‘Once I am satisfied, you may go to your ships and depart.’ Anskal concluded.
As Hosh conveyed that assurance, he saw urgent conversations between ship masters, overseers and crews as they peered into the dusk, trying to see which galleys and triremes might be seaworthy and which were beyond salvage.
‘When you leave,’ Anskal smiled, ‘carry these words wherever you go. This island is now mine and my reach is long. Any ships wishing to pass within a hundred leagues must pay me my due. I will accept a tithe of each vessel’s cargo. Any ship master who will not pay will be wrecked on unforeseen reefs no matter what his course.’ He nodded towards the entrance to the anchorage. ‘You have seen how strong my hand is, when I choose to command the waters.’
As Hosh repeated those cruel words he could see the blank disbelief on the faces of the most fluent in the mainland tongue.
‘Tell them again,’ Anskal instructed.
Hosh obeyed. Nobody moved. The silence was absolute.
‘You may stay or you may go.’ Anskal’s voice hardened. ‘The choice is yours but make it quickly.’
Hosh couldn’t tell if the first corsair to stumble forward was volunteering or if he had been caught unawares and shoved. Those behind certainly raised their swords against any attempt to retreat.
The dark-skinned man with the paler eyes of mixed blood flung a small basket on the ground. A scatter of rings and bracelets spilled out with some tarnished silver coins. He threw his rings and a heavy gold necklace down before stripping off his tunic to show the wizard the old faded scars of a lifelong slave.
Anskal raised a languid hand. ‘Very well, you may take your coin and go.’
Not stooping to take a penny piece, the man ran for the water’s edge and waded in. The trireme he sought was close at hand and he hastily climbed the dangling rope ladder.
Another man stepped forward. Anskal nodded as he dropped a leather sack beside the basket and waved him on. Once again, the Aldabreshi left his loot lying by the terrace. He proved to be a shipmate of the first man and joined him in anxiously surveying the vessel from prow to stern.
A handful followed more readily but the next trio hesitated, all unwilling to be the first. Once they were seen to pass safely past the wizard though, the remainder grew less reluctant. Hosh saw some jostling to get more swiftly to the front.
They were abandoning a barony’s purchase in treasure as they went. Hosh noted that pearl-studded ornaments were prominent among the discarded plunder. Had the islanders lost their faith in such talismans against magic? He could hardly blame them.
What was going to happen when they had all rowed away? Did Anskal honestly think any vessel would sail willingly into this harbour to pay him what he demanded? What could he do with all these tenth-shares of cargoes? No Archipelagan would trade for goods that had passed through a wizard’s hand. Did he expect Hosh to barter for him?
‘No.’
Anskal’s firm voice startled Hosh out of his wandering thoughts.
He saw the remaining corsairs and their slaves were just as shocked. Though nothing equalled the abject terror of the slave rower stood at the base of the steps.
‘I have nothing!’ He began ripping off his ragged clothing. ‘I have nothing!’
‘But you have.’ Anskal offered his hand with a welcoming smile. ‘My friend.’
The sizeable heap of abandoned treasure stirred. Anskal held out an open hand and a tangle of silver chains writhed. An amulet carved from dark veined jade sprang up into the wizard’s palm.
He tossed it to the slave rower. The man’s fingers closed instinctively around the jewel. Emerald light glowed inside the man’s fist. He screamed and dropped the swirl of jade. It lay on the sandy soil, inert. The radiance clung stubbornly to the man’s fingers.
‘You have mage blood in your veins,’ Anskal told the horrified rower.
‘No.’ The man dropped to his knees to scoop up a handful of soil, frantically scouring his glowing hand. ‘No!’
Anskal didn’t seem overly perturbed by the man’s abhorrence. ‘You now have a choice to make.’
The slave looked up, sick with fear.
‘You may go,’ Anskal assured him. ‘I keep my word. But of course, everyone has now seen your true nature.’
He nodded towards the waiting boats. ‘You may take your chances out there, though I believe they are less than promising. Or you may stay and I will give you all the boons of your birthright.’
The rower peered fearfully over his shoulder and recoiled from the loathing on every face he could see.
Once again, Anskal was offering a choice that was no choice at all. Even if Hosh guessed that the corsairs would think better of killing the slave immediately he tried to rejoin his ship. Surely they wouldn’t risk offering the wizard such a blatant insult?
But the mageborn man faced a lingering and agonising death as soon as the corsairs reached some other beach. Imais had told Hosh of the bounties that warlords paid for any wizard’s hide. Word of anyone suspected of magebirth circulated around every trading island, travelling as far and wide as the courier doves that carried their descriptions from warlord to warlord.
The rower staggered to his feet. Hosh had never seen such ghastly desolation on any man’s face.
‘Wait over there!’ Anskal clapped his hands impatiently. ‘Who else wishes to leave?’
The next galley slave stepped forward, empty hands spread wide. As the wizard waved him towards the shore, the man so unexpectedly condemned collapsed into a sobbing heap.
Hosh couldn’t find any comfort to offer. All he could do was wait and watch as Anskal somehow found more mageborn among the island’s survivors.
He surreptitiously tallied them up as the night wore on. Eleven corsair swordsmen. A triple handful of slave rowers and a double handful of women.
Hosh was both devastated and delighted to see that Imais wasn’t among them. She didn’t meet his eye as she dropped the twisted cloth she was carrying to spill bronze plates and cups on the ground.
Nifai and Ducah both escaped as well, stripping themselves all but naked in their haste. Hosh lost sight of them as they raced for the shore. Regardless, he was glad to see the back of both of them.
The first lanterns lit on the wallowing ships glimmered in the darkness like fireflies. The most distant galley was already edging towards the southern headland.
By the time the last of the Aldabreshi had braved Anskal’s scrutiny, the first trireme had already departed. The Archipelagans were more willing to risk the hazards of night rowing under the solitary Lesser Moon than to stay here any longer.
Hosh studied the mageborn sitting on the damp ground below the terrace. The Aldabreshi among them were still appalled, either silently distraught or wailing in incoherent terror.
Anskal looked down at them, exasperated. ‘When they have come to their senses, tell them to find food and shelter as they please.’
He vanished in a shimmer of azure light before Hosh had time to answer.
Hosh was watching the remaining mageborn; in particular the group of nine men sitting quietly thoughtful with their backs together, conversing in low tones as they kept a watchful eye on the distressed Aldabreshi. They were speaking in Tormalin.
Mainlanders, enslaved as he had been. They weren’t Caladhrians; that was too much to hope for. But Hosh guessed that a handful were from Ensaimin, judging by their accents.
However their magebirth had gone undiscovered for so long, they would know something of wizardry. More than that, they would know it wasn’t some all-encompassing evil, as the Archipelagans believed.
Was there any hope of them proving useful allies against the Mandarkin? Hosh couldn’t sail away from the island alone but now there were enough of them to make up a crew. Though of course they would need a seaworthy boat.
And they would need to defend themselves against the other Aldabreshi. Hosh walked quietly to the herb trough where he’d hidden Ducah’s discarded sword. Retrievin
g the blade, he walked around the terrace to go down the pavilion’s front steps, the sword pressed against his side. He had already decided where to hide it on the furthest pavilion’s terrace.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Esterlin Residence, Relshaz
16th of For-Autumn
‘SO WHAT DO we think he is doing with these wretched mageborn today?’ Mellitha studied the scrying spell floating on the surface of the water.
Jilseth didn’t answer. She had become used to the comfortably plump magewoman’s habit of asking such questions as she worked her magic in this luxurious salon looking onto the carefully tended garden of her well-appointed home.
Would they ever see some clue as to what the Mandarkin intended? Jilseth had no more idea what the mysterious northern wizard was up to than she had when she had first arrived here.
Any more than she had fathomed why Planir had sent her away from Hadrumal so abruptly. Had Troanna been so grievously offended by Jilseth’s unbidden magic invading her scrying? Though, granted, Jilseth knew she was the obvious person to explain the trick of blending the bitumen into a scrying to Mellitha—
‘Madam mage?’ Mellitha looked across the silver bowl, her expression as serene as ever. ‘Your full attention, if you please?’
Jilseth realised that the glob of bitumen was threatening to escape her frighteningly erratic affinity. She quickly brought her full attention to bear on the molten pitch and the reflection brightened.
‘How many are missing this morning?’ Mellitha’s dark eyes darted this way and that as her generous mouth twisted wryly. ‘Two more lost lambs. Your scrying, madam mage,’ she said lightly.
Jilseth summoned up all her resolve and the emerald spell darkened. The touch of Mellitha’s wizardry was as gentle as a mother’s caress as the older magewoman relinquished the scrying but Jilseth’s mage senses were still as raw as scalded flesh.
A heady scent rose from the ensorcelled water to vie with the fresh-cut flowers in the vases by the long muslin-draped windows.
Mellitha had been among the first mages to experiment with perfumery essences in scrying and she was wont to release their oils by warming the water beneath them. Jilseth marvelled at her ability to command elemental fire while working water magic. Had there ever been another wizard born to this affinity so skilled with the antagonistic element? Yet again, Jilseth had to wonder why this elegant magewoman wasn’t given the credit she was due among Hadrumal’s halls.
A sharper note underlying the fragrance cleared Jilseth’s head with all the efficacy of a blademint tisane the morning after too much wine. She had noticed that before. What else might Mellitha be doing with her magic? Something she didn’t want Hadrumal to know about?
‘The missing mageborn?’ Mellitha prompted.
Jilseth concentrated once again. This dismal search offered some balm for her bruised pride. Only a necromancer could scry for the dead. Only an earth wizard could master such eerie magic to pursue and to commune with the dead. Jilseth was one of the very few born to her affinity who chose to pursue the little known discipline in recent years.
Though like any winning rune, such expertise had its grim reverse. Jilseth would much rather not be looking for the fresh corpses of those captive Aldabreshi mageborn. But so many had chosen to flee beyond all recall from whatever fate they feared the heavenly compass predicted. Or whatever they feared the Mandarkin mage intended for them.
Jilseth sent the scrying magic in search of cold and clotting blood; that unique combination of elemental water infused with so many aspects of essential earth. Immediately the spell was drawn to the corpses littering the far shore of the island where the corsairs had first fled.
She refined the magic further, spurning the ooze sinking into the sand beneath the deliquescing dead. Though her affinity hadn’t nearly recovered its full strength, she was becoming ever more attuned to those subtlest of changes which inexorably followed once life and breath had left a body.
She sighed. ‘The woman with furrowed hair.’
For whatever reason, she had come here to die; the woman whose hair had been her pride and ornament. Jilseth had never seen anything like it; tight black braids sculpted across her scalp in waves to gather in the nape of her neck.
‘At dawn, as near as I can guess.’
Greedy flies clustered thickly around the gashes in the woman’s forearms where she’d spilled her own blood rather than live cursed by her unsuspected magebirth. ‘And the other one?’ Mellitha queried.
Jilseth frowned as she sent the scrying skimming along the waterline. There was something on the very edge of her wizard senses.
‘Is that—?’
Red-clawed crabs clustered thickly around something half buried in the wet sand but that sad remnant was much longer dead.
‘There!’ The scrying blazed vivid green as Mellitha’s magic fought Jilseth’s for an instant.
‘I see him.’ Jilseth yielded the scrying nevertheless.
Mellitha flung the spell right to the the far end of the charnel cove. A tall beardless man was stripping off his clothes and folding them into a tidy pile. They watched him tug a plaited band of silver from his wrist, the braided wire criss-crossing polished agate.
‘The unscarred swordsman.’ Mellitha grimaced.
No whip had ever marked this man’s smooth skin. Even diminished after all this half-season’s privations, his physique was impressive.
He waded into the sea amid the putrid carrion sucked into the shallows by the rise and fall of the tides.
‘He’s waiting for the sharks,’ Mellitha realised with distant compassion.
‘Is that bravery or cowardice?’ Jilseth couldn’t decide.
‘Or something else entirely, to honour some Aldabreshin belief?’ Mellitha shook her head, unable to answer her own question.
If only—
Jilseth let the unspoken words escape her lips as a soft exhalation. Despite all their command of magic, there was nothing which she and Mellitha could do short of plucking the man bodily from the water. She didn’t imagine that he would thank them for that.
‘Must we—?’
Before she could ask, the man scored a deep gash across his chest with a knife.
‘It’s as well to know that someone is truly dead.’ Mellitha watched, unblinking. ‘Especially a wizard.’
‘But these are not wizards!’ Jilseth looked away as the water seethed with the seemingly insatiable sharks. ‘They are barely mageborn. If they had any affinity worth the name, they would have been discovered long before now.’
‘And suffered the ghastly fate which Aldabreshin custom decrees.’ Mellitha winced as the man vanished beneath a flurry of pink-tinged foam.
‘Their magebirth may be stronger than we think. Don’t forget that abject fear or sufficiently strong intent can suppress magebirth’s manifestations,’ she reminded Jilseth. ‘We know of such constraint among the Mountain Men and the Forest Folk, for fear of being exiled by the Aetheric adepts who make their laws.’
She shook her head, regretful, as the screaming man’s head broke the water’s surface, silently vanishing a moment later beneath a pallid finned flank streaked with gore.
‘These Archipelagans know nothing of wizardry so how would they know to fear their own nature? I cannot believe these mageborn have an affinity which Hadrumal would judge worth training,’ Jilseth insisted stubbornly.
‘That’s a debate for another time.’ With only one hand on the scrying bowl, Mellitha drummed her painted nails on the satiny fruitwood table set between their silk-upholstered chairs. ‘We need to know what this Mandarkin intends for these remaining unfortunates.’
In the blink of an eye, the scrying returned to the pavilions by the anchorage. Mellitha drew the spell aloft to show them each of the three terraces where the remaining mageborn were usually found.
‘Does he really think he can buy their loyalty?’ This baffled Jilseth.
The Mandarkin had sent his Caladhrian slave w
ith gifts of food and clothing and handfuls of his loot to his unwilling guests. Then he left them to their own devices; to hang themselves or take up a knife and end their miserable existence as they chose.
Mellitha was still absorbed in her own thoughts. ‘Why has he been making them presents of those artefacts?’
Jilseth picked out the Caladhrian slave with the misshapen face on the terrace of the furthest pavilion. The one who wore that curious arm ring. She made very certain to ward her earthly affinity against the bauble’s insidious lure.
How many ensorcelled objects did the Mandarkin have in his stolen hoard? Jilseth had felt curious earthly resonances several times as they had surveyed the captive mageborn. What of other elemental magics that didn’t speak so directly to her affinity? What spells woven of fire, air and water had been locked into those artefacts once prized by unknown mages of ages past, now looted all unknowing by the Aldabreshi?
‘We need to hear his cozening and cajoling. Until then we may as well be blind as well as deaf.’ Mellitha withdrew her remaining hand and the scrying vanished. ‘We need a clairaudience woven into this scrying.’
‘Planir won’t countenance it,’ Jilseth protested. ‘He says there is far too much danger of the Mandarkin sensing the working. Then he’ll renewhis veiling to hide from us again.’
‘Not with Velindre weaving the air to listen in on him,’ Mellitha assured her.
The magewoman crossed the sunlit salon and stooped to another polished table beside an upholstered daybed. She rang a silver hand bell. ‘Do you wish to fetch a wrap before we take the carriage? There can be quite a breeze close to the docks.’
She picked up her own shawl, a lacy confection of knitted silk a few subtle shades lighter than her teal gown. Both might have been chosen to complement the leaf-green rugs on the dark wood floor and the watered silk wall-hangings.
‘No, thank you, I’ll be fine.’ Jilseth had opted for long sleeves and a high neckline when Mellitha’s favourite seamstress had visited to take her measure on her arrival, returning the following day with three gowns besides this one, its silk as iridescent as the inside of a pearl oyster’s shell.
Darkening Skies (The Hadrumal Crisis) Page 18
