Aravan unrolled a map. “Ye both then assume that Durlok runs a course east and west along a track just north of Rwn, shuttling back and forth between the western continent and Thol to the east.” With his finger Aravan traced the route across the map, following the marge between the Weston Ocean and the Northern Sea.
Jinnarin looked closely. “But wait, Aravan. Farrix saw the plumes streaking down to the south and east of Rwn. Couldn’t Durlok have more than one course he sails?”
Aravan rubbed his jaw. “Aye, Lady Jinnarin, he could at that. Mayhap it depends upon where the aurora shines. What say thee, Mage Alamar?”
All eyes swung to the elder. Alamar turned up his hands. “He could have a thousand routes for all I know,” he answered peevishly, frustrated. “I don’t even know what he’s up to! —But whatever it is, it’s not to anyone’s benefit, and that’s a fact!”
At that moment the door opened and inward bustled the innkeeper, bearing a tray of pastries and another pot of tea. “’Ere naow, Oi’ve brought y’—” His words chopped off as first he glimpsed Jinnarin and then a cluster of darkness standing in the center of the table. “Lor! Is that—?”
Jatu stepped smoothly between the table and the innkeeper, blocking off his view. “I’ll take that, Mister Orgle.” The innkeeper tried to step around Jatu, but the black Man intervened, taking the tray and standing in the way. “Thank you, Mister Orgle.”
“Arfoozle arapp!” loudly said Alamar, as shadow-wrapped Jinnarin scrambled down and away. “Harrum!” he cleared his throat. “There now, that illusion is gone. Let me show you another. Flores rosae pendete!” Of a sudden the room was filled with floating rose blossoms.
Mister Orgle’s eyes flew wide with pleasure as he backed out of the room, Jatu shepherding him aft, the innkeeper craning his neck, unsuccessfully trying to see over the big black Man. “Maige Aliamar, y’ be a wonder, and that’s hall there is to that! Coo naow, what wi’ y’r sparkly lights ’n’ tinkly sounds ’n’ wee dark bogles ’n’ floatin’ flowers, if y’ e’re need t’ pay f’r y’r room ’n’ board, Oi’d taik these hillusions o’ y’rs in hexchainge.” As he passed through the door he called out, “O’ course, Oi’d hask y’ t’ do hit whin m’ paying customers wos habout. They’d no doubt come f’r supper, ’n’ hafterward they’d drink plenty, they would, wos y’ t’ be ’ere t’ put on y’r show, naow.” Jatu smiled and closed the door in his face and pegged the latchlock, then turned and bore the tray to the waiting group.
Shadows now dissipated, Jinnarin climbed back onto the tabletop and asked in exasperation, “How soon will we be leaving?”
The Eroean made ready to set sail the very next day, and nearly all citizenry of Arbor tramped through the snow and down to the quay, following the Dwarves from the Storm Lantern and the ship’s Men from the Blue Mermaid. The air was festive, almost paradelike, as townsfolk chatted and laughed with the crew and with one another, and snickered as Alamar struggled with Rux. And down to the docks they went, where the crew boarded launches and were rowed out to the Elvenship. And when they all were aboard, still the crowd hung about, waiting to see her raise silk and up anchor and glide majestically out of the harbor on the morning tide. And as she did so, Men and Women alike oohed and ahhed with the wonder of her. Long they stood and watched, some even running up to the headland to catch a final glimpse of her before she sailed from view. And at last she was gone, northerly, on her mysterious mission, and the citizens of Arbor returned to their businesses and dwellings and other such, and for years after they talked of the time the Elvenship herself came unto their very own town, and rightly so, for she had been damaged in battle with a thousand terrible monsters, and what better place to put in for repairs?
Covered with sweat and gasping for air, Jinnarin jolted upright in her bed, the dread of her nightmare coursing through her veins. Gazing wildly about, she saw that she was in her under-bunk cabin, Rux now awake beside her. “It’s all right, Rux. It’s all right,” she said, more to reassure herself than the fox. “He’s still sending me the dream, and for that we can be thankful.” She smiled at Rux and rolled over…and finally returned to sleep.
“Adon misereatur,” said Aylis.
“May Adon have mercy,” translated Aravan.
“Cui bono?” she asked.
“Who stands to gain?” responded Aravan.
“Alis volat propriis.”
“She flies on her own wings.”
“Virtutis fortuna comes.”
“Good fortune is the companion of courage.”
“Ah, love, you learn swiftly,” said Aylis. “But now I would have you speak to me in the tongue of the Mages.”
Aravan nodded, then said, “Amor vincit omnia, et nos cedamus amori.…”
…and so they did.
Frizian stepped into the wheelhouse, and by the lantern light he peered at the gradations scribed on the astrolabe, then glanced at a chart. Setting the instrument aside and removing his gloves, he pulled down a heavy tome and opened it, thumbing through the pages, revealing table after table filled with numbers. Stopping at one, his finger ran down a column, pausing at one of the entries. Muttering to himself, again he looked at the chart, and nodded in confirmation. Pulling on his gloves, once more he stepped out to the deck, where the winter wind blew icy cold. “By my reckoning, Captain, we are back at the latitude where we were holed.”
Aravan glanced at the stars above. “Close enough, Frizian. Close enough.”
Frizian shook his head in envy. No charts, no tables, he just knows! “Which way then, Captain?” asked the Man.
Aravan took a breath then said, “West. If the Black Mage shuttles back and forth, then west along this track is most likely where we will find him.”
“How so, Captain?”
Aravan gestured to starboard. “Landfall lies some hundred twenty-five leagues to the east, Frizian, but some seven hundred leagues to the west. Thus, westerly there is nigh six times as much of an ocean track than to the east. Hence, if the Black Mage sails this course, then unbiased Fortune would put him to the west some six times out of seven.”
“Ah but, Captain, is Dame Fortune ever unbiased?”
Aravan sighed. “Sometimes I think not, Frizian. Sometimes I deem she is the most fickle creature of all.”
“More fickle than the ocean, Captain?”
“Mayhap, Frizian, mayhap. Akka! At times I think they are one and the same.”
Frizian nodded, then turned toward the poop deck and pulled down the scarf from his face. “Reydeau!” he called. “Pipe her due west!”
“Aye, sir” came Reydeau’s response from aft.
The yards were pulled ‘round and the tiller turned, the Elvenship answering the helm. And close hauled to the wind, westerly she fared, racing into the night.
Below decks in the Dwarven quarters, Jinnarin sat with the warriors and listened to them speaking in Châkur, the hidden tongue. With its abrupt starts and stops, their language was harsh to her ear, and it seemed to her that everything started with a b and ended with a k, though it was not so. As to Châkur, it is an ancient tongue, tracing its roots back to the time when Dwarves first walked upon the world…or rather, within it, for it is a tongue eminently suitable for use in underground caverns, where echoes and reverberations tend to distort other languages beyond all recognition. And so Jinnarin sat and listened to the Dwarves talking among themselves—sibilance absent, murmurs, mumblings, and undertones missing, contractions nowhere to be found—each word separate and sharp and crystal clear, though she understood none of it at all.
“Tell me, Kelek,” she asked, “just how did it come about that Dwarves sail upon the Eroean?”
The black-haired Dwarf stroked his beard and looked at her, his dark eyes glittering in the lantern light. It seemed as if he were judging whether or not to answer her question, though it may have been that he was considering the answer itself. “You think it odd, eh?”
Jinnarin nodded. “Frankly, I do. I had always though
t of Dwarves as being dwellers in the earth.”
“In the earth, nay; in the Mountains, yea.”
“But inside the very mountains themselves, right?”
Kelek canted his head, Yes, adding, “It has always been so that the Châkka have dwelled within the living stone.”
“Then how did Dwarves, that is, how did some Dwarves become seafarers?”
Kelek nodded, then stood and stepped to a small iron stove and poured himself a cup of tea, offering to refresh Jinnarin’s wee cup, but she shook her head, No. Returning to the table, Kelek sat and took a sip, then set the cup down. “In the time of my ancestors—and perhaps myself, before I died in that bygone cycle—some three thousand years past, Aravan the Elf came to the Red Hills, seeking Tolak, who was at that time DelfLord of the caverns. And when he found him…”
The Châk before the gate eyed the tall Elf suspiciously. “I am to escort you to Lord Tolak. And your name is…?”
“Aravan. Alor Aravan of the sea. And thou art…?”
“I am Barad, gate captain.”
“Well then, Captain Barad, lead on.”
Instructing Aravan to leave his weapons with his horse, Barad led Aravan across the broad forecourt of polished granite and up a low set of wide steps to another stretch of stone. As they passed in through the great iron gates, Châkka sentries on duty nodded to their captain and hefted their axes, as if to say they stood ready should this Elf give trouble.
Out of the bright sunlit courtyard they stepped and into the shadowed halls of the Châkkaholt, entering into a long wide hallway fetching at its far extent up against another iron gate. Barad noted that Aravan glanced overhead, the Elf eyeing the machicolations in the ceiling, murder holes from which would rain death should an invader breech the outer gates. And then Aravan’s gaze swung alongside where in the walls were slots in the stone through which crossbow quarrels would fly. “Formidable defenses, Captain,” he murmured as their footsteps echoed about.
Captain Barad did not reply.
Beyond the second gate the halls were lit with phosphorescent Châkka lanterns, the blue-green light casting a ghastly aspect over all, and down through this spectral glow they trod, twisting through passages, ascending and descending stairs, walking along crevasses left and right. Halls and corridors crossed and re-crossed and joined and forked away from the passage they followed; millennia had gone into their delving, and had Aravan not been escorted, the Elf would soon have been lost within the maze. But at last they came to a doorway leading into the throne room, where Captain Barad bade Aravan to stop. Through the opening, Barad could see Lord Tolak sitting upon the chair of state. Down before him and to one side on the steps of the dais sat a slender figure swathed from head to foot in layers of diaphanous veils; it was a Châkian, Erien, Tolak’s trothmate. And when Barad announced the presence of Aravan, Erien gracefully arose and glided from the room, and Barad saw Aravan’s eyes widen slightly as he looked upon the form of the retreating female, for Châkia were rarely glimpsed by outsiders.
When she was gone out through a portal behind the throne, Barad led Aravan into the chamber, then took station at Tolak’s side—the captain standing ready should Tolak need him, standing ready as well to escort Aravan back to the gate when his audience was done. That Tolak would need protection is questionable, for he was a Châk in his prime, and at hand leaning against the throne stood his double-bitted axe, oaken-helved and iron-beaked. Tolak himself, as all Châkka, stood between four and five feet tall, and his shoulders were broad—half again as wide as the Elf’s. He had chestnut-colored hair, and he was dressed in brown leathers beneath his black-iron shirt of mail—much the same as was Barad’s dress, though the gate captain also wore a metal helm with a molded dragon for a crest. Tolak’s mien was one of gruff curiosity, wondering what errand had brought an Elf unto his domain.
“Lord Tolak,” said Aravan, bowing.
Tolak arose. “Alor Aravan,” he said, and returned the bow. “It is not often that Elves come to the Châkkaholt of the Red Hills. And when they do, it is usually to trade for iron or steel. Yet I understand that you come neither to trade nor to buy or sell.”
Aravan smiled broadly. “Nay, Lord Tolak. Instead I come to ask for help.”
Tolak’s eyes widened. “Elves needing help? From the Châkka? Are your people in trouble?”
Aravan laughed. “Nay, Lord Tolak. The help is for me alone, and not for the Lian.”
“Ah,” said Tolak, gesturing to a side table and chairs, “this I must hear.”
As they took seats, Tolak rang a gong, and a tray-bearing Châk served tea. Leaning back, they took their leisure, and Tolak said, “Now about this aid…”
Aravan set down his cup. “Lord Tolak, I have sailed the seas now for some two millennia, and I have spent most of that time on all manner of ships, learning their nature—from the dhows of Gjeen to the Dragonships of Fjordland, from the carracks of Arbalin to the junks of Jinga, from the leather-bound coracles of Rwn to the oaken ships of Gelen to the reed vessels of Khem. I have sailed knorrs and coastal traders, raiders and whalers and more…I have sailed them all. And everywhere I went I worked in shipyards, learning all I could about the construction of every type of vessel in every Land. I have learned much, and though I know that there is yet more to learn, still I believe that the time has come.”
Tolak looked across his cup at Aravan. “The time for what?”
“The time to build mine own ship.”
“And why have you come to our Châkkaholt? Do you need fittings or other such that we can forge for you?”
Aravan smiled at Tolak. “Nay, Lord Tolak. I need more, much more.”
The DelfLord set down his cup. “Just what is it you want from the Châkka?”
“Lord Tolak, I want a warband of Drimma to fare with me across the world to find that which I need to make a ship such as the world has never before seen nor will ever see again. Further, when all material is in hand, I want the Drimma to build my ship.”
Tolak looked at Aravan as if the Elf had lost his mind. “Alor Aravan, we are not a seafaring Race! We are the Châkka! We dwell within the living stone! What do we know of building ships? Are you a fool to ask for such?”
Aravan laughed. “If I am a fool, then I am the wisest of them, for no other are more suited to accompany me on my quest than the Drimma—warriors beyond compare. What I seek—woods and oils and silks most rare—are scattered across the world and will not be easily found nor won. And once all are found, none are better fitted to build my ship than the best crafters in the world: again, the Drimma. In this task, I ask thee for thy aid, Lord Tolak, for thee and thy Kind are without peer.”
“And you want us to build the entire ship?”
“All but the sails and ropes, Lord Tolak; they will be Elven made.”
“And what do you offer the Châkka of the Red Hills for our aid?”
“Four things, DelfLord: First, I will pay ye gold and gems, though that is the least of all rewards. Second, ye will learn much in the crafting of my ship, though ye will be sworn to secrecy in the manner of its building, and may not construct another without my leave; even so, the knowledge gained will be suited for the crafting of other things, things both precious and rare. Third, the quest itself will yield ye great knowledge concerning much of the unknown world, knowledge from which trade and commerce will spring if ye but seize the opportunity of it. And fourth, there is the adventure itself, the seeking, the exploration, and though at times it will be perilous, this alone I deem to be the greatest prize of all, especially for those of stout heart and strong hand who come with me across the whole of the world.”
Tolak nodded, then asked, “What is needed to build this ship?”
“Special woods for the hull and decks and tall straight trees for the masts, oils to treat the woods, special caulking to keep the sea at bay, silks for the sails and ropes, starsilver for a special paint for her bottom, cobalt for a special blue paint coating her above, and a specia
l alloy that will not corrode for the anchor and fittings, and more, much more.”
“Did I hear you say starsilver to be used in a paint?”
“Aye. For her bottom.”
“Starsilver is too precious to be used in paint!” averred Tolak.
“Not for this ship, DelfLord.”
Tolak pondered for a moment. “How much will you need?”
“A pound, no more.”
“A pound! A whole pound?”
“Aye. I have a formula from Dwynfor the swordmaker.”
“And where do you expect to get this starsilver?”
Aravan gestured northerly. “From DelfLord Durek in Drimmen-deeve.”
Tolak nodded, then asked, “And just where do you propose that we build this ship of yours? We cannot put it at our gates, for it would be long in its launching were we to do so.”
Aravan’s laughter rang throughout the Châkkaholt. “Aye, a long way indeed, the sea being some seventy leagues hence, the River Argon some fifty. Nay, DelfLord, not here at thy gates. Instead I know of a secret grot in Thell Cove. One that if thou knew not it was there, thou wouldst never find it, and even wert thou told of its existence, still it is nearly impossible to find unaided.” Aravan touched a small blue stone on a leather thong at his throat. “I was aided.”
Tolak glanced over at Captain Barad who had remained silent throughout. “Well, Barad, what say you?”
Barad glanced over at Aravan, then back to Tolak. “I have but one thing to ask, DelfLord, and it is this: when do we leave?”
Jinnarin looked up at Kelek. “And that’s it? That’s the way that Dwarves became involved with the Eroean and the sea?”
Kelek nodded. “Aye. And a grand adventure it was. It took more than two hundred years to gather together those things needed for her making. And then we were another twelve years fashioning her.”
Voyage of the Fox Rider Page 29
