by Angus Wells
“Come morning we’d best seek a boat,” he murmured.
“If such can be found,” Bracht stretched on the bed. “From what we heard, I doubt there’s a merchantman going north.”
“The warboats heed not wait on the winds,” Calandryll replied. “They’ve oarsmen.”
“Ana are likely pirates,” said the Kern, “willing to cut our throats for the coin we carry.”
“We’d heed go wary,” Calandryll agreed. “But we’ve blades to defend ourselves.”
Bracht chuckled morosely: “I’d best secure more of ek’Jemm’s nostrum, then—should that sickness afflict me again I’ll be of little use.”
Calandryll nodded, turning from the window.
“What other choice is there?” He answered his own question as Bracht shrugged. “Do we wait for the winds to shift, one mage or the other may overtake us. And if we linger here, we may face the Chaipaku again.”
“There’s that,” Bracht agreed. “A warboat, then; if we’ve no other choice.”
They slept then, as best they could on beds rapidly damp with sweat, the night alive with the sound of revelry and the stranger cries that drifted from the jungles, finding little respite with the sun’s rising, for that brought only a brief freshening of the breeze before the cloying heat descended again. They repaired to the common room where they broke their fast with bread and fruit and cheese, then found their way to the harbor.
Two merchantmen departed as they watched, sails bellying to carry the vessels clear of the estuary, their course southeastward, three warboats, each flying the Tyrant’s flag, moving in escort.
“Conscripted to the Tyrant’s cause. Folk say that civil war stirs in the north.”
They turned to find a grizzled man, a carved wood stump where his left leg had been, grinning at them from a bollard. A pipe jutted from his bearded lips, emitting a faint aroma of the narcotic tobacco favored by the Kands. He nodded pleasantly, removing the pipe to knock dottle loose.
“Sathoman ek’Hennem moves on Mhazomul, it seems, and the Tyrant looks to reinforce the garrison there. Poor hews for traders, that—they’ll find their craft taken for supply ships and transport, and little enough reward for their loss.”
“What do they lose?” Calandryll asked. “Surely their cargoes are discharged?”
“Surely,” the old man agreed, “but it’s the habit of the captains who venture the early passage round Cape Vishat’yi to lie up here until the winds shift and return with dragon hides. Those sail empty—to Ghombalar, at least; and what they’ll get from the Tyrant for that service is poor recompense for an empty hold.”
“And when,” Calandryll inquired casually, “will the winds shift?”
The old man sniffed, as if tasting the breeze. “A month at least. Perhaps longer.”
“And no vessel sails north before?”
“Not into the swamp winds,” declared the ancient, tamping fresh tobacco into his pipe.
Calandryll surveyed the sleek hulls of the warboats rocking on the changing tide. “Those can surely brave the winds?” he asked.
The old man struck a flint, lighting the pipe, puffing vigorously before he replied.
“You’re from Lysse?” And when Calandryll nodded, “Most of those sea wolves fly the Tyrant’s standard—they’re come to bring the merchants safely up the coast. And persuade the more reluctant captains of their duty. The rest are corsairs, looking to pick off likely craft. There’s no profit for them in Gessyth. Nor would any sane man venture to that godforsaken place. See this?” He slapped his wooden leg. “Was a dragon did this to me. I sailed with Johannen ek’Leman on the Wind’s Pride. A hold full of hides, he promised, and a share for every man of the crew—I paid for my share with my leg! A Burashdamned dragon came after our longboat and put seven of us in the water. Four died and the cursed beast took my leg before Johannen drove it off.” He shook his head, sucking deep on his pipe, calming as the narcotic took effect. “No, no man in possession of his wits would sail for Gessyth unless there’s guaranteed profit.”
“Suppose,” Calandryll said, “that reward was offered?”
“You’d hire a boat to reach that hell? Why?”
Calandryll smiled, shrugging; offering no explanation. The old man spat, staring at him as if judging his sanity and finding it wanting. “You’ll find none to take you,” he said, weather-beaten face solemn, “and if you flaunt such a purse as a sea rover would demand, you’ll find a knife between your shoulders and your coin taken. You want to sail to Gessyth? Wait for the wind to shift and travel with a merchant—if any are left.”
“It would seem none will be,” Calandryll said.
“Likely not,” nodded the old man amiably, “and likely you’ll live longer for it.”
Calandryll smiled grimly: the one-legged man confirmed Bracht’s doubts, but still Gessyth was their destination and passage must be found somehow, regardless of the dangers. He ducked his head in farewell, turning along the wharf, the ancient’s parting words ringing in his ears.
“You’ll find nothing in Gessyth, and death in the going.”
“An unfavorable prophecy,” Bracht remarked.
“We have no choice,” he said.
“No,” the Kern agreed, and they walked in silence along the cobbles, eyes on the vessels moored in the estuary.
THE presence of the Tyrant’s soldiers was more obvious now, knots of armored men with the scarlet puggarees wound about their helms standing about the waterfront, their officers in conversation, often heated, with sea captains who protested the seizure of their ships, or accepted the claiming with resignation. A squad of archers was dispatched to each vessel and as the morning grew older it became increasingly obvious that passage must be hard to find. At noon they found a tavern and reviewed their situation, deciding that the remainder of the day was best spent in search of some corsair willing to undertake the journey.
It was a decision easier made than implemented, for the warboats not marked with the Tyrant’s flag were unmanned and their inquiries as to the whereabouts of the masters were met with evasions, or blank refusals. As dusk approached they had made little headway, beyond learning that they might—perhaps—find some captain willing to lend an ear in the taverns of the Beggars Gate.
They ate dinner in the Waterboy and replaced their sweat-soaked shirts before pursuing their elusive quarry.
The quarter to which they were directed was hard against Kharasul’s western edge, as if ostracized, a maze of narrow alleys and small squares, noisome with the reek of liquor and overrun gutters, rats busy among the spillage despite the crowds thronging the streets. The taverns were no more fragrant, their common rooms smoky, the floors puddled with spilled drink, the men settled at the tables hard-eyed, the women with them no softer. Calandryll realized that he went with left hand about his scabbard, ready to draw the straightsword; and saw that Bracht did the same, his eyes flicking constantly about.
In three taverns the very mention of passage to Gessyth elicited roars of laughter and the suggestion that they find some captain with mind sufficiently addled to undertake the journey, but not bother sane men; and in others they received the warily sympathetic looks that spoke of doubt as to their sanity. In one a man promised to take them there if they would only purchase him a boat; and in another the landlord warned them away, for fear their throats would be cut. Toward midnight they found themselves in a square a little quieter than the rest, the city wall rising above the plaza, buildings on three sides, painted pale by the gibbous moon. They entered the closest tavern and called for ale, experience by now prompting them to remain silent until they saw some likely prospect.
The drinkers seemed no different to all the others: swords at their sides and the look of men ready to use the blades on a moment’s provocation. Dark-tanned faces eyed them with idle curiosity or open hostility, as if the very presence of two men markedly not of their fraternity was occasion to seek a quarrel. Calandryll thought that had Bracht not stood beside
him, he must already fight for his life, for there were no other Lyssians in this quarter and his looks set him clearly apart from the swarthy denizens of the Beggars Gate. He sipped dark ale, his belly already filled, and peered into the smoke haze, head threatening to swim under the influence of the narcotic fumes drifting on the malodorous air. Then straightened from his stance at the counter as a man sidled close, aware that Bracht, too, set down his mug and let his hand fall, casually, to the falchion’s hilt.
The man was short and thin, a coil of dark green silk wound about his head, a loose tunic of the same color belted tight, the belt holding a curved dagger and a short-sword. A livid scar ran down one cheek, from temple to beard, the dead tissue dragging the eye askew. He smiled, showing teeth stained brown, and nodded a greeting.
Calandryll anticipated some invitation to entertainments more exotic than offered by the tavern, such as they had received several times that night, but instead the Kand said, “You seek passage to Gessyth,” in a husky tone, more statement than question. He sought to pitch his response at casual level.
“Do you offer such?”
The man beckoned him closer; when he bent his head he caught the waft of stale wine.
“It can be arranged.” Disorganized eyes swept over the room. “For a price best discussed elsewhere.”
Bracht moved to place himself on the man’s farther side. “Why not here?” he asked.
The distorted eye closed in a grotesque wink and the smile grew broader.
“Too many ears—too many greedy ears. The price will be high and should these,” a waved hand encompassed the crowded room, “learn that you carry gold …”
He shrugged expressively. Bracht glanced at Calandryll, eyebrows raised: Calandryll nodded slightly. Bracht said, ‘They might attempt to take it,” and as the man nodded, “as might you, did we follow you into some alley where thieves wait.”
“Sirs!” An expression of hurt dignity overtook the scarred features. “I am an honest man. I followed you here to offer what you seek, having heard you asking elsewhere. Do you choose to believe me a common thief I’ll leave you.”
He moved from between them, halted by Bracht’s hand on his shoulder. “Where would you talk?” the freesword asked.
The Kand looked up at the taller Kern, at Calandryll, and smiled again. “There is a tavern named the Peacock,” he murmured, “Close by the harbor. Do you truly seek a vessel to bring you to Gessyth, I’ll meet you there at noon tomorrow.”
“Honest business is best done by day’s light,” Bracht said. “And by men who call one another by their names.”
“Mine is Xanthese,” the man said. “Ask for me in the Peacock at noon and a ship shall be yours.”
“At noon,” Bracht agreed.
“And sirs,” Xanthese murmured, “I’d advise you begone from here. Your inquiries have raised some … interest … and it may be that folk less honest than I might seek to part you from your coin. Walk wary, sirs!”
He touched a hand to his forehead and disappeared into the crowd, swift as a scuttling rat, was gone out the door before either moved to halt him. Calandryll looked to his comrade.
“Do we trust him?”
“I think it wisest to trust no one,” Bracht said, “though he gave sound enough advice—let’s quit this place, and keep our eyes open in the streets.”
“But meet him tomorrow?” Calandryll asked. “At least he offers the chance of a boat, nor sought to lure us into some alley.”
“The only chance, it seems,” Bracht nodded. “We’ll attend this tavern at noon and hear him out.”
He drained his mug; Calandryll followed suit, and together they pushed to the door.
None moved to follow them as they crossed the square and entered an alleyway so narrow, the buildings to either side crowding so close, only a thin ribbon of sky was visible above, the way below shadowy. Their shoulders touched as they paced the street, hands on swords’ hilts, ears cocked for pursuing footsteps. The alley disgorged into a wider street, where blowsy women called to them from little balconies and drinkers spilled out from the taverns, but no one sought to halt them and, as best Calandryll could tell, there was no one behind.
They reached the Waterboy to find the landlord waiting with a message of sorts: that a woman had come asking after them, seeking a fair-haired young man from Lysse and a dark-haired Kern freesword.
“A blond woman?” Bracht demanded sharply. “With hair like melted gold and eyes grey as a storm?”
That he remembered the woman on the warboat so accurately surprised Calandryll as much as the lyrical description; the landlord nodded enthusiastically.
“A real beauty. But with a temper to match a fishwife. I told her the Waterboy’s guests value their privacy and she cursed me roundly—I thought she’d draw her blade.” He grinned, scratching his chins. “I’ve not seen her like—some warrior woman from Lysse or Kern, I thought. I told her nothing.”
“Good,” Bracht said. Then, “Was she alone, or in company?”
“Alone,” the landlord said, and chuckled. “She heeded no company, not her. Zirian—he’s a fisherman—was in his cups and invited her to join him. When she refused, he insisted—he fancies himself with the ladies—and she left him unmanned.”
Calandryll gasped and the landlord chuckled some more, shaking his head. “Oh, she didn’t cut him—just,” he raised a knee expressively, “robbed him of such ambitions for a while. Though from the look of her I’ve little doubt she can use that blade she carries.”
“Did she say anything more?” Bracht asked.
The landlord shook his head: “No. Just wanted to know if I’d seen you.”
“And you told her no,” Bracht said.
“I did,” the landlord nodded. “We mind to our business here in Kharasul. Should I have done otherwise?”
“No,” Bracht said. “And should she come again, let your answer remain no.”
“My word on it,” the landlord promised.
“Our thanks,” Bracht smiled, and beckoned Calandryll to the stairs.
They found their room and latched the door. Calandryll peered from the window, but if the inn was watched he could see no sign of the observers and turned to face Bracht. The Kern’s face was thoughtful as he tugged off his boots.
“So, the woman snaps closest on our heels. Best we find this boat Xanthese offers and quit Kharasul as swift we may.”
“I thought her lost when the magic took her,” Calandryll murmured. “Who is she? Does she act for Azumandias?”
Bracht shrugged.
“For Azumandias or herself, what matter? She’s another hound baying on our heels.”
“A hound with a warboat at her command,” Calandryll said glumly.
“Hope then that Xanthese’s boat runs swift,” Bracht said, stretching on the bed with head in cupped hands and a contemplative smile on his face. “But she was lovely, was she not?”
Calandryll stared at him, frowning, hearing frank admiration in his voice. “You sound moonstruck,” he said; accusingly.
“I was … impressed,” Bracht admitted, unabashed. “Cuan n’For has its share of warrior women, but I’ve not seen her like. Nor is she of the clans.”
“Neither from Lysse,” said Calandryll, “and certainly not a Kand. Might she be Jesseryte?”
“Those folk are small and dark and ugly,” Bracht informed him. “I know not from where she comes.”
“Perhaps from beyond the Borrhun-maj,” Calandryll said, vaguely irritated by the Kern’s tone. It seemed to him that Bracht hankered almost to encounter the woman, “Perhaps from Vanu.”
“Then she would be a goddess.” Bracht laughed. “Certainly she’s the look of a goddess.”
“A moment since she was a hound; you elevate her fast.”
Peevishly, he tossed his boots aside, set his sheathed sword beside the bed. Bracht chuckled, smiling at him.
“I give her just due, no more. Should she seek to thwart us I’ll fight her as I w
ould any man. But I admit she intrigues me. And you must admit that she is somewhat fairer than most who’ve sought to halt us.”
That was indisputable: Calandryll thought of Anomius’s homely features and nodded, a smile stealing across his lips.
“That I must admit.”
“Then we’re agreed,” Bracht said. “And come noon we’ll seek this boat Xanthese offers and—our gods willing—leave her behind.”
They composed themselves for sleep then, lightly, with blades at their sides, aware that the game’s pace quickened and departure from Kharasul grew momentarily more vital. The room was no less stifling, the air dense with the jungle odors and those of the streets, the shutters not holding out all the insects that swarmed the night, sufficient entering that Calandryll found slumber hard as they buzzed about his head. He drifted, thinking himself back on the dinghy, floating down the Shemme, then once again on the Sea Dancer, that recollection bringing the woman’s face before the eyes of his drowsing mind. She was lovely; but she was also an obstacle, another player in their world-shattering game. In sleep he found himself torn between admiration for her beauty and regret that she had not drowned when the maelstrom took her boat.
HE woke thick-headed from the ale he had drunk and the narcotic fumes inhaled, eyes heavy from poor sleep. Bracht, more accustomed to taverns and shallow slumber, was in both better condition and mood when they rose, suggesting that they avail themselves of the bath before taking food. Water and a tisane recommended by the landlord restored him somewhat, and after eating they lounged about the inn awaiting the approach of noon and their meeting with the mysterious Xanthese.
“Surely,” Calandryll suggested, “did he intend treachery he would not arrange to meet us in the day.”
“Perhaps.” Bracht toyed with a mug of wine. “It would seem so, but then perhaps he seeks to allay our suspicions.”
“Do you trust no one?” asked Calandryll, eliciting a cheerful smile from the Kern, who shook his head and said, “Few. Very few.”
