strode confidently from the chamber, leaving Calandryll no choice but to follow in his wake.
In the corridor outside, the ambassador’s small retinue waited, accompanied by an honor guard of palace soldiers. Varent beamed at them, offering cheerful greetings, and walked leisurely to the wide staircase that descended to the main entry hall. Calandryll stayed close behind the tall man, his heart pounding loud enough, he thought, it must sound an alarm of his escape.
Bylath waited for them near the doors, dressed formally in a robe of green, a heavy ceremonial chain about his neck. Tobias stood beside him, wearing light armor, a sword on his belt, a silver helm in the crook of his arm. Behind, a squadron of twenty lancers stood at attention, silent and stern as the Domm bade his guest farewell.
Calandryll stood listening to the formal exchanges, his eyes downcast. He felt sweat bead his brow; swallowed hard as his father’s eves strayed in his direction, and gaped as they passed over him without the slightest hint of recognition. He raised his head then and stared at Tobias. His brother glanced at him incuriously, a cursory look devoid of comprehension: no more than the casual inspection of a faceless servitor. He heard his father offer apologies for his absence, and Varent dismiss it, then they were moving out through the doors into the courtyard beyond.
A small, gaily decorated wagon stood there: Varent’s servants loaded the baggage on board and the ambassador nudged Calandryll.
“Take the wagon.”
He climbed onto the seat beside a solemn-faced driver wearing the livery of Aldarin and clearly too conscious of the occasion to engage in casual conversation. His taciturnity suited Calandryll, who settled himself comfortably, beginning to enjoy the benefits of his disguise.
Varent mounted a tall chestnut horse, caparisoned in blue and gold to match his clothes, flanked by Bylath and Tobias, and the ambassador’s retinue took up position behind. The lancers mounted, forming into two squads at the head and rear of the party, and Bylath nodded to Tobias, who raised a hand and bellowed the order to proceed.
The wagon’s driver shook his reins, calling to the four matched white horses, and the beasts lunged against the traces, the metal-shod wheels rumbling over the flagstones of the courtyard, accompanied by the clatter of hooves. Ahead, the palace gates stood open, guardsmen lined in ceremonial columns with upraised halberds, saluting as the riders went past.
Calandryll began to smile as the shadow of the arch crossed his face and he saw the broad avenue leading through Secca stretch out before him. Townsfolk stood there, waving and cheering as the party moved at a walk into the town: obviously Varent’s magic was as strong as promised.
They paraded the avenue and passed into the Lords Gate, where nobles stood on their balconies to see them go by. Calandryll saw Nadama there, lovely in a white gown, her hair caught up in a net of gold filigree, and his smile waned as Tobias Dowed in his saddle, the greeting answered enthusiastically. She did not see Calandryll, her gaze rapturous on his brother, and he slumped, his excitement dulled by the knowledge that he would not see her until he returned; that she could not know of his great quest until it was done.
But then … What would she think then? Might her smile not be for him?
He consoled himself with the thought as the wagon rumbled on through the quarter into the Fletchers Gate, then through the Bridlesmith Gate into the Brewers Quarter and the city walls loomed ahead.
The sun was shining out of a clear blue sky, painting the white stone of the walls with an overlay of golden light, glinting on the armor of the legionaries paraded along the ramparts. The massive bulk of the west gate swung open and the column halted as Tobias raised his hand. Calandryll sat, forgetting Nadama as his excitement rose afresh, watching Bylath lean across in his saddle to embrace Varent; Tobias take the ambassador’s hand. Then they were moving again, the lancers parting to either side, Varent lifting his chestnut to a brisk trot, his own escort matching pace. Calandryll passed his father, passed Tobias, looking at them both, their own eyes focused on the figure of the ambassador.
Then they were behind him, lost as the wagon passed beneath the walls, shadowed, then rolling into sunlight again. The gate swung shut and the driver spoke for the first time.
“Be good to get home, eh? Secca’s not a bad place, but you can’t beat Aldarin.”
“No.” Calandryll smiled vaguely, turning on the seat to look back.
The walls of his home city stretched wide across the plain, high and white as the hopes of his boyhood: he was leaving, he felt, more than a place behind him and for a moment he experienced a pang of regret. Then his smile broadened as he thought of the consternation that must arise when Bylath discovered him gone. What would the Domm assume? That he had somehow managed to slip past the palace guards to lose himself in the city? Would there be a hue and cry? Would the watchmen scour Secca for him again? Surely no one would believe he had ridden out under their very noses with Varent: he began to chuckle.
“You’re pleased about it,” said the driver, assuming his laughter was at the thought of returning to Aldarin.
“Aye,” he answered, “I am. Very pleased.”
The driver grinned at him. “I don’t remember your face. You been with Lord Varent long?”
“No, not long,” Calandryll said.
“Thought you must be new. What’s your name? I’m Shadim.”
“Calandryll,” he replied.
“Calandryll.” Shadim savored the name. “Doesn’t Domm Bylath have a son of that name?”
“Yes,” Calandryll said.
“You related?” Shadim chuckled, enjoying the notion. “Bylath sow some wild oats for your mother to reap?”
“No,” Calandryll said quickly.
“No offense meant,” Shadim offered, mistaking Calandryll’s tone.
Calandryll smiled, shaking his head.
“I take none.”
“Good. Be a miserable journey if you had.”
Calandryll nodded, his attention caught by the figure of Varent. The ambassador had reined in and now stood watching the column go by. As the wagon drew level, he turned his horse close and waved to Calandryll.
“Come down: we’ve business to attend.”
Calandryll nodded, ignoring Shadim’s curious glance as he rose from the seat, springing eagerly to the ground as the driver hauled on the reins to slow the team. Varent waved the wagon on and called to one of the rearward horsemen.
“Darth, ride the cart a while.”
The man nodded obediently and halted, dismounting. He walked his animal to where Calandryll waited and passed the reins over, running to
catch up with the wagon. Calandryll climbed astride the borrowed horse, curious.
“We go to meet your mercenary friend,” Varent announced. “And return you to your own form.”
“Your men …” Calandryll began, silenced by Varent’s hand.
“Will assume my warty retainer has been sent on ahead,” the ambassador explained, “while two hired men have joined us. They’re accustomed to my little intrigues.”
Without further ado he heeled his horse to a canter; Calandryll followed.
They had soon left the slow-moving column behind, riding at a swift pace along the well-tended road that narrowed through the farmlands surrounding Secca. By late afternoon they came in sight of a caravanserai in a sheltered hollow and Varent reined in.
“I suggest,” he said, smiling, “that I restore your own face. As you know the Kern, he might be confused by the disguise.”
Calandryll ducked his head in agreement and swung to the ground. Varent climbed down and raised his hands. He began to murmur and Calandryll smelled almonds on the warm air. Then Varent touched him again and he felt his skin tingle, his hair seeming momentarily to stand on end.
“A distinct improvement,” smiled the ambassador. “The wart was a nice touch, but most unsightly. An effective disguise, though; do you not agree?”
“My father saw me,” Calandryll said, shaking his head, “and … and yet did not.”
“He saw what we wanted him to see,” Varent remarked casually. “Magic is a useful art, Calandryll.”
“Yes,” he agreed, chuckling at the deception.
“Now,” Varent set a foot in the stirrup, “let us find out if the Kern is to be trusted. Or if he has taken my hundred varre and run away.”
Calandryll swung into the saddle and cantered after the ambassador.
The caravanserai built around a well, three of its defensive walls given over to stables and storehouses, the third containing living quarters. A groom took their animals and Calandryll followed Varent into the cool, airy interior of the common room. A handful of travelers looked up as they entered and the landlord eyed Varent’s somewhat opulent clothes speculatively.
