“What about the slaves?”
“Well, that’s an interesting point. They don’t own the slaves, so I think there’ll be some careful bargaining going on.”
Berin looked across at the sleeping girl. “It’s so good that Tikka’s Tikka again. I felt quite hopeless when she was all vacant. It was the worst thing that happened.”
“It’s been a difficult journey for Tikka, more than for any of us, Berin. Remember she started off in Suntoren fighting herself about coming and that’s been going on ever since, though I think this last month will have come close to settling it for her. Then she was left alone in Dendria, drugged in Razimir. It would have been hard enough for her without the nightmares she had on the way to Tarkus. You didn’t know about that? Well, I don’t think she’ll make any secret of it now. She dreamed that someone had control of her, held her on a chain, and it really frightened her. After Tarkus the dreams faded away, but when they put chains on her at the border post, it must have all come back with double force and sent her over the edge. But don’t worry. It’s one of the better things that’s happened to us in the last month or two.”
The tutor smiled at Berin’s surprise. “Tikka’s come a long way since Suntoren, though it’s not a way many would wish to travel. She had to shift the fears which had lodged deep like splinters and I think she’s free of them now. You could say the mine showed a profit after all.”
He glanced at the youth again and noted the half-closed eyes as he fought to stay awake. “Go on. Get yourself to bed. It’s a long ride to Karkor and there’ll be time to talk along the way.”
A beautiful blue sky made their ride the next day pure pleasure for Berin. Tariska was still quiet, but she smiled from time to time and it was a real smile which shone in her eyes as well as her face. It was strange, he reflected, that although Caldar and Rasscu and the Tinker were separated from them, he still felt restored and peaceful now that three of them were together again. Thinking back to what Idressin had said about the last month being profitable, he understood dimly that it had been so for him too. Definitely not what he would have chosen! He almost laughed at the idea. But it had changed him in some half-felt and permanent way.
They stopped that night at Nissika, a fair-sized town where their side road rejoined the main highway to Karkor. In the morning the tutor set about altering their appearance. “Just in case we have the bad luck to run into Pak or Kulkin again on the road,” he said.
He himself kept the front of an upper class official, while he found new clothes for his companions. A few touches of pigment and a little instruction on how to move and Tariska had aged ten years. Jet black hair cut short completed the change. She was to be Idressin’s wife, while Berin adopted Caldar’s old role of groom and general factotum.
The highway was as busy as ever, when they joined the flow of travellers in the afternoon. They were all more alert now after their experience with Pak, but despite the presence of numerous military posts along the way, there were no alarms that day or on the days that followed.
There was a growing air of unreality about the journey for Berin. He could already sense the power and authority radiating from Karkor. It touched every aspect of people’s lives here, and whatever their station, they seemed to view the capital with a profound awe tinged with dread. The largest city in the world, they said, home to more than three million souls as well as to the Emperor, his court and council, the Archpriest of Ajeddak, the Imperial Army, the Special Forces.
It felt to Berin as though all of these were waiting, crouched just over the horizon, for the three travellers to ride up and challenge them. The youth laughed at the image when it first came to mind. But as the days went by, what was waiting for them took on palpable menace and what had been comic became ridiculous and finally hopeless.
Empire: Karkor: Imperial Palace
"Just a moment, Duke Bembel. I'll get rid of them." Shkosta stalked through to her inner chambers. "Why are you still here at this hour?"
The venom infusing the simple question sent a shiver down the Duke's back. Did he really want this creature as his name-daughter? He didn't catch the mumbled reply before the princess' voice cut it off.
"Then give the lazy sluts a whipping, housemistress. And take two days on bread and water yourself. No, make that three. Now out, the lot of you, out."
He could hear the servants shuffling hurriedly out of the back door even as the princess came back into view.
"Now we are alone, Duke. I believe you said you had a proposal for me."
Housemistress Salvan Prayl caught the words just as she was closing the door and smiled. She felt a little sorry for Bembel, even though he was a supercilious old goat. The Emperor's Winterturn address had put the princess on the marriage market like a prize heifer and she was decidedly angry. The Duke was just the first of those who were about to feel the backlash.
Salvan had wondered briefly why the Emperor had chosen this time to make his wishes public, but the answer was obvious enough to someone as experienced in court politics as the housemistress. If his heir was to be a Habbakal, Shkosta was his only choice and he did not trust her. Feared her? Maybe that too. It was an open secret that she had been responsible along with Theyn for the miraculous capture of the Mederro leader, Sammar, and the voices which had harped on about the unsuitability of women to handle practical affairs were temporarily stilled. Even some of the younger generals and counsellors had begun to temper their criticisms and in the city streets her name was being spoken with growing admiration. At this moment the old man could marry her off, disown her, send her back to Hexper if he pleased: he was still in control, but not for ever, and he knew it.
Not that Shkosta had ever declared her intention to succeed her grandfather. But Salvan knew it was there, steel not yet drawn from its scabbard, and it was growing harder and sharper than ever now. Every time Salvan reported another of the Emperor's secret meetings with the Six Families to the princess, she could sense Shkosta’s inner resolve rise to a new level for all her outward calm.
Habbakal had left the arrangements for these meetings to Shuvar, who had planned them with his usual precision: entry through the secret passages under the Palace to one of the long-disused staterooms in the old West Wing, all the guests to be masked, and so on. But Shuvar like everyone else had underestimated the spy network among the servants. Servants were invisible to most eyes, like the carpet underfoot, and even when they were specifically barred from a particular section of the Palace, someone somewhere always caught a glimpse of what they were not supposed to see. In this case the Heads of the Six Families.
There was nothing remarkable about the Heads being there: they were all regular visitors at court: Shuvar himself presided in the Imperial Council chamber every week. But the feuds were so strong that no one had seen an Attegor and a Shemly in the same room for almost thirty years, nor a Baggurd and a Rivlin for ten. And if that wasn’t strange enough by itself, why were the meetings supposed to be so deadly secret? The guards in the whole Enclave had been trebled on each occasion, four times now since the Festival of Lights.
Salvan had reported each meeting to Shkosta, though even her boldest efforts to get close enough to hear the proceedings had failed. She was well rewarded for her information, although she told the princess with fierce loyalty that she was so outraged she would have given it to her for nothing. The meetings were almost certainly about the succession, Shkosta’s exclusion making it all the more likely. What did the Emperor think he was doing? To even think of changing the rules, when there was another Habbakal ready to take the throne as soon as she was needed! The Prayls had served the Habbakal Emperors for nigh on a hundred years, Salvan herself for fifty: she had no wish to see it all end.
She had not in fact been cleaning the chambers when the princess had arrived with Duke Bembel. She was there to discuss how much warning she could give Shkosta before the next meeting took place. Bembel’s presence had interfered with their plans and the princess had
put on a nice little show of spite: not only would it strengthen the general belief that she was at odds with her staff, it would also ease the Duke’s disappointment when this termagent turned down his proposition. She had even managed to give Salvan the coded message to return in three hours rather than two for their own discussion.
This girl was worthy of the throne, the housemistress told herself fiercely. The Emperor had been an eagle once, who had turned into a faltering pigeon as illness spread through his body. Couldn’t he see that the Empire would need a ruler with that same ferocious energy again to guide it through the troubled times ahead?
Perhaps he had someone else in mind already. Who? Shuvar was a devious old woman; there was no force behind his endless plotting. Deffir Rivlin was the opposite, a bull who would charge mindlessly at the least provocation. The other three were non-entities and the generals were no better: ambition aplenty, a little straightforward ability, but self-control, breadth of vision, strength of purpose? What was wrong with the present generation? There just weren’t the kind of men around that she remembered from her own youth.
Dettekar was the only exception, but he had never shown the least personal ambition. He would almost certainly decline the throne even if Habbakal handed it to him on a platter. As for Theyn, he was useful to the princess, Salvan couldn’t deny that, even though she felt a stab of jealousy at the thought. He was so ….smart, yes, smart and creepy at the same time. Of course not so smart that he knew of Salvan’s role and her informers throughout the Palace. She smiled again. There were many titbits she had been able to pass on to the princess about the clever colonel.
Chapter 23
All ships are warned to stay east of the Tarifarui reef. There are only three recorded passages (see charts 11, 18 & 39) in its whole length of one hundred and sixty leagues, and while the shallow seas to the west are reported to be excellent fishing grounds, the risks inherent in lingering in Havasomai waters are too great for serious consideration.
West Coast Navigation - Captain Osskin Bast
Western Ocean
Rasscu strolled the foredeck of the freighter, ten steps each way before his path was blocked by a jumble of crates and bales. He knew every item of cargo in this small space and could recite every mark on them by heart. Six days at sea and he still could not be sure that Caldar was aboard. The footpads had been too frightened to lie, he was sure of it. Yet the possibility remained that he had made a dreadful mistake. He kept his frustration in check, aware that this was not a situation he could resolve by force. It was clear that Bogoss already mistrusted him and there was always a sailor working or loitering nearby. One false move and the Tesserit - or Caldar - might be dumped over the side.
When he had first come aboard, the crew had been so busy working the ship out into the bay that no one had had time to bother about the still figure standing by the rail. An hour later two burly seamen had come to his side and escorted him firmly to the raised stern deck. He had assumed the huge black-bearded man who confronted him there to be the captain, but could not confirm it as they soon found they had no common language.
The atmosphere became less friendly by the minute, until he had intercepted a signal from blackbeard to his crewmen. Rightly judging it to be hostile, he had his knife at the man's throat in a flash and a tense, yet farcical scene ensued, with neither side in the stand-off able to make itself understood.
The arrival of a short fat figure, dishevelled and reeking of alcohol, had solved the issue. He had turned out to be the captain, Dazzak, and he spoke Shattun. His surprise at the drama being enacted on his ship was comical, but once communication was established, he had proved a benign character who had ended up welcoming his uninvited guest. Rasscu had adopted the role of S’Bissi, the silk and diamond merchant, who was in Malefor on business.
"And how do you come to be aboard my ship, mister merchant?"
A nod and a wink accompanied the young man's explanation about an affair over a lady, which had evoked a violent response from her husband. The wronged man was rich enough to pay to have his killing done for him, and Razimir had suddenly become unhealthy for the merchant. Telling his servants to accompany the Grand Caravan leaving for Karkor, he had sought a ship going south down the coast.
"I was in a hurry and you were just leaving. It was a perfect opportunity. I apologise, captain, for not arranging passage with you. There was no time, and you were not in evidence at that moment. I assure you I will pay my way."
"Think nothing of it, my good sir. Mister S’Bissi, was it? Welcome aboard, Mister S’Bissi. I don't normally carry passengers, but since you're here, we'll make the best of it, eh? I'll get one of the crew to show you a cabin and perhaps you'll join me in a couple of hours for a noggin. I have to take this old tub out through the South Gate narrows first."
When Rasscu inspected the small cabin, it was clear that someone else's things had been bundled out in a hurry. At least it was private. If he could barricade himself in at night, he would be able to sleep in peace without the fear of having his throat cut. The black-bearded mate - what was his name? Bogoss - looked a nasty piece of work. It was to be hoped that the captain wasn't too drunk to control him. Still, if he was capable of piloting the ship out through the narrows and the reefs, perhaps it would be alright.
That night and every succeeding night, he had had dinner with Dazzak in his cabin. The captain was delighted to have a drinking companion or rather a companion while he drank. He was a cultured man and was inordinately pleased to have an opportunity for intelligent conversation. The talk ranged over a multitude of subjects, ships, the state of the Empire, women, travel, trade, even the stars and the after-life. Always Rasscu managed carefully to slip in a question about the crew, or new deckhands, or other passengers, probing from a different direction each time. And each time he had drawn a complete blank. He had asked when Dazzak was sober and clear-headed, and he had asked when he was completely intoxicated and could not guard his tongue. In the end he had been forced to accept that if Caldar was aboard, the captain did not know of it.
Using the services of a sailor who spoke Shattun, Rasscu had questioned Bogoss also. Although he had been deliberately casual in his approach, he could sense the suspicion in the mate's attitude, as he denied taking on any new hands in Razimir. Since then he had twice found Rasscu exploring the cargo areas below decks and in the end had set a crewman to watch him continuously. There was a man outside his door all night.
Dazzak apparently owned the ship and was the most experienced seaman aboard. It was his money that paid the hands and ultimately their allegiance should be to him. But he was only sober for a few hours each day, and it was easy to see how the mate had gradually assumed an unusual degree of authority. When the ship was at sea, an isolated floating community, Bogoss was an opponent to be reckoned with.
"What think you of the weather then, Mister S’Bissi?" Dazzak's voice broke into his reflections. The captain had come on deck for his morning tour of the ship, and a conversation with Rasscu about the weather had already become part of the ritual.
"It looks fair enough. But then after six days you know well that I am no seaman, captain."
"Hmmm." Dazzak was almost humming to himself as he peered in all directions, at the horizons ahead and behind, up at the sky overhead, down at the waves which hissed gently along the side of the ship. He turned back to his passenger.
"There'll be heavy weather by dawn tomorrow. Yes, a fine storm brewing, I'm quite certain."
"You seem almost pleased by the prospect."
"Well, I'll admit it adds some spice to an old sea-dog's life. People sometimes tell me how romantic it must be to be sailing from port to port all my life. You can see for yourself what most of our days are like. We live in a saucer full of sea with nothing else to be seen from rim to rim. But a storm - that's something different. Unpredictable, no two the same, and always the knowledge that one day one of them might prove to be just too strong."
Dazzak sh
outed some orders, and the bow swung ponderously further west.
"I want more sea room," he explained as he turned away. "We may need every yard we can get tomorrow."
Left to his pacing, Rasscu's thoughts returned to finding Caldar and to outwitting his watchers. His gaze fell on the sea, its benign surface showing no sign of Dazzak’’s predicted storm. All at once the spark of an idea came to him and before long had raised a flame of anticipation and impatience. At last he could do something! He trusted the captain's knowledge of the sea, and set himself to wait until the weather would give him the opportunity he needed.
By mid-afternoon the high haze had congealed into heavy grey cloud. The sea was gathering into a long powerful swell and all night a fitful wind blew in short gusts from every quarter. At dawn the northern horizon went black and night rushed down upon them again, borne on a howling gale. So sudden was the onset that the crew were still furling the mainsail, when the squall struck, and the ship's deck was immediately transformed into a plunging lethal maelstrom of wind and water. Rasscu took one quick look at the figures straining in the murk overhead, amongst them the sailor who had been watching him, wished them luck, and climbed down into the crew's quarters first.
He was looking for a person, not some small easily concealed object, and it did not take him long to dismiss the area and move on. The hardest thing was to stay on his feet and to keep his lantern intact, as the ship corkscrewed violently over the mounting seas. He had checked the centre hold previously, before Bogoss had intercepted him. So he went into the stern cargo area next, lurching from case to case and bale to bale. He was thankful that it was all stowed securely or the floor of the hold would have been a death-trap. As it as, he was able to check every corner within half an hour. Not a trace. It was all simply cargo.
The Tears of Sisme Page 59
