by Angus Wells
It seemed to Calandryll he sought to bridge the gap between them, showing the mercenary a greater courtesy than their respective positions warranted. If so, Bracht appeared unaware of the gesture, or chose to ignore it: he nodded and said, “Your guards refused to let us out.”
“I thought we had agreed you’d not leave,” Varent said, unruffled.
“I’d not thought to find myself a prisoner.”
“A guest,” said Varent smoothly. “Whose welfare I’d protect.”
Bracht glanced at him and filled a mug with aromatic tea.
“I was saying to Calandryll, I’ll find a ship as soon as possible.” Varent raised a napkin to his lips. “And once you’ve finished eating we’ll examine the maps.”
“There’s my money, too,” said Bracht.
“Indeed. Half on arrival in Aldarin, as we agreed.”
Bracht nodded.
“Less the one hundred already paid.”
“A trifle,” said Varent.
“Less that,” Bracht insisted.
“You’re scrupulous,” smiled Varent. “A matter of honor?”
“Aye.” Bracht nodded again, staring at the ambassador. “Honor is important, do you not agree?”
There was a hint of challenge in his voice and Varent met it with a frozen smile, then ducked his head: “Aye, it is.”
“Shall we sail direct to Gessyth?” asked Calandryll, seeking to deflect the confrontation he feared might explode.
“I think not.” Varent shook his head. “At this time of year there are few captains will risk Cape Vishat’yi, so I’ll book you passage to Mherut’yi. From there you’ll travel overland to Nhur-jabal, and on to Kharasul. The Kands maintain a trade route between Kharasul and Gessyth—there’s a settlement built on a headland from which you can strike into the swamps.”
He paused to peel an orange, fastidious; then glanced at Bracht with the corners of his wide mouth rising a little.
“Ill provide you with coin to buy your way. And when you reach the outpost you can likely hire men to ferry you inland.”
“Who lives there?” the Kern asked.
“Hide hunters,” Varent returned. “They trap the swamp dragons and sell the hides to the Kand traders. The skins make excellent armor.”
Bracht frowned and asked, “Are they men?”
“Some,” Varent informed him. “Outcast Kands, mostly.”
“And the rest?”
“Halflings.”
Calandryll had never seen a halfling. “What are they like?” he wondered.
“Strange, I believe,” said Varent. “Some are quite human in appearance, but others …”
He shrugged.
“The makings of the younger gods,” grunted Bracht.
“Exactly.” Varent nodded. “But doubtless you can deal with them.”
“Doubtless,” Bracht said, as if there were no doubt. He pushed his plate away. “Now, shall we examine these maps?”
Varent smiled his agreement. “But first your payment—I’d see you satisfied on that score.”
“Good,” Bracht said, grinning for the first time.
Varent led them from the dining hall to a wood-paneled chamber with a single window set high in the wall shedding light on a cluttered desk at which sat a bald man in the blue and gold tunic of a household servant. He looked up as they entered, blinking shortsightedly over the rims of large spectacles.
“Two thousand, four hundred varre, Symeon,” Varent said.
The bald man’s nose twitched. Calandryll saw that the quill he held had splattered ink over the tip.
“In single coins, or decuris?”
Varent glanced at Bracht, who said, “Decuris.”
Symeon studied the mercenary for a moment, as if debating whether or not to obey the order, then wiped an ink-stained hand on his tunic and rose slowly from his chair to kneel before a metal door set into the wall. He brought a key from his breeches and swung the door open, dragging out a chest that he deposited on the floor. Hiding it with his body, he began to count the heavy gold coins into a leather sack.
Ponderously, he relocked the chest and returned it to the recess, locked that door, and then straightened, wheezing slightly, the sack in his hands.
“Twenty-four decuris. Count them if you like.”
He passed the sack to Bracht, who shook his head.
“I have no reason to mistrust you.”
Calandryll felt the comment was addressed to Varent. And that it lacked one word: yet.
If Varent sensed it he gave no sign. “Now,” he said, “let us examine the maps.”
They left Symeon with his accounts and went to the library. There, Varent latched the door and took several books from a shelf. It seemed that he exposed only a section of the wall, but when he turned a knob carved on the facing of the shelves, a panel sprang open and he brought out a packet of waxed paper bound with scarlet ribbon.
He brought the packet to the table and tugged the ribbon loose. Inside was a sheet akin to the chart Calandryll had taken from the archives in Secca, but finer, virtually transparent, marked with a delicate, spidery script, Orwen’s seal bright scarlet at the foot. Varent pushed the protective wrapping aside and smoothed the map, his touch reverential, looking to Calandryll with brows raised in silent question.
Calandryll unlaced his shirt and withdrew the matching chart, handing it to Varent. The ambassador set one over the other, weighting the corners, and smiled triumphantly.
“Dera’s blood, my friends, we have it!”
Calandryll and Bracht drew close, studying the map. One overlaying the other, the combined charts showed Gessyth in greater detail than anything in Medith or Sarnium, in greater detail than any map Calandryll had seen. Orwen had been painstaking in his depiction of the coastline of the Western Ocean and the interior of Gessyth, marking those places along the coast of Gash where a boat might find anchorage and fresh water, the sweeping bays that scalloped the perimeter of the swamplands; the promontory containing the hide hunters’ settlement was marked. It was a chart of minute detail, scribed with annotations in the antique language of the Old Tongue: Calandryll studied it in awe.
“It is there,” he murmured, touching the scarlet blemish marked Tezindar.
“Did you doubt it?” Varent tapped the charts. “See? As I promised, he shows the route to take. And warns of the dangers.”
Calandryll stared, struck as much by the maps’ antiquity as the details the long-dead chartographer had included. It was a thing of wonder, a priceless treasure in its own right. And it showed the way to legendary Tezindar.
“Dera,” he whispered, touching a nervous fingertip to a line of script, “He warns of dangers enough.”
“Do you translate them?”
Bracht’s question interrupted his amazement and he said, “Flesh-eating trees,” absently, ignoring the Kern’s snort as he continued, rapt, to study the wondrous document, “Swamp dragons; insects of some kind; poisonous flowers; flesh-eating fish.”
The Kern grunted, less impressed with the age of the charts than the information they imparted. “Useful,” he agreed. “Do we take these with us?”
“Best transcribe them onto a single sheet,” said Varent. “Calandryll, do you undertake that task? While I find you a ship?”
Calandryll nodded without speaking, still caught in the mysteries of the fabulous map.
“Ill find you paper and pens,” Varent promised.
FOR the next three days Calandryll was engrossed in his task. Varent provided him with materials and ensured that he was left alone in the library, whilst Bracht wandered fretfully about the mansion or amused himself with the compliant Rytha, and Calandryll devoted himself whole-heartedly to the copying of the charts. It was far more complex than he had anticipated, and several times he destroyed his efforts, deeming his transcription insufficiently accurate. His life and Bracht’s might well depend on the precision of his work and he was determined to recreate Orwen’s fabulous maps in the minutest
detail. His hand and eye, however, lacked the ancient chartographer’s skill and just as he thought he had succeeded, he would notice some line drawn slightly out of true and, with a groan of frustration, consign his efforts to the hearth and start over. Finally he hit on the notion of obtaining paper so fine he was able to read the charts through it, tracing their details to his satisfaction. Then he used a blunted quill to inscribe the minutiae on a thicker sheet, inking in the faint impressions and adding Orwen’s notes after.
At last he was satisfied with the accuracy of his copy, and though his head throbbed and his eyes ached with the effort of poring over the map, he felt triumphant. That evening he showed his work to Varent.
The ambassador sat staring at the original charts and the copy, eyes flicking from one to the other before he nodded, smiling.
“Superb! You’ve captured it all.”
Calandryll sighed with relief. Bracht, ever pragmatic, asked, “Is there hews of a ship?”
“A Kand merchantman clocked yesterday,” Varent nodded. “I’ve spoken with her captain and tonight we meet again. If he’s willing, you’ll sail when he leaves.”
“How long?” the Kern demanded, anxious to be gone.
“Three days, perhaps.” Varent shrugged. “He’s a cargo to sell and goods to buy. Can you curb your impatience until then?”
Bracht grunted an affirmative, staring at the ambassador with a quizzical expression on his swarthy features.
“So,” he said thoughtfully, “we likely have a ship. We have the map, and you’ll provide us with the means to purchase our passage across Kandahar and on to Gessyth. If the halflings or the swamp dragons or those sundry other perils the map mentions don’t kill us, we’ll likely find Tezindar. What then?”
“Then you locate the Arcanum,” Varent said, “And bring it out.”
Bracht snorted cynical laughter. “And shall such a thing lie unguarded?” he asked. “Simply for us to take?”
Varent’s face grew serious. He leaned forward in his chair, dark eyes solemn as they met the Kern’s.
“I do not know,” he said. “I know nothing of Tezindar beyond that knowledge already given you. I cannot say what awaits you there, or how difficult it may be to take the book. I only know that if you fail, Azumandias will eventually locate it and seize it. And if he does …”
He broke off, shaking his head as though the very thought appalled him.
“You must use your wits,” he continued at last. “I can offer you no more advice than that.”
“Should we be opposed,” Bracht said, “our situation will likely be parlous.”
“Dera knows, you speak true,” Varent said softly, seriously, “But I see no alternative. Should Azumandias lay hands on the Arcanum he’ll raise the Mad God and bring the world down in ruin.”
“We must attempt it,” Calandryll urged. “Can you stand by and watch the world destroyed?”
Bracht glanced at him, a tight smile curving his mouth. He shook his head: “I do not say we give up. I say only that we may not succeed.”
“We must do our best,” Calandryll said. “Let us face the problems when they arise.”
“Do you recall that first bout we fought?” Bracht asked mildly. “I told you then that a good fighter seeks to learn his opponent’s limitations, not simply charge him.”
“There’s little alternative here,” Calandryll protested. “We know nothing of Tezin-dar, so how can we study our opponents?”
“Unfortunately, Calandryll is correct,” interposed Varent. “Until you reach Gessyth there is no way of telling what opposition you may encounter.”
Bracht grunted, nodding.
“I don’t like it,” he murmured.
“You’ve come too far to renege now,” Calandryll said.
Blue eyes fixed him with a cold stare and Bracht said, “I do not speak of reneging. I’ve agreed to accompany you and that I’ll do. But it seems we walk blind into Tezindar.”
“You’re my only hope,” Varent said, his voice earnest as the look he cast Bracht’s way. “The Arcanum must be destroyed.”
The Kern nodded, turning to the map. “Assuming we succeed in taking the book, it’s a long way from Tezindar to the coast if we’re pursued.”
“Must we return to the coast?” Calandryll indicated Tezin-dar with a fingertip; moved it to the Valt Mountains. “Might we not flee to the Geff Pass and cross into Kern? Follow the mountains to the Gannshold crossing and come south through Lysse?”
“The Geff?” Bracht shrugged. “In Cuan na’For that place is called Hell Mouth. It’s the domain of creatures to chill the blood. And beyond lies the territory of the Lykard.” He laughed, once; a cold bark. “I am not very … popular … with the Lykard.”
Calandryll stared at him, inviting amplification, but Bracht shook his head. “Best return the way we know—we’ll travel faster.”
“You’ll do it, then?” Varent asked.
“I gave my word,” said Bracht, bluntly.
Varent relaxed visibly, his smile returning. “There’s some small measure of protection I can offer,” he said. “If you’ll accept magic as an aid.”
Bracht eyed him for a moment, then nodded.
“I think we’ll heed whatever aid you have.”
“Wait here.”
Varent rose, hurrying from the room. Silence fell with his departure, Bracht sitting with dour mien, Calandryll lost in his own thoughts. He had been carried, he realized, on a wave of excitement that had left him little time to contemplate what he faced. The purpose was noble—of that he had no doubt—and Varent had offered an escape from the odious fate planned by his father. With Bracht at his side, and his own burgeoning swordsmanship, he had assumed they would simply enter Tezin-dar and carry off the Arcanum, to return in triumph to Lysse. That was the stuff of legend, the material of the balladeers, but now, looking at Bracht’s sober face, he forgot that romantic optimism.
“You believe we may die,” he said softly.
“Yes,” Bracht answered. Then grinned: “But all men must die. It’s no reason to give up.”
Calandryll nodded, presentiment twisting a cold, hard knot deep in his belly.
“Are you afraid?” Bracht asked, still grinning.
He thought for a moment, then nodded: “Yes.”
“Good,” said the mercenary, “a little fear will make you careful.”
“And a lot?” he wondered.
“Will likely kill you,” Bracht informed him cheerfully. “Control your fear and it becomes an ally. Let it overwhelm you and you’re dead.”
Calandryll was no longer sure whether the chill he suddenly felt represented a greater or lesser weight. The hazards in their way seemed real now, rendered so by the freesword’s blunt practicality, by the realization that, in the final analysis, they did not know what they faced. But he was committed: he could not turn back; not now. The fate of the world rested with them: if they failed, Azumandias would secure the Arcanum and raise the Mad God. That must not be! He squared his shoulders, forcing a smile to his lips.
“I’ll play my part,” he declared.
“No doubt,” said Bracht, to Calandryll’s disappointment unimpressed.
The door opened then and Varent entered, a small box of dark wood inlaid with silver in his hand. He set it down and sprung the clasp, revealing an interior lined with purple velvet on which rested an innocent-looking stone, drilled through to allow its attachment to a simple leather thong. Varent removed it, holding the thong, the stone revolving slowly, a dull carnelian, save for a hint of fire that seemed to flicker tentatively within its heart.
“This serves a double purpose,” he advised them. “The talent required for the practice of magic is a rare commodity, and even those gifted with the power may not employ it without arduous training. This stone, however, serves to channel latent ability, enabling the wearer to utilize the simpler spells—with it, you will be able to render yourself invisible. In addition, should you encounter some glamour, the fla
me within will burn bright and the stone grow hot. Should that happen, you will know that wizardry is close. I would urge you to wear the stone at all times.”
Calandryll frowned incomprehension. “I am no mage,” he demurred, echoed fiercer by Bracht.
Varent smiled and hung the red stone about his heck, murmuring soft, guttural words. Where he stood the light shimmered, momentarily iridescent, and he was gone, the scent of almonds drifting on the still air. Calandryll stared, concentrating on the spot. He could see the walls of the ambassador’s library, see the window, but between there was a faint area of disruption, as if the light itself stirred, as if the very stuff of the air was somehow agitated. Had he not known that Varent stood there he would likely not have noticed, but by squinting, by forcing his tired eyes to focus on the spot, he could just perceive the shape of a man. Varent spoke again, and once more the room was perfumed with almonds as he reappeared.
“I believe you at least have the ability, Calandryll,” he said, his voice confident. “I felt it when we spoke in Secca, but this shall be the test. And the stone is perhaps the way to the Arcanum.”
“But I have no talent for magic,” Calandryll argued as Bracht frowned his dislike of sortilege. “Were that so, surely my father’s occultists should have seen it.”
“Those dull fools?” Varent shook his head, removing the stone. “Trust me. You must know the words, you must fix them in your mind and your pronunciation must be exact. Of course, should you shed the talisman, the spell is broken.”
He repeated the incantation, slowly, emphasizing the strange, tongue-twisting syllables. Calandryll attempted to reproduce them, succeeding in a vague approximation.
“Lower,” Varent advised, “and the words must roll together, the emphasis always on the second syllable.”
Calandryll tried again, eager to master the spell despite his skepticism. Bracht was less enthusiastic, his innate dislike of magic making him an unwilling pupil, though on the urging of Calandryll and Varent he aid his best to pronounce the arcane words.
It was not easy, the consonants fricative, the vowels drawn out, the language seemingly designed for throats other than human. They practiced until Varent was satisfied, then Calandryll was allowed to attempt the magic. He felt excited as he hung the stone from his heck and murmured the cantrip. And felt his skin tingle, his nostrils filled with the scent of almonds.
