He defied his family by writing to his disgraced cousin Linnet, a sorceress who spent her days wresting antiquities from an ancient frozen city people called ‘Frostgrave’. In reply, she sent him a long letter about her adventures, plus an ancient leather-bound tome written in a dead language.
It took him months to translate the book. The labour had been a welcome distraction from his guilt and self-loathing. His conclusions had brought him a certain bleak satisfaction: in order to take the powers from all the Heritors, he must find the Crystal Pool and drown himself in it.
In one stroke, he would end his own torment, redeem himself, and rid the world of a malign influence.
Unfortunately, nobody knew how to find the Isle of the Crystal Pool in the ever-shifting maze that was the Ghost Archipelago, hence his need to consult the Clockwork Chart… and hence the need for the Pilgrim Banner.
‘It’s just a flag,’ he said. ‘We can get another one made up as soon as Tailor’s Lane wakes up.’
‘But whoever stole the banner will already be underway,’ said Ayesha. ‘We’ll never catch up.’
‘If only,’ said Stochastus, ‘you had assurance of a friendly wind to propel you all the way to the Isle of Farsight.’
Ulrich considered the Storm Warden. With his twinkly eyes and the bows tied into the braids of his beard, he looked like the favourite funny uncle everybody wished they remembered from childhood. Even so, he would have his own agenda – they always did. ‘How do you know the object of my voyage, sir?’
Stochastus laughed. ‘Why a zephyr fresh off the Northern Sea sang me ballads of adventure past and future, and one of them told of your quest for the fabled Clockwork Chart.’
‘Welcome aboard the Redeemer, Stochastus,’ said Ulrich.
* * *
For twelve days, the unnatural wind made a balloon of the spinnaker sail. The pinnace Redeemer skipped across the warm ocean like a happy porpoise. The plump little Storm Warden moved among the crew, swapping tall stories while Ulrich brooded and scanned the horizon.
On the morning of the thirteenth day, they sighted a plume of smoke. Slowly, the Ghost Archipelago heaved itself over the horizon; first, the black peak of the smoldering volcano, then mountains of lush green.
Ulrich roused himself from his dark thoughts and raised his spyglass.
It didn’t take long to spot the jagged profile of the Isle of Farsight. It was exactly where the reports had sighted it – not guaranteed in the Ghost Archipelago, where islands jostled around like revellers at a midwinter festival. He gave orders and Ayesha wove the pinnace through shoals and around rocky headlands. Finally, their destination lay before them across a wide blue channel.
The spinnaker sail flapped and billowed backwards. The ship lost headway.
Ulrich gave Stochastus a questioning look.
The little Storm Warden shrugged expansively, making his feathers and streamers rustle. ‘I am a better surprise than a threat.’
Ulrich nodded. ‘Open the hold for the Storm Warden. Quickly.’
The hold wasn’t much, just a damp space for stashing sealed barrels of supplies and weapons.
Stochastus contemplated it and, for the first time, frowned. ‘I have no love of confined places.’
‘Nor I,’ said Ulrich, gently pushing his shoulders.
The crew stowed the spinnaker sail and worked the sheets. Ayesha hauled on the wheel and brought the pinnace out of irons. Now close hauled, she sailed at an angle into the wind while the crew leaned out to stop her from keeling over.
They entered a swarm of small fishing boats that raised sails and scattered. A sleek galley splashed to intercept them.
‘A Drichean pentaconter with its mast down,’ said Ulrich.
‘Buccaneers,’ said Ayesha.
‘But still Dricheans,’ said Ulrich. ‘Hoist the Pilgrim Banner. Drop sail.’
As the pentaconter swept closer, the figures of bowmen became visible on its low forecastle.
‘This had better work, Ulrich,’ said Ayesha.
They came to a standstill. The pilgrim banner fluttered and snapped overhead. Ulrich glanced up at it and tried to look confident.
The original banner had been properly embroidered with gold thread and a fringe of little bells. This one, run up over a day by a gang of Torraga seamstresses, was just a yellow albatross stitched onto a blue cloth.
It did the trick though. Just within hailing distance, the galley rested oars. A big man leaned out from the prow. The streaks of white in his bushy black beard told of advanced years. However, his voice rang out deep and clear. ‘Who dares violate the home waters of the Isle of Farsight?’
‘Humble pilgrims,’ replied Ulrich. ‘We travel under the protection of the Holy Albatross.’
The man didn’t respond. However, the oars splashed. The galley went about and sped off back towards land.
‘They believed you!’ exclaimed Ayesha.
‘I told the truth,’ said Ulrich.
The Redeemer sailed on into the wide bay. To starboard, a walled citadel rose up from a rocky headland. Ahead, sleek ships lay drawn up on the sandy beach, to which the first galley was headed.
Ulrich panned his spyglass over the strand.
He counted four fifty-oared galleys, each with a single mast. ‘More Drichean pentaconters,’ he said.
‘This is a den of buccaneers,’ said Ayesha. ‘But why aren’t they out raiding?’
‘Not our problem,’ said Ulrich. He panned over the headland until he picked out a small harbour, really just two moles embracing a rocky bay beneath the citadel walls. Carved albatrosses bracketed the harbour entrance. More stone albatrosses adorned a gate tower which guarded the foot of a long flight of steps. These zigzagged up the cliff face, connecting the harbour to the fortified enclosure far above on the summit.
A single pinnace lay tied up at the quayside. Ulrich’s stolen – and much more expensive – Pilgrim Banner drooped from its mast. The sun flashed on a lens: somebody was looking back their way.
Ulrich pointed without lowering his glass.
Ayesha changed course, zigzagging them across the bay towards the little harbour.
Drichean soldiers patrolled the battlements of the gate tower. Their bronze armour was the kind of relic that cousin Linet sketched in her letter home: war gear to be fished out of the tombs of Frostgrave, not to be worn by living people. However, their recurved whalebone bows looked horribly functional.
As the Redeemer drew towards the harbour, Ayesha saw them too. ‘Don’t screw this up,’ she said.
Ulrich nodded as he folded away his spyglass.
Ayesha gave the order to man the sweeps, and the Redeemer crept the last few yards up to the dockside. Meanwhile, Ulrich strapped on his sword belt.
The crew of the other pinnace left off games of dice, drew themselves up.
The Redeemer bumped the plaited rope buffers.
Ulrich leapt ashore and strode towards the other vessel. After three days at sea, the land seemed to tilt as he walked, but it wouldn’t matter if it came to a fight – his curse could be relied on to seize each and every opportunity to take control of his mind.
A big man strode to meet him. His left hand casually steadied the hilt of a greatsword that rode at his hip. He moved just a little too quickly, too smoothly.
A knot formed in Ulrich’s stomach. This was his mirror image: another Heritor swordsman who could match him blade for blade. Somebody who shared his curse, but relished its murderous power.
They met halfway between the vessels.
As the newcomer, Ulrich bowed first. ‘Santino. So nice to see a friend from home.’
Santino bowed just deeply enough to avoid giving obvious offence, but not deeply enough to show proper respect. Close to, rust marks were visible on his doublet. Evidently, the big man usually wore a breastplate over that garment. ‘Ulrich,’ he boomed. ‘I have heard that being your friend is dangerous.’
Ulrich ignored the barb. ‘Nice banner,’ he said.
‘I used to have one just like it.’
‘Amazing what you can buy in the night markets,’ said Santino.
‘Indeed,’ said Ulrich. ‘And apparently you can hire thieves as well.’
Santino’s crew gathered in behind their captain: tough men and women, some sporting battle scars. They bore only daggers and long knives, but their belts boasted hangers crafted to hold axes and swords.
Ulrich looked past them to the other vessel. It was a single-masted pinnace like his. The hatch was open, but the sails were all neatly stowed, the ropes coiled. He considered the dice, the state of the ship, the twitchy aspect of the crew. ‘I see the banner did not take you further than this dockside.’
Santino shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘There is nothing for you here.’ He waved meaty fingers as if dispelling a stench. ‘If you turn around now, I might just let your family keep their house when I am king of Markibec.’
Ulrich blinked. Just like Ulrich, Santino could trace his line back to the old dynasty. ‘Let me know when you make your attempt so I can return home to attend your execution.’
The big man laughed. ‘The people tire of faction fights. The Grand Council is easily bribable. The city belongs to the first strong man armed with a few sacks of gold.’
‘If you had even one sack of gold, you would not be here, hoping that the Clockwork Chart will show you where to find some,’ said Ulrich.
Footfalls sounded from behind. He sensed his crew moving up to support him. He frowned. If things came to a fight, he would have his hands full with Santino. His crew would have to face the hard-bitten fighters of the rival expedition.
Santino shifted his left hand to his scabbard, ready for a fast draw.
‘If you draw steel,’ said Ulrich, ‘then you will have broken the taboos that protect pilgrims. The Drichean bowmen will shoot us all down like dogs.’
Santino glanced up at the guards on the gate tower, who were indeed watching with interest. ‘Hah!’ he boomed. ‘Stay if you like, little man. Your presence won’t change anything.’
‘Similarly,’ said Ulrich, ‘if you try to fight your way in, you will doom both our crews.’
‘Taboo or not, do not insult one who could swat you like a bug,’ said Santino. ‘I am no fool.’
‘And yet here you are, becalmed on the dockside,’ said Ulrich.
‘And you think you will fare better?’
‘As a result of my close study of Drichean customs? Why, yes,’ said Ulrich. ‘That is as long as your rashness does not foul up my efforts.’ He made a conscious effort to lighten his tone. ‘Look, we both want to consult the Clockwork Chart, but for different purposes. I dislike you, but I can see the merit in a strong hand bringing peace to Markibec’s streets. Why don’t you stand down and let me negotiate for both of us? Give me seven days.’
‘Seven years, more like!’ Santino slapped his thigh and laughed. His crew laughed with him.
Santino was worse than a bully, realised Ulrich, he was a fool. Better the faction fighting should continue, than this oaf’s posturing bring disaster to his home city.
Ulrich bowed shallowly. ‘Good day, sir.’ He turned away.
Then, to his own crew, ‘Come my friends.’
As they reached the Redeemer, Ulrich unbuckled his sword and handed it to Ayesha. ‘I have to move fast, before Santino does something stupid. Break out my pilgrim robes.’
* * *
An hour later, Ulrich stood in the scant shade of the rock walls of the little bay. He mopped his brow and wished that the Drichean pilgrim robes were more convenient to get into and more comfortable to wear.
The too-tight headdress – the ‘Crown of Known Unknowns’– squeezed his temples, giving him a headache. The thick weave of the tunic –‘the Shirt of Potential Repentance’– soaked up perspiration as quickly as it generated it. The overall weight dragged on his shoulders, making him want to just sit down and snooze.
‘Your arm?’ prompted Ayesha.
He held out the limb so she could fasten on the nine bangles –‘the Holes in Knowledge’, apparently, though he was not certain of the translation.
‘You look like a drowned dog, Ulrich!’ said Ayesha. ‘Or a thirsty one.’ She handed him a water skin.
‘I would go on all fours and bark like a dog,’ said Ulrich. He gulped the lukewarm liquid. ‘…if only it would get me through that gate.’
On cue, the gate opened. A pair of Drichean sailors stepped through and made for Santino’s pinnace. Though they sported bronze armbands and torques, on their hips hung steel swords of northern origin – looted no doubt.
‘Drichean buccaneers,’ said Ulrich.
The buccaneers sat cross-legged on the dockside. The big blond captain awkwardly folded his legs to join them.
‘Faster, Ayesha,’ ordered Ulrich. ‘Santino’s scheme seems to be taking shape, whatever it is…’ He sighed.
It would cost him a headache, but he had no choice but to unleash his perceptions so he could hear them talk.
‘So we are friends now?’ That was Santino, using the old trade language.
‘Do friends help each other?’
This was a second voice, deep and accented. Ulrich glanced down the wharf and saw that the older of the two buccaneers seemed to be doing the talking – big and with a grey-streaked beard, this was the Captain who had challenged them in the bay.
‘Of course,’ said Santino.
‘Then we are indeed friends,’ concluded the buccaneer, rising. Moments later and he and his companion passed back through the gate.
‘I was right about urgent,’ said Ulrich as Ayesha fastened the last of the little bells on the sleeve of his left arm.
* * *
Ulrich knocked on the bronze gate nine times, alternating between left and right hand. The metal had soaked up the heat of the morning so that each contact stung his skin. The jangly little bells on his sleeves did not improve his mood.
Bows creaked from within. One slip of a finger and a bronze-tipped shaft would skewer his body.
Sweat trickled into Ulrich’s eyes. He schooled his breathing and told himself firmly that he could die here or he could die later – it was all one.
A hatch opened in the gate. The unseen guard spoke the ritual challenge.
Ulrich answered by loudly declaring his ignorance.
There was a pause and what could have been the rustle of parchment. The guard coughed and read out a stanza of poetry.
Ulrich responded by reciting the entire verse.
The guard read out a second stanza from a different poem, then several more. Each time Ulrich supplied the matching verse.
Ulrich mopped his brow.
The archers must be getting tired arms by now. There was nothing to stop them from just shooting him then claiming he had misspoken.
Metal clanged.
Ulrich jumped back. His right hand went to his hip where Guiltbringer should have hung.
It was only the bar being drawn back. The bronze door swung inward.
‘Come,’ said the guard.
Ahead lay the staircase that wove up the cliff face. One armoured warrior led the way. A second brought up the rear.
Sweltering in his pilgrim’s garb, Ulrich trudged upwards. Each step became a battle. Halfway up, he swayed and rested his back against the rock wall. It would be a long drop to the stone quayside.
One of the guards motioned with his spear and flashed his teeth. ‘Not far now, pilgrim.’
The steps ended, not at a gate in the citadel’s ramparts, but at an open-sided pavilion perched on the cliff edge.
Ulrich gratefully stood in its shade and took a good look at the defences.
The citadel took up about the same space as a middle-sized castle. Where the walls weren’t flush with the clifftops, a deep moat had been cut into the rock. He could spot only one entrance: a gate on the landward side, accessible via a drawbridge.
A woman said, ‘Will you not join us, pilgrim?’
Ulrich turn
ed and moved further into the pavilion. His eyes grew used to the shadows. He found himself facing a tall blue-clad woman. Behind her, attendants heated pots on charcoal tubs.
‘I am Lady Brightfeather,’ said the woman, ‘High Priestess of the Holy Albatross.’
Ulrich genuflected. Voice croaking, he began the ritual greetings he’d memorised.
The priestess waved them aside. ‘I think, sir, we have established that you have studied our customs. We should like to know whence came such knowledge. Sit.’
As bidden, Ulrich took his seat on the cool stone floor.
Lady Brightfeather descended to sit cross-legged in front of him. She was a striking woman; sharp eyes and a hawk nose, with braided black hair that made it difficult to judge her age. ‘Well?’ she prompted.
‘The writings of Sir John Mandeville, my lady,’ said Ulrich.
‘Ah,’ said the high priestess. ‘I shall have the records searched.’ She motioned to the servants, who brought steaming cups of coffee.
The drink was sweet and aromatic.
Ulrich sipped appreciatively and contemplated the Ghost Archipelago running off to the south. There was no order to the islands and coral reefs. Jungled mounds jostled rocky peaks. Nearby, horseshoes of sand framed placid lagoons. In the distance, a column of black smoke marked a volcano’s position. White sails speckled the sea like scraps of windblown paper: explorers and adventurers seeking fortune or enlightenment.
‘What are you thinking?’ asked the priestess.
‘That somewhere out there lies the Isle of the Crystal Pool,’ said Ulrich. He frowned. Something about the priestess commanded his honesty. The worst of it was that, though he was sure magic was at work, he had no will to resist.
‘Just another seeker after power,’ said the priestess. ‘You disappoint me.’
‘I seek the opposite of power.’ Ulrich set his coffee down on the flagstones. ‘The Crystal Pool’s powers have cursed my family, made its sons and daughters into killers. Not just my family. It has turned honourable lines into dynasties of cruel tyrants, merchant houses into pirate clans, and dissolved whole generations into scatterings of rogues.’
‘They all had choices,’ said the priestess. ‘Just as you did when you killed your friend.’
Frostgrave: Ghost Archipelago: Tales of the Lost Isles Page 16
