Darkening Skies (The Hadrumal Crisis)

by McKenna Juliet E.

  ‘I could say well met but I’ll settle for good day.’

  Corrain spun around, breathless.

  Kusint emerged from the shadows of an alleyway running alongside the tavern.

  ‘You got my letter.’ Corrain searched for some reply in the Forest lad’s face.

  ‘I did.’ Kusint pulled the parchment from the unbuttoned breast of his tunic.

  The abruptness of the gesture put Corrain in mind of a man pulling a dagger from a hidden sheath.

  Kusint looked much the same as he had when the two of them had parted company. Copper-haired and lanky with the angular features of his mother’s race. Though that rangy build would prove deceptive if anyone thought they would get the better of him. Kusint’s stints at a corsair galley’s oar had given him a formidable wiry strength.

  Besides, the lad had new allies to save him from any attack. The Forest woman from the tavern stood a little further down the alley. A handful of other Folk stood with her; three men and two women, one couple in similar garb to the woman and the rest dressed like Soluran townsfolk. They were all looking sternly at Corrain.

  He looked at the letter in Kusint’s hand. Had the lad guessed how many blotted and scored-through drafts had littered the floor of his guest chamber in Trydek’s Hall? Corrain had burned the Archmage’s candles long past midnight striving to find the right words. Had all that effort been in vain?

  ‘May I know your answer?’

  Kusint chewed his lower lip. ‘We should talk first.’

  ‘You and I?’ Corrain looked past him to the motionless Forest contingent, ‘or with your companions?’

  A brief smile warmed Kusint’s cold green eyes. ‘Ysant says that you can be trusted. That your repentance is sincere.’

  Corrain looked at the woman in the beaded jerkin and considered just how easy he had found it to confide in her. He swallowed his annoyance. ‘She has similar skills to Deor?’

  Artifice. That eerie magic that enabled an adept to look into another’s thoughts or to see through their eyes or hear through their ears no matter how many leagues apart they might be. That was the rumour back home as tavern talk insisted such enchantments had proved decisive in the recent Lescari strife.

  Corrain should have remembered. That Forest man Deor had definitely had some aetheric magic at his command, helping those Fornet wizards to hunt Anskal. The sheltya of the Mountains shared such lore with the Folk, so he said.

  ‘Ysant has some trifling aptitude.’ Kusint coloured slightly beneath the freckles dusted across his face.

  ‘Then you know I am truly sorry.’ Hard as Corrain had found it to force his pen to write those words, it was harder still to repeat them facing Kusint. ‘Truly,’ he insisted.

  ‘You say this Anskal has threatened Halferan?’ Kusint demanded.

  ‘He has, though he’s made no move and the Archmage has sent one of his own to watch over the manor.’

  Corrain realised it wasn’t only hatred of the Mandarkin thickening the Forest lad’s voice. After all that Kusint had endured in the Archipelago, the unexpectedly generous welcome he had received from the Halferan household had soothed more than his bruises.

  ‘You say you have urgent questions for the Elders of Fornet.’ Kusint contemplated the letter. ‘You do not say what those questions are.’

  Not when that letter could have fallen into anyone’s hands, if Kusint had taken it only to discard it unread.

  ‘This Mandarkin, Anskal found some hoard of ensorcelled artefacts,’ Corrain said quietly. ‘The Archmage doesn’t know what he intends—’

  ‘Mandarkin kill for the least trifle imbued with magic.’ Kusint paled beneath his freckles. ‘They will burn a village to the ground for rumour of an ensorcelled sword.’

  ‘Hadrumal knows little of such things,’ Corrain explained. ‘The Archmage seeks Soluran lore.’

  Kusint plucked at a beaded leather strap tied around one wrist. ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘Anskal has Hosh,’ Corrain said abruptly. ‘He’s alive. If we help the Archmage, Planir has promised to rescue him.’

  As he spoke, he felt the first stirrings of hope. Guilt almost equal to his own darkened Kusint’s eyes. The Forest lad also had to answer for leaving Hosh behind when the two of them had made their escape.

  ‘I am ready and willing to do penance,’ Corrain maintained, ‘whatever these Soluran mages might demand. I will admit my guilt and my folly in asking for help from a Mandarkin. They can have my oath on whatever they hold sacred that you were not at fault, that you warned me against him.’

  Kusint considered this for a long moment.

  ‘This way.’ The lad walked back down the alley without looking to see if Corrain followed.

  As the woman Ysant approached, Kusint was already speaking, swift and urgent, in the Forest tongue. Corrain could only wait and wonder what tale he was telling. It wasn’t a long one.

  The Forest woman took a step forward to address Corrain. ‘You must go to Pastamar Town to deliver your petition for an audience with the resident wizard serving Lord Pastiss. That is the swiftest way to send your message to the Elders of Fornet since that wizard is of the same order. The Tower itself is a further seven days beyond and hard riding.’

  ‘Pastamar Town is perhaps two days travel northeast of here,’ Kusint explained, ‘where the road that cuts through the Forest from Selerima and the west crosses the river. It’s the only bridge over the Mare’s Tail, guarded by Lord Pastiss’s castle.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Corrain had hoped for swifter progress though. ‘But what is this business of petitions?’

  The man beside Ysant spoke up. ‘If someone has some proposal, some request, a plea for justice or recompense to lay before Lord Pastiss, they must deliver their petition in writing to the castle gate. All such appeals are assessed and listed according to merit. A docket setting out the order in which they will be heard is nailed to the castle’s outer door.’

  Corrain raised a hand before the man could continue. ‘We don’t wish to see the noble lord. We only want to talk to the wizard.’

  ‘You will need Lord Pastiss’s permission before you meet with his mage.’ Ysant’s tone brooked no argument.

  ‘How often are these dockets posted?’ Corrain looked at Kusint. ‘Daily?’

  Ysant shook her coppery head. ‘Two dockets are posted each month, the first at the Greater Moon’s renewal and the second on the day after the full.’

  Daylight or not, Corrain glanced up at the sky. ‘The greater full is six days from now.’

  Ysant nodded. ‘That gives you time enough to make the journey and to present your petition before the next docket’s drawn up. Then you must wait,’ she warned. ‘If a petitioner isn’t present when their name is called, their name is struck off the list and they must submit their petition again to secure a place on the next.’

  Like so much Soluran custom, this baffled Corrain. ‘But if it takes two days to get to Pastamar and the next docket will be posted so soon, we’ll be sucking hind teat after all those who’ve already made their plea. If we have to wait for the next docket after that—’ he swallowed his frustration as he made the swift calculation ‘—we’ve no hope of being heard for twenty days, likely more.’

  With the Equinox Festival a handful of days after that. How could he explain such a delay to Planir? What were the chances of Hosh surviving that long?

  He shook his head. ‘We should ride straight for the Order’s tower.’ And he would kick in the door if that’s what it took to rouse a wizard to talk to him.

  Ysant said something in her own tongue that raised wry smiles on her companions’ faces.

  ‘Kusint told you that I have some knowledge of Artifice.’ She pronounced the unfamiliar word with care. ‘I can ask one of my own blood who lives in Pastamar Town to present your petition. If you tell me what she should write, your letter can be delivered to the castle before sunset today.’

  ‘My thanks for that.’ Corrain tried to look suitably gra
teful though he wasn’t sure how much two days would be worth so late in this game. He looked at Kusint. ‘Will you write this petition? You’ll know best how to phrase it.’

  Kusint hesitated, then nodded. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Hire or buy two good saddle horses.’ Corrain was ready to spend the Archmage’s silver like copper to secure the best mounts he could.

  One of the Forest men in Soluran garb raised a hand ‘I know an honest trader,’ he said in halting Tormalin.

  ‘Then we’ll meet you at the Half-barrel Tavern,’ Kusint nodded, ‘as soon as may be.’

  The Soluran-born Forest man grinned at Corrain and beckoned for him to follow.

  Corrain had to curb his long stride not to outstrip the man’s pace down the alley. Two days, three at the most and they would be in Pastamar Town. This business of petitions and dockets was all very well but he would be looking for some other way to get a foot in that castle door, to put their case to this nobleman’s sworn wizard once they arrived. To persuade that unknown mage to use his magic to relate their appeal to these Elders of Fornet, no matter how far away they might be.

  Though these were only the first steps on this path. He and Kusint must convince these Soluran wizards to share whatever knowledge the Archmage might need to frustrate Anskal’s plans. That was surely going to be a far greater challenge.

  But he was not going to leave Lord Pastiss’s castle until he had secured the Elders of Fornet’s assistance. Not even if these Solurans chose to flog or imprison him for enlisting Mandarkin aid. Now that Corrain knew he could trust Kusint to hold Planir to his promise to rescue Hosh.

  However powerful Anskal might be, one mage could not hope to stand against Hadrumal. Not when a single magewoman like Madam Jilseth could drive off a whole band of corsairs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Relshaz Waterfront

  22nd of For-Autumn

  MELLITHA’S CARRIAGE HAD finally arrived at their destination. Descending the step slowly behind Nolyen, Jilseth surveyed the broad square and recalled the magewoman mentioning pewter roses.

  The fountain in the centre boasted a central column wreathed with silver-grey metal flowers. Black iron spikes ringed the base of that pillar and more fringed the rim of the fountain’s outer bowl, in case anyone admiring the artisans’ skills was tempted to try stealing a piece of such beauty. Those coming for the clean water supplied by the Magistracy could help themselves from troughs served by spouts marking the cardinal points of the compass.

  A raggedly clothed crowd was thirstily scooping up water with their bare hands.

  ‘Madam mage!’ Tanilo jumped down from the carriage’s driving seat. ‘Master mage! Wait here!’

  ‘Are those slaves?’ Nolyen looked warily at the mob; all men and ranging from their first growth into maturity to those in their prime despite some grey or balding heads.

  Jilseth had already noted their manacles and shackles as well as the watching Relshazri with whips lax in their hands.

  What she didn’t understand was the slave cohort’s good humour. The men were smiling, nudging each other to ensure everyone shared in the joke. Even the Relshazri guards were teasing them, light-hearted.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Jilseth couldn’t pick any meaning out of the clotted confusion of dialects.

  A subtle swirl of enchanted air brought the voices to them, louder and more clearly. Tanilo was bemused.

  ‘They have been sold to Khusro Rina’s wives. But if they serve satisfactorily, they will be given their freedom and returned the mainland with as much silver coin as they can hold in their cupped hands.’

  Nolyen cleared his throat. ‘It is widely rumoured that Aldabreshin warlords’ wives purchase mainland slaves to stand at stud.’

  ‘Widely rumoured but with little evidence.’ Tanilo shook his head, adamant.

  Jilseth studied the contingent of slaves. In her frank opinion, few women in Hadrumal, mage- or mundane born, would give any of them a come-hither glance. Would an Aldabreshin warlord’s wife, with all the riches of the Archipelago to buy the equivalent of a purebred stallion, opt for a wagoneer’s whip-spoiled cast-offs?

  ‘How many wives does Khusro Rina have?’

  ‘Four,’ Tanilo answered promptly. ‘Debis Khusro, Katel Khusro, Patri Khusro and Quilar Khusro. They were born—’

  ‘Never mind.’ Jilseth had no need to know these women’s origins. She tallied the heads of the slaves. Three score, near enough.

  No, she refused to believe that any woman with the most prodigious appetite for bed sport would spread her legs for a triple handful of men risking every lover’s disease from the Scald to the Itch. She couldn’t believe it of one woman, let alone four together.

  ‘Someone is lying,’ she concluded.

  ‘Can you find out which slave trader they came from?’ Nolyen asked Tanilo.

  The coachman nodded. ‘When I’ve taken Madam Esterlin to the Magistracy.’

  Jilseth noted that some of those bystanders who had been gawping at the chained slaves by the fountain were beginning to take an interest in this stationary carriage and the three of them standing beside it.

  ‘We’ve lingered long enough.’

  ‘Indeed.’ With a brief nod to Tanilo, Nolyen began walking seawards.

  To Jilseth’s relief, the slave contingent was driven off down a different road, an incongruous spring in their step for all the chains hampering their feet.

  She and Nolyen emerged on the dockside close by the eastern breakwater. Fewer than half the moorings around the curving harbour were occupied.

  ‘There are different ships here today.’ Jilseth noted the coloured pennants at their mast heads marked with the broad black strokes of an unknown script.

  ‘The great galleys have all left.’ Nolyen observed low-voiced as they strolled along the thoroughfare towards the swathe of quayside now gleaming starkly white. ‘There are far more triremes.’

  Each warship was tied up beside a smaller, swifter galley bearing the same domain’s pennant. No rope ladders dangled from any trireme’s stern and swordsmen stood guard at top and bottom of each galley’s wooden steps. They had all lowered their round helms’ sliding nasal bars and fastened the fine chainmail veils that protected face and neck. These warriors were ready for trouble.

  More armed and armoured men stood watch in front of their warlords’ storehouses. There were no families on the balconies today. As men and women arriving, all with armed escorts, were admitted through the doors, Jilseth could hear bars and bolts withdrawn and then quickly replaced.

  Helmets shadowed the sentries’ eyes, hiding any hint where they were looking. Regardless, Jilseth had no doubt that she and Nolyen were closely watched as they approached the scene of the slaughter.

  ‘You’d never know what had happened here.’ Nolyen was right insofar as there was no visible trace of blood. The unnatural cleanliness of this stretch of quayside suggested something awry however.

  What might remain unseen? Jilseth allowed the merest trifle of her mage sense to brush across the tightly-fitted stones as she refined her earth affinity to the precise demands of necromancy.

  Some blood lingered in the deepest cracks but the Aldabreshi hadn’t only used salt and scalding water to clean these stones. She could sense some alchemical substance, somehow akin to rock oil and to bitumen. Something harsh and acidic, degrading whatever hidden blood it touched. Jilseth wondered how that unfortunate slave had really died.

  The scoured whiteness extended from the waterside more than half way across the thoroughfare. Regardless, no Aldabreshi was walking across the pallid stones. The swordsmen outside the storehouses overlooking the bleached expanse were stepping back to allow Aldabreshi and Relshazri alike to encroach on paving safely soiled by ordinary occurrences.

  Nolyen raised a hand as though to scratch his nose. Elemental air carried his muttered words to Jilseth’s ear. ‘How are we to get close to the water without drawing every eye to us?’


  ‘Come on.’ Jilseth slid her arm through his elbow.

  Nolyen obediently escorted her around the curve of the harbour. When Jilseth calculated they had gone far enough, she released his arm to sit on a bollard conveniently free of any ship’s rope.

  She pressed the back of one hand to her forehead, as though fighting a swoon. Nolyen dropped into a crouch before her. His hands clasped her other hand, his expression all concern.

  Jilseth looked at him through her fingers. ‘Can you see down to the seabed yonder? Is there anything I can use?’

  Nolyen edged sideways, taking care to seem intent on Jilseth as he looked across the arc of the harbour.

  ‘They’ve scrubbed those stones down to the low waterline.’ His gaze dropped, the opaque water no hindrance to his wizard eye. ‘I can see a hand, several heads—’

  ‘No heads.’ Working necromancy with a dead person’s face before her invariably disturbed Jilseth’s sleep for days after.

  Nolyen searched the unseen seabed. ‘I see three hands and one foot. How shall we set about this?’

  ‘Find a hand with shackle galls or similar Aldabreshin scars and raise it up to float just below the surface. I will take it from there while you make sure no splashes betray us.’ Jilseth slid around on the bollard as though turning her face into the refreshing salt breeze.

  She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the faint trace of his magelight arrowing across the water to the stark whiteness splashed like paint down the quay front.

  This was a magelight only visible to another wizard. But the water seemed unduly hostile to Jilseth’s affinity. She sent her own mage sense scurrying faster as Nolyen’s wizardry vanished beneath a scum of nameless fragments caught between a moored ship’s stern and the dockside.

  Reaching the bleached quayside, she followed Nolyen’s lead down into the depths. Before her mage sight reached the silt, a hand came groping upwards towards her. Obedient to Nolyen’s magic, the water was resolutely rejecting this sad remnant of a lost life.