by Angus Wells
Dera, but Reba had spoken truth when she foretold his traveling. There would be no return to Lysse now, no delivery of the Arcanum into Varent’s hands, but a journey to Vanu, that land no less fabled than Tezindar. To Gessyth first, then into the swamps to find the legendary city, take the book and bring it to the holy men of Vanu, that they might destroy it. Varent—Rhythamun—should not have it! Not while he lived: before that liar should set hands on it, he would lay down his life.
He realized that fewer people thronged the streets and saw that they approached the harbor, passing down a narrow alley, its farther exit marked by the blue mingling of sea and sky. The afternoon was advanced now, the sun far out over the western ocean, shadows lengthening as they emerged from the passage and strode purposefully across the cobbles of the wharf, the air loud with the clatter of marching men and the cries of the gulls disturbed by such activity. The craft anchored in the estuary ran down like grains in a sand clock, fewer now than had ridden the waves at noon, another departing even as they watched, only three Lyssian vessels remaining, and far fewer of the Kand warboats. Soon, he thought, there would be none, and grinned, thankful for Katya’s presence.
She brought a silver whistle from inside her shirt as they reached the water’s edge, raising the little instrument to her lips to emit three shrill blasts that brought a flurry of activity to the boat. A dinghy was lowered, manned by two tall men, their sweeps propelling the craft to the wharf. An officer—a lictor by the badge on his puggaree—looked toward them, his face thoughtful as he recognized their intention, and barked an order that formed a squad of six pikemen about him.
Dinghy and soldiers reached them at the same time, the lictor raising an imperious hand, bidding them halt. Calandryll eased his blade in the scabbard, unwilling to be thwarted now.
“You have permission to leave?”
“We heed none.” Katya’s tone was brusque, prompting the officer to frown. “My boat is out of Vanu; my companions from Cuan na’For and Lysse. Thus we are not subject to seizure.”
The lictor’s frown deepened. He said, “All who anchor in Kharasul’s harbor are subject to the Tyrant and the laws of Kandahar.”
“Indeed,” Katya agreed, “but not to impression into his navy.”
The lictor shrugged, studying the warboat with speculative eyes before returning his gaze to the woman. “You command a fine vessel,” he announced, “Such as could find use against the Fayne rebels. I think you had best delay your departure whilst I inquire of the praetor, whether we have heed of the boat.”
Calandryll said, “I am Calandryll den Karynth, son of the Domm of Seeca in Lysse,” drawing himself up to his full height, seeking the tone his father used in dealings with functionaries, “and I have commissioned this boat to bring me home. I have urgent business and I would not be delayed.”
The lictor eyed him for a moment, then shaped a doubtful bow. “You will forgive me … my lord … but you do not look much like a domm’s son, and we have heed of sound warboats.”
Calandryll affected the impatience his brother found so natural, returning the officer’s dubious stare with cold gaze. “I travel incognito,” he snapped, “but I assure you neither my father or the Tyrant will thank you for delaying me.”
An element of confusion entered the lictor’s frown and he cleared his throat. Calandryll said, “You have heed of warboats? Then take those corsairs out there—at least that would leave our sea-lanes safer.”
“I …” The lictor cleared his throat again, “I think I had best ask the praetor’s judgment.”
“I think you had best prepare to find yourself stripped of your command,” Calandryll barked. “Secca does not take kindly to minor officers hindering her ambassadors. The Tyrant shall hear of this!”
The lictor took an involuntary step back, for the moment lost for words. Calandryll seized the advantage, beckoning Bracht and Katya.
“Come, we’ve delayed long enough.”
He went down the steps and clambered into the dinghy. Katya followed and then Bracht; the lictor stared at them, face flushed, then shook his head and spun on his heel. Calandryll breathed a sigh of relief as he led his men back across the wharf. “Dera!” he murmured, “I thought us lost then.”
“We’ve still to clear the anchorage,” Katya said.
He nodded, watching the sleek lines or the warboat grow as the dinghy drew steadily closer.
The oarsmen rowed in silence, tall, slim men, much like Katya in appearance, but muscular, tunics stretched across their shoulders, their near-white hair cut short at the nape, broad-bladed knives sheathed on their belts. More waited to bring them on board, the dinghy rapidly hauled up, the fore and stern anchors already stowed, the great sweeps running out on Katya’s word, the prow turning south as the helmsman swung his tiller and the war-boat moved, darkly majestic, toward the open sea.
Katya led the way to the stem, that raised some little way above the central planking that divided the rowing benches, overshadowed by the curling dragon’s tail that formed solid mounting for the tiller. On board, the craft seemed larger than it had appeared, viewed from the poop of the Sea Dancer, with storage space between the benches and small cabins at bow and stem. Katya spoke with the helmsman in a language neither Calandryll or Bracht could understand, and he ducked his head, smiling broadly at the two newcomers.
In accented Lyssian, he said, “So you’re the one who hear sank us. I thought we must find the bottom when you brought that maelstrom against us.”
“This is Tekkan,” Katya informed them. “It was he who saved us then.”
“More luck than I,” Tekkan smiled, and turned to his task.
He was clearly skilled, the warboat gliding smooth between the larger merchantmen, driven by the rhythmic sweeping of the oars. The rowers heeded no time beat, it seemed, for there was no drum master to maintain their stroke, only Tekkan shouting from his vantage point, and a man posted to the prow to warn of obstacles the helmsman might miss. Thirty oarsmen, Calandryll counted, fifteen to each side, ana all with pale gold or near-white hair, their bare backs tanned, lighter than the Kands or Bracht, and all their eyes grey like Katya’s or a blue so pale as to seem mesmeric. They chanted as they worked, not loud, but in perfect unison, their voices melodic, the song strange, unlike any he had heard. And among them sat women; the archers, he presumed, tall as the men, but their hair was longer, tailed or wound up in knots. Beside each station, against the bulwarks, hung a round shield, hide-covered against the salt spray, and beneath each bench was a locker. The central deck overhung the benches enough that hammocks might be slung there, sheltered somewhat from the elements, and there he saw equipment, sheathed swords and the shapes of wrapped bows, filled quivers, and axes of unfamiliar design. The Vanu folk were well furnished for the quest and he felt his rekindled confidence mount as the boat moved rapidly past Kharasul, starting to buck a little as the incoming tide met the outwash of the Shemme.
He heard Bracht groan and turned to see the Kern clinging resolutely to the taffrail, face paling, his eyes fixed on the open sea ahead, filled with apprehension.
“What ails you?” asked Katya, moving to his side.
“That.” Bracht jerked his chin to indicate the ocean, groaning afresh as the warboat lurched and he clutched the rail as if his life depended on it. Katya chuckled, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Come,” she said, “I’ve cure for that below.”
Warily he let go his hold, staggering as the boat shifted again, clutching at her for want of other support, his arms about her so that for a moment they stood pressed tight together. Calandryll saw Tekkan cast a swift and not entirely approving glance in their direction, and then Katya disengaged herself, an unfathomable expression in her grey eyes as she took Bracht’s arm and led him from the raised deck. Calandryll followed, seeing that low doorways were cut to either side of the ladder, Katya opening the left and motioning Bracht inside.
It was cramped with three bodies filling the space, a single bunk
against the stern, a narrow window above and a cupboard beneath, another built into the partitioning wall, and a third, open and filled with charts, facing that. Katya brought out a flask and a silver cup, glancing inquiringly at Calandryll, who shook his head, smiling, and said, “I’ve sea legs. Bracht is more accustomed to a horse.”
“Would that we might ride to Gessyth,” the freesword moaned. “We folk of Cuan na’For are not made for the sea.”
“Drink this.” Katya filled the cup, passing it to him. “This and a night’s sleep and you’ll walk a boat like a sailor born.”
Bracht’s eyes said that he set no faith in her promise, but he grinned wan thanks and drained the cup, grimacing at the taste.
“You’ll sleep now,” Katya informed him. “And when you wake, the malaise will be gone.”
“Your word on it?” Bracht asked, stretching willingly enough on the bunk. “And whose bed do I take?”
“My word on it,” she smiled. “And the bunk’s mine.”
“The sweeter for that,” the Kern yawned. “Though I’d …”
What he intended to say was lost in the sigh that followed. With the heavy deliberation of a man close on slumber’s verge, he loosed the fastenings of his scabbard and cradled the sheathed falchion in his arms, turning drowsily on his side. Another yawn and he slept.
“It works swift.” Katya stoppered the flask and returned it to the cupboard. “He’ll not wake before dawn, but he’ll suffer no more. Now come, we’ve things to talk of.”
She beckoned Calandryll from the cabin, leading the way along the deck to the forecastle, where they leaned against the rail, watching Kharasul slide away to starboard, the mouth of the Ty River beyond, and beyond that the dark jungles of Gash.
“Do you trust me now?” she asked, her eyes frank.
“Aye,” he nodded, answering her gaze. “I was a fool.”
There was bitterness in his tone: Katya shrugged, head turning to observe the jungle.
“I think not. But tell me how you came to this quest.”
THEY hung close to the coastline, beating north against the wind, fetid now with the reek of the vegetation that clung in hues of livid green to the shore, no beach discernible, only the great mass of exotic foliage. He began to speak, openly, holding nothing back, the telling a kind of absolution, and a commitment to trust. He told her of how his father would make him priest, and of his hopes for Nadama; of Tobias and the meeting with Varent, the ambassador’s promises and the finding of Orwen’s chart. He spoke of his meeting with Bracht, and Varent’s magic, that had brought him out of Secca; and of everything Varent had told him. He spoke of the encounter with the demons and of the byah) of Bracht’s misgivings, and of the stone; the crossing on the Sea Dancer, she chuckling at this, saying how the wind he had somehow conjured came close to sinking them, and of how they had beaten steadily south after counting on his arrival in Kharasul. He told her of the first Chaipaku attack and the escape from Mherut’yi; of Sathoman ek’Hennem and Anomius, their flight from the wizard, her face clouding then; and finally of their coming to the square where she had met them.
She was silent for long moments when he was done, her eyes fixed on the passing jungle, then she said, “I think that this Varent must be Rhythamun; and he will not let go easily.”
“That so,” he murmured, watching dark birds wheel above the trees, “How old is he?”
“Azumandias saw Thomus crowned,” she answered, “and Rhythamun saw him die.”
“Five hundred years?” His voice was hushed, awed. “How can that be?”
“There are ways.” She shook her head in distaste. “They are not pleasant and known to few.”
“How?” he insisted.
Katya turned toward him, then away, her eyes troubled. “It is a matter of assuming another’s life,” she said softly. “It is not easy; nor without danger, but it may be done. By such as Rhythamun. Likely he stole this Varent’s life—and in time will seek another.”
Calandryll shuddered, horrified; worse as a further thought entered his mind. “Then he can pass unrecognized,” he gasped. “He is able to assume what form he chooses.”
“Aye,” Katya nodded, “but I think he has reason to remain as Varent for now—you say he has the trust of Aldarin? In such office he wields considerable power, and that must suit him well. The raising of the Mad God demands more than gramaryes—sacrifice is called for; spilled blood beckons them forth.”
“The fleet?” he asked, staring at her.
“Likely,” she nodded. “You say this brother of yours spoke for war with Kandahar; and he is to command—should Rhythamun persuade Aldarin’s domm to war, would Secca follow?”
“Not my father,” he said, “but Tobias, yes. Tobias would welcome such a venture.”
“And already Tobias employs the Brotherhood.” Her meaning lay tacit between them, an ugly thing. His eyes widened in disgust. “To slay our father? No! Surely not that! To murder me, perhaps; but not our father.”
“It is not unknown,” Katya said quietly, “and should Tobias heed Rhythamun’s blandishments … You know him for a persuasive deceiver.”
“Dera!” he groaned. “He would bring Lysse and Kandahar to war? To further his own ends?”
“To raise the Mad God,” she said, “aye—to win the power he seeks. He’d heed find the lost places, and possess the spells of raising to achieve his purpose. But were Lysse and Kandahar embattled, that letting of blood would make the raising easier. Rhythamun seeks power infinite; and madman that he is, he’d bring the world down to gain that end.”
“That cannot be. Must not be,” he said.
Katya smiled then, her expression minding him of Bracht’s, when the Kern faced swordplay. “We have Orwen’s chart,” she said, “and in time we shall reach Gessyth. We heed but seize the Arcanum and bring it safe to Vanu. There, it may be destroyed forever.”
“A long journey,” he muttered; doubtful. “And its return by Lysse’s coast. What if Varent has Tobias’s ear by then? We’d surely face the fleet.”
“There’s chance of that,” she agreed, “but what other course lies open? We lack the means to destroy the book.”
“Such was not given you by these holy men?” he asked.
“No.” She shook her head, the long tail of her windswept hair tossing. “I have no magic save this stone, and that only a guide to you. To destroy the Arcanum calls for great power, for occult knowledge possessed by few.”
“Then why do they not accompany you,” he demanded, “these holy men?”
“They have no power beyond Vanu’s boundaries,” she said. “Their choice is to leave the world to its own devices, and to that end did they limit their power; of their own choosing. Only when they read the augury did they choose to intervene in these affairs, knowing that else they must watch the world brought down in bloody rain.”
Off the port bow the sun touched the western horizon, a vast disk of crimson that painted the ocean with its fire. Calandryll looked in that direction and it seemed to him that a wound opened in the sea, a livid gash awash with blood. He shook his head in silent rejection and turned once more toward the forbidding coast of Gash. The jungles were dark now already tinted with the shades of descending night, ana from them, faint on the wind, came strange, shrill cries. The filled moon hung low to the east, cold as the sun was hot, and although the air was yet warm he shivered, weighted by the immensity of all they attempted. He looked back along the length of the warboat, seeing the women setting braziers on the deck in preparation of a meal, bringing rood from the lockers as the oarsmen held their pace, driving the sleek craft steadily northward into the wind, tireless it seemed, moving like cheerful automata.
“These are warriors?” he asked.
“All,” Katya answered, “women and men, both.”
Suddenly they seemed few enough to attempt what they attempted, for if what Katya suspected should prove true, on their return they would likely face odds far greater than any he had ant
icipated.
Perhaps his doubt showed on his face. Or perhaps Katya read his mind, for she said, “We must find the Arcanum before we concern ourselves with what might be, and I think that will be hard enough.”
“Aye,” he agreed, smiling tightly. “What knowledge have you of Gessyth?”
“It lies to the north,” she said, “and Tezin-dar stands inland, deep in the swamps. Beyond that—nothing.”
“And on that you sailed from Vanu?” He stared at her, amazed at such daring.
“You come with little more,” she shrugged. “You and Bracht.”
“We have Orwen’s chart,” he said, “and the stone to lead us to the book.”
“Little enough.” White teeth flashed in the fast-dying light. “But I’d study that map. Shall you show me while we eat?”
“And will you tell me of Vanu?” he asked. “The land beyond the Borrhun-maj is a mystery.”
He thought she paused then, as if reluctant, but her face was in shadow and he could not read her expression, only see her nod as she beckoned him toward the braziers, the smell of food reminding him of hunger so that he quickly forgot that small hesitation.
NONE on board save Katya and Tekkan spoke other than their own tongue, and that a language unlike any Calandryll had heard, a lilting, almost musical confusion of sounds of which, try as he might, he could make little sense. The crew made him welcome enough as he settled on the boards, a smiling woman passing him a bowl piled with a stew of fishes and vegetables, a man handing him a mug that another filled with pale wine, but when he sought to converse with them they only smiled the broader and shrugged, returning him words like song, pleasant to the ear but leaving him none the wiser. Katya and Tekkan joined him then, the sea anchor dropped to hold the boat against the wind as the oarsmen took their rest, settling cross-legged beside him as, between mouthfuls, he plied them with questions about their homeland and they inquired of his.
