by Angus Wells
Across the square he saw Bracht turn Xanthese’s sword; dance clear of the dagger in the Chaipaku’s left hand and riposte a stroke that drove the falchion deep into the assassin’s windpipe. Xanthese grunted, an awful choking sound, and spat blood. He made no attempt to retreat; seemed even to reject the knowledge of his death as he attacked again. Bracht parried the blow and backed away, luring the Chaipaku onward, the red hole in his throat spilling gore over chest and breeks. Hatred drove him, it seemed Calandryll saw it burning in his eyes; heard it in the ghastly wheezing that came from gaping lips and opened heck. Bracht took him farther across the square, each step leeching out more of his life. Then the Kern halted and feinted a cut, parried the counterstroke, and thrust forward, the falchion driving into the lower belly. Xanthese screamed then, as best he could, and fell down on his knees. Bracht kicked his sword aside and swept the falchion hard across the heck: the Chaipaku toppled forward into the pooling of his own blood.
At the center of the little square, the woman saluted the Kern’s victory.
“You fight well.”
Bracht faced her, sword still in hand, his eyes both suspicious and admiring.
“As do you.”
Calandryll saw that she stood between them and the alley: he hoped, not knowing why, that she would make no attempt to halt them. Her saber remained on guard, the grey eyes intent on the Kern’s face. Like two wary animals, he thought, assessing one another. Dimly he became aware of an absence, of a weariness close to nausea, and knew that whatever unknown power had aided him, it was gone now. He smelled blood, heated by the sun, and spat, eyes straying to the corpses; back to the woman.
“I have sought you,” she said calmly. “It was fortunate I found you when I did.”
“Perhaps,” Bracht acknowledged.
“The Chaipaku would have killed you,” the woman said. “In time.”
The Kern shrugged.
“Even with your friend’s magic to aid you. Chaipaku are very hard to kill.”
“Aye,” Bracht said, “but I think we should have slain them, even without your aid.”
“Now they’ll claim blood debt.” She smiled briefly. “Remain in Kharasul and your lives will likely be short.”
“We do not intend to remain in Kharasul.”
“No. You seek passage to Gessyth. To Tezin-dar. You go in search of the Arcanum.”
She smiled as the falchion shifted a fraction, Bracht tensing, the slight stiffening of his features masking surprise. Dera, Calandryll prayed, must we now slay one who came to our aid?
“We need not fight,” she said.
“You seek to stop us,” Brach returned, his voice wary.
“No—I seek the Arcanum.” Grey eyes fixed solemnly on the freesword’s face; shifted just far enough to encompass Calandryll in their gaze. “I propose an alliance. I have a warboat at my disposal.”
“Why should we trust you?” Bracht asked.
“I aided you.” The saber swung, indicating the bodies that littered the square. “And in Kharasul—anywhere in Kandahar—the Chaipaku will hunt you down. Our forces joined, we stand better chance of gaining what we seek.”
“Or we of dying,” Bracht said. “On your warboat.”
The woman sheathed her blade and said, “Save that you have my word.”
Bracht ducked his head briefly, his eyes not leaving her face, and surprised Calandryll by sliding the falchion into its scabbard.
“I am Bracht ni Errhyn of the clan Asyth,” he said. “Of Cuan na’For.”
“And I am Katya.”
Bracht glanced sidelong at Calandryll: shrugged, and said, “Let us talk of this then, Katya.”
THEY followed Katya to the harbor, hurrying to put the square behind them before Chaipaku or Tyrant’s soldiers came to question or to kill, not speaking until they reached the safety of the open wharf, where the armored men in their scarlet puggarees seemed guarantee against further attack. What remorse stirred in Calandryll’s conscience at the slaughter they left behind was drowned beneath the questions that seethed in his mind, the doubts he felt concerning the mysterious woman, and when he glanced at Bracht he saw the Kern’s face set in comtemplative lines, the blue eves fixed on the woman’s slim figure, as if he, too, pondered the reasons for her intervention and found answers elusive. They both kept silent, however, until she halted on the water’s edge, beyond earshot of the soldiery, pointing to a sleek black boat, its dragon’s head prow familiar.
“I can bring you to Gessyth on that,” she declared, settling easily on a bollard, sheathed saber across her knees.
Calandryll studied the vessel, seeing it different now to the Kand warboats; subtly, but to an eye with some experience of sailcraft out of no shipyard he could name. He returned his gaze to the woman, curious and more than a little wary.
“My question remains,” Bracht said. “Why?”
Katya smiled, shoulders rising in negligent shrug.
“I do not think you will find another to take you.”
Her gaze shifted to encompass the harbor. There were noticeably fewer vessels anchored in the estuary now, and even as they watched two merchantmen set sail, escorted by four warboats flying the Tyrant’s pennant. A squad of armored men marched by, flanking a ship’s crew, toward the longboats that would carry them out to yet another impressed merchantman. And of the warboats that remained, Calandryll wondered, how many can we trust?
‘You evade answers,” Bracht said.
“Ask me questions then,” Katya offered, “and judge my honesty. But I tell you this—you will not find a trustworthy captain to bring you north, and to remain in Kharasul must surely mean your deaths. I do not think you have another choice.”
Bracht nodded, lips hinting at a smile, and settled on a crate, facing her, studying her face.
“Who are you?” Calandryll asked.
“As I told you—Katya.” She smiled then, chuckling softly as she shook her head. “Forgive me—Bracht is right: I am evasive. It has become a habit.”
“A habit that does little to promote faith,” Bracht said.
Katya nodded. “Aye; but have you been always open?” Her face assumed a gravity then and she said, “I am of Vanu, beyond the Borrhun-maj.”
“Vanu?” Incredulity echoed loud in Calandryll’s voice. “Surely Vanu is the domain of the Old Gods. Do you name yourself goddess?”
“No,” she returned evenly, meeting his eyes with a calm grey stare. “I am flesh and blood, like you; whose name I do not know.”
“Calandryll,” he said automatically.
Katya nodded. “And why do the Chaipaku seek to slay you?”
“My brother sent them.” Briefly, he explained the Brotherhood’s hiring by Tobias, halting at Bracht’s frown.
“This does little to allay doubt,” the Kern said. “You promised answers, then answer this—why do you seek the Arcanum?”
“Our purpose is the same, I think,” she replied. “The Arcanum leads to the Mad God—who owns the book, do they have the knowledge to read it and the spells necessary for the doing of it, owns the means to raise Than. And that no sane man would see.” A frown creased her brow and she sighed. “He stirs yet, I think, sensing in his limbo what transpires here. You’ve heard the talk of Lysse’s war fleet? And the civil war that threatens Kandahar? Is that not chaos stirring?”
“The Lyssian fleet is to defend against Kand pirates,” Calandryll said. “That, surely, is order, not chaos.”
Katya smiled bitterly and shook her head again.
“A war fleet is a war fleet, and surely the means to ending Kand attacks is to deal with the Tyrant. Who first suggested its founding?”
“Aldarin,” he returned promptly. “Lord Varent den Tarl came as ambassador to Secca. Tobias is to command.”
“Whilst Kandahar’s Tyrant engages in war with the Fayne lord.” Katya ducked her head as if his words confirmed hers. “And your brother seems, from what you say, no reasonable man.”
Calandryll wa
s reminded of Tobias’s bellicose attitude, of his suggestion that the fleet sail on Kandahar itself. He frowned, confused. “You say that Lord Varent plans war?” he asked.
“I say there would be no better time to attack Kandahar.” Katya shrugged. “And there are men easier prey to the temptations of chaos than others. Who sent you on this quest?”
Bracht raised a hand then, silencing his answer. “Questions and more questions, but still few answers. Who sent you?”
Katya ducked her head in acceptance, grey eyes clouding. For several moments she stared out across the harbor, then smiled again.
“I haste,” she murmured. “I feel the chaos winds gather and I’d come to Tezin-dar swift as I may: fear renders me impatient. So—listen, and I shall tell you all I know.”
Tanned hands braced firm on her scabbard and she met their doubtful eyes with even gaze.
“The holy men of Vanu scried an augury that spoke of the Mad God’s raising and sent me forth to prevent this. Their scrying foretold a sorcerer of Lysse with means to return Tharn to life, though to accomplish this he had heed of the Arcanum. They foresaw two I should encounter, our purpose joined. They sent me to find the book and bring it back to Vanu, that they might destroy it and leave the Mad God forever in limbo. We of Vanu have little to do with your southern kingdoms, but that boat was built and I traveled to Lysse, where I learned of a fair-haired young man and a warrior of Cuan na’For gone questing for the book …”
“How?” Bracht interrupted bluntly.
“These same holy men gave me a talisman.” She reached inside her shirt, bringing out a silver chain from which hung a red stone akin to that worn by Calandryll. “It is a thing of power; it points like a compass to magic. It brought me to Aldarin, and there I learned of a mage whose ambition waxed large.”
“Azumandias!” Now it was Calandryll who interrupted her, gaping when she shook her head; gasping when she spoke again.
“Azumandias is dead. Long dead. Oh, he sought to secure Orwen’s map whilst the ink was still fresh on the parchment, but he was slain by one he trusted—his own son, who lusted for that power himself.”
He could not contain himself. Unthinking, he blurted, “But Lord Varent learned his skill from Azumandias! This cannot be!”
The grey eyes found his and in them he saw only sincerity.
“If this Lord Varent studied with Azumandias, then he lives far beyond the years of mortal men and is a sorcerer of very great power. Was he the one sent you?”
Calandryll ignored her question. “Azumandias sent demons against us,” he said, accusation in his voice. “If he is dead, how could that be?”
“Do you know it was Azumandias?” she asked.
“Who else?” he snapped.
“Varent,” said Bracht, the flat statement snatching Calandryll’s head round to stare in frank disbelief at the Kern.
“Lord Varent? Do you lose your wits? Why should he?”
“We argued then,” Bracht said. “Do you remember? I found myself hired to guard the runaway son of Secca’s domm and had little liking for that task. I doubted your ability and you borrowed Varent’s sword to prove me wrong. He knew what we did and the demons came then—and were easily defeated. Too easily, it seemed.”
“So?” Calandryll frowned. “That proves nothing.”
“Unless Varent conjured them to persuade me of your worth,” Bracht said. “My opinion of you was higher after that. Nor should you forget the byah’s warning.”
Calandryll shook his head: the suggestion was preposterous. No doubt the byah had warned them of Katya.
“This Varent, then, is the one who sent you,” she said. “And he told you he learned his skills from Azumandias?”
Calandryll nodded, confusion for the moment rendering him speechless.
“Then perhaps Varent is Azumandias’s son. Though he called himself Rhythamun then.”
“This is insanity!” His hand chopped air, dismissing her. “Lord Varent is ambassador of Aldarin. A noble. Trusted adviser to the domm. You say he is a patricide? And lived in the time of Orwen? How many hundreds of years have passed since then? Lord Varent sent us seeking the Arcanum that he might destroy it. It is Azumandias who seeks to raise the Mad God.”
“Azumandias is long dust,” she replied, undeterred by his rank disbelief. “And there are ways a man—a wizard—may live beyond his natural span.”
“Lord Varent shows no sign of age,” he retorted, angry. “And how should he come full-grown to such prominence in Aldarin?”
“He changed your shape,” Bracht said, voice soft, his eyes moving from one to the other, “and I never trusted him.”
“You sought to slay us.” Calandryll ignored the Kern, glaring at the woman. “You came against the Sea Dancer and sought to end us there.”
“I sought the chart you carry,” she replied, “or whatever guide you have to Tezin-dar. I did not seek to slay you. Had I sought that I should have sunk your vessel.”
“A man was wounded and more might have died,” he barked, “when your archers fired upon us.”
“The Kands employed their arbalest,” she returned, “and my bowmen answered. I had sooner none were harmed—I had no quarrel with the Kands. Nor you, did you but give me what I asked.”
Calandryll snorted disbelieving laughter. Katya said, “Did I wish your deaths, would I have aided you against the Chaipaku? I could have let them slay you and bargained, after, for what you carry. Their only interest is to see you dead.”
“There’s truth in that,” Bracht murmured.
“There’s deceit in it!” Calandryll snapped. “Dera, Bracht! You speak of the byah’s warning and choose to name Lord Varent the deceitful one. I say it is she—she weaves words in a spider’s web, to ensnare us. She feared the Chaipaku would take the map, no more. She seeks the Arcanum for her own ends.”
“To destroy it,” Katya said.
“Lord Varent has the same desire,” he retorted. “Why should we trust you, not him?”
“Wait.” Bracht raised a placatory hand. “Think on this, Calandryll. That I distrust Varent you know; that matter of the demons—did I not say they seemed very easy to overcome? And she might have sunk the Sea Dancer—fetched us half-drowned from the waves and taken what she wanted then. And the Chaipaku—aye, why should they not sell her the map? Xanthese himself said they sought only to slay us.”
“You trust her?” He shook his head helplessly.
“I say we hear her out,” Bracht said.
“I can tell you little else,” Katya admitted. “I have traveled from Vanu in search of the Arcanum, that it be destroyed and its threat forever ended. I do not know what else I can say to convince you.”
“Leave us to find it,” Calandryll muttered. “Let us return it to Lord Varent, that he may destroy it.”
“Your comrade doubts him.” She looked to Bracht, who shrugged, expressionless. “And if he is Rhythamun, then he intends not to destroy it, but to use it. To raise the Mad God himself.”
“We had agreed on this,” Bracht said softly. “To hold the book against Varent’s proving.”
“And now you say we should hand it to her?” Calandryll stepped to the wharf’s edge, hands raised in frustration, letting them fall to his sides.
“I say there is sufficient in what she tells us to suggest truth.” Bracht moved to join Calandryll, staring at him, his voice low; earnest. “And Kharasul has become doubly dangerous now. She, at least, offers us passage to Gessyth.”
“And slit throats,” he returned.
“Perhaps,” the Kern allowed.
Calandryll swung from his observation of the harbor to stare at Bracht, eyes narrowing as he examined his comrade’s face. “You trust her,” he gasped.
Bracht met his gaze and shrugged. “She’s shed blood in our aid—by the ways of Cuan na’For that earns her at least a measure.”
“Your wits are addled! You see a pretty face and throw away your caution. Does lust blind you?”
“Or die,” said Calandryll. “Or hand the Arcanum to Azumandias.”
“If she speaks the truth, Azumandias is dead,” Bracht said. “And that must make Varent the liar.”
Calandryll’s hands clenched into fists, raised helplessly against such convoluted logic. All hinged on Katya’s word, on trust in a woman who had once already sought to halt them, and now—for all he knew—sought only to gain the chart by more subtle means. “I cannot trust her,” he muttered. “She weaves words—as we seduced Anomius, so she seduces us … you.”
“I incline to trust,” Bracht nodded, accepting the accusation. Then frowned: “And perhaps there is a way to prove her; or reveal her.”
“How?” asked Calandryll.
“In Secca you consulted a spaewife,” Bracht said, slowly, choosing his words carefully, “and she told you of this quest, did she not? She told you of two comrades, no?”
And one will come after, also to be trusted.
He nodded. “You and Lord Varent.”
“Perhaps,” Bracht said. “Or—perhaps—Katya.”
“Insanity.” He shook his head, rejecting the notion.
“Surely there are spaewives in Kharasul,” Bracht said. “Let us find one and seek guidance there.”
He faced the Kern, doubt creasing his brow.
“We face the finding of another boat, else,” Bracht urged. “With the Brotherhood seeking payment of blood debt, and few boats to be found, I think. Is it not answer? If a spaewife denies the woman, we avoid her and make our way to Gessyth as best we can.”
“Do we secure another boat she’ll likely follow us,” he said.
“Likely,” Bracht agreed, “but with a spaewife’s aid we shall know her for friend or enemy.”
It made sense: and surely now expediency must govern their actions. He looked to the estuary, seeing another merchantman haul anchor and turn for the north, war-boats riding low to either side. Six dead Chaipaku lay in the square and soon must be discovered: to remain in Kharasul was to die. A scrying would, at least, reveal Katya for Azumandias’s agent and end Bracht’s insane trust: he nodded acceptance.
