by Jack Massa
The Mage grinned. “I would hope so. Anything less, and I would think you lacking in prudence. Larthang is a land of deceptions, Amlina. A witch who treads the ways of high power must always remain on her guard.”
Amlina and her companions were conducted downstairs to their apartment, where a breakfast of hot tea, boiled eggs, and rice cakes was served to them. A physician was summoned to tend to Eben and Brinda’s wounds. The doctor appeared within the hour—a raw-boned old woman with a leathery face and brusque demeanor, followed by two assistants. She fussed and grunted over Eben’s head, squeezing the scalp with her fingers. She insisted on shaving the area, then smeared it with an ointment before stitching up the skin. Although the ointment had a numbing effect, the pain was terrible. Eben gritted his teeth and uttered curses under his breath in Iruk. When the surgery was over, he gratefully accepted a sleeping draught and crawled off to his bed.
Early next morning, with Eben wearing a cap over his sore and conspicuously-shaven head, and with Brinda’s arm in a sling, the mates returned to their dojuk in the harbor. Melevarry had provided a coach and draymen, and Kizier came along as interpreter. The Iruks collected all of the remaining luggage from the boat—furs and spare clothing, water skins and extra spears. They also brought the witch’s wicker basket, which contained her garments, trinkets, and magical tools, as well as Buroof the talking book.
At Amlina’s request, the Mage had arranged with the harbor master for the dojuk to be placed in dry dock. After loading their baggage onto the coach, the Iruks watched as lines were attached and their boat towed away. The harbor official handed Lonn a paper with a red seal, which Kizier explained was a receipt that would allow them to reclaim the craft at a later time, upon payment of the storage fees.
“There goes our boat, and all we have is this sheet of paper,” Karrol remarked. “I wonder if we’ll ever see it again.”
They rode the coach back through the city. But instead of the Mage’s mansion, they were driven beyond the Onyx Gates to a dock on the river. There at anchor lay a boat nearly as big as a galleon, with three stacked decks and a paddle wheel in the stern. The wheel, Eben learned from Kizier, was powered by rowers in a cabin on the lower deck. These crewmen worked hand cranks and foot pedals—an ingenious system that magnified their muscle power and could drive the craft upriver at surprising speed.
When the Iruks arrived, bundles and satchels were already being carried up the gangplanks. Melevarry stood on the dock supervising. With her was a group of guards and servants and her two apprentice witches, who would also make the journey. Nearby Amlina and Trippany waited. After they had unloaded the carriage, Eben took the opportunity to practice his Larthangan by conversing with the drell.
“Will you travel with us … on the boat?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No. I fly ahead. I must report to my superiors at the House of the Deepmind.”
“Oh.” Eben stared at the ground and her tiny belled slippers. “I hope you will not have trouble, because you helped us out of the dungeon.”
She lifted a thin shoulder. “I may face a reprimand. But I do not worry. Let the winds blow so they will.”
“What does that mean?” Eben was confused by the phrase.
She gave a quiet laugh.“A line from a ballad sung by my people. It means ‘things will be what they will be’—things we cannot change. Is your head all right?”
“Oh, yes.” He pulled off the cap and showed her the wound.
Trippany winced.
“It is not so bad,” he laughed. “I have seen much worse.”
“But you are a warrior. To me it looks terrible.” She touched him gently on the hand. “It will heal, I hope.”
“Oh yes. I will see you again, in Minhang, I hope?”
“I hope so too,” she said, then added. “Let the winds blow so they will.”
Part Three
In Minhang
the Beautiful
Fourteen
Precious Stone Fortress stood on the Ling Va Troo River, just downstream from Minhang. Guarding the eastern approach to the city, the fortress loomed dark and forbidding, an enormous castle with high turrets, ramparts and a towering keep.
Admiral Shay-Ni Pheng arrived in a chariot at the landside gate in the middle of a sunny afternoon. The breeze was warm and smelled of tea flowers from the nearby hills. It was the 27th day of the second month of First Summer, the warmest of seasons in Larthang.
Shay-Ni’s mind prickled with apprehension. Two months ago, he had received orders from his uncle the Duke to return to the Celestial Capital. He had traveled in his flagship across the sea to the southern port of Hanjapore of the Jade Gates, then by boat up the river and across the canals to Minhang. Weary from travel, angry at being summoned home to what he expected would be some degree of disgrace, he had reached the city that morning. Going at once to the family’s mansion, he had been told that the Duke awaited him at Precious Stone Fortress, that he should hasten there without delay. Further irritated, Shay-Ni had ordered a chariot and driver and rode here at once.
Now, having identified himself to the sentries at the outer gate, he marched across courtyards and parade grounds, passing low-roofed barracks and stables. His inner garments were damp and soiled from travel. But he had deliberately stopped at the mansion long enough to don a fresh coat, sword, and the medallions of his naval rank. If he was marching into disgrace, he would do so as a warrior.
Past the rampart of an inner wall, he came at last to the main keep. At the gate, a lieutenant bowed and led him up a broad staircase. Even the fortress interior featured defensible parapets, with carvings in the shape of fire turtles that could be employed to spew burning oil down on attacking troops.
Finally, Shay-Ni reached the apartment at the very summit of the keep. Duke Trem-Dou Pheng, supreme commander of Larthang’s armed forces, used these chambers as his sanctuary. Having been informed of his nephew’s arrival by a courier, the Duke waited in a spacious study hung with tapestries depicting ancient battles. He stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind his back, at the edge of a wide terrace that afforded a spectacular view of the land downriver. When Shay-Ni was announced, the Duke did not turn around.
Gritting his teeth, the Admiral strode across the tiled floor toward his uncle. A maiden, one of his uncle’s concubines, sat in one corner beside a lute. She did not play, only stared with an impassive, white-powdered face. Another woman sat at a long table, middle-aged and scrawny, wearing the black and red robes of a seer. Beside her a copper brazier burned charcoal and incense resins.
When Shay-Ni had approached within two yards, his uncle finally faced him. The Duke displayed an amiable smile.
“Ah, nephew. Good of you to meet me here.”
Shay-Ni made a proper but not obsequious bow. “I came as summoned, uncle.” His words were chosen to imply that he always strictly obeyed orders.
The Duke touched his lightly-bearded chin with a fingertip. “Yes … Some wine?”
Shay-Ni nodded politely. Tired, angry, and worried, he would have preferred to dispense with the fencing and proceed to business. But, of course, he would not say so.
The Duke poured pinkish cherry wine from a crystal decanter into two goblets. He gestured Shay-Ni to the long table. They sat at the opposite end from the seer, who waited in solemn silence. On the table lay a game board with 44 squares and 16 jade and onyx pieces representing different ranks of warriors. The strategy game xingpoa was a favored pastime of the Duke.
“What news of the engagements at Gon Fu?” Shay-Ni asked as soon as he was seated.
Gon Fu was a large island midway between Larthang and the Tathian Islands. With sizable populations from both nations, it had been disputed territory for centuries. Winning the island back from the Tathians was the first step in the Duke’s ambitious plans for conquest.
“Stalemate.” Trem-Dou answered. “Our positions in the west and north are held, but under siege. All our atte
mpts to blockade the island have failed.”
Shay-Ni stared at the dark, polished tabletop. He nurtured a frail hope that his uncle might still send him to join the fighting.
Trem-Dou took a sip, set down his goblet, and changed the subject with a sigh. “Most unfortunate, this business at Fleevanport.”
Shay-Ni evinced fitting embarrassment. “Yes.”
“However, we must move on with the game. This witch Amlina has, as we expected, brought the famous Cloak back to Larthang. She arrived in Randoon ten days ago. Yesterday, I received a missive from the Prefect there, a man with some loyalty to our cause. He tried to intercept the Cloak and claims he had it in hand until the Mage of Randoon appeared. The Prefect writes he was forced by law to surrender it to her, which I imagine he felt was true.”
“So the Cloak is lost to us?”
“Oh, not at all. We can no longer prevent its reaching the House of the Deepmind. But we are not without our allies there, Lady Clorodice chief among them. I have consulted the oracle.” The Duke lifted his chin in the direction of the seer. “Now it appears all depends on who will be appointed Keeper of the Cloak. We must strive to ensure the Keeper is a witch sympathetic to us, who will vouchsafe using the Cloak for the military.”
Shay-Ni pondered, staring at the game board. His uncle’s shrewdness and patience always impressed. “How can I be of help?”
“Ah.” Trem-Dou lifted a finger. “You will recall the regrettable complaint lodged against you for launching arrows at the drell woman—the Archimage’s envoy.”
Shay-Ni forced down his resentment. “Yes. To my shame, uncle.”
“Lady Clorodice reports that the matter has been discussed by the Inner Circle, but no decision yet reached. Likely, they will wait until the Cloak is safely in their hands to either make a move or drop the issue. Clorodice is quietly using her influence to quash the complaint.” He gestured toward the far end of the table. “This is why the esteemed prognosticator, Lady Belnorra, attends us now. I have asked her to consult the oracle as to our best course of action.”
He rose with a gesture and Shay-Ni followed him to the opposite end of the long table. When the men were again seated, the Duke lifted a hand toward the seer.
“Pray proceed, my lady.”
Belnorra nodded and rose. From a satchel at her feet she took a slim iron poker, a set of tongs, and a gray scaly object—the shell of one of the miniature breeds of fire turtle. She used the poker to stir the brazier, until the flames rolled high, then placed the shell on the fire.
While Shay-Ni waited impatiently and the Duke watched with a serene expression, Lady Belnorra chanted and waved hands. The turtle shell crinkled and blackened. When it finally cracked from the heat, the witch picked up the tongs and removed it from the fire. Holding it near her face, she stared for some moments, reading the oracle’s message in the pattern of fracture lines.
Finally, she spoke in a thin, cackling voice. “Patience. Regathering of strength. The wise general retreats. In winter, the beaver seeks his lair.” She set the blackened shell down beside the brazier and turned her eyes on the Duke. “The oracle has spoken. Patience is counseled. Withdrawal until conditions are more favorable.”
Trem-Dou Pheng nodded sagely. Shay-Ni pulled back the corners of his mouth.
The Duke thanked the prognosticator and handed her a silver coin. She placed the burnt shell and tools into her satchel and, with bent back, shuffled from the room. When she had gone, Trem-Dou stared at his nephew.
“The oracle confirms my feelings of the wisest course. You had best keep out of sight until this witch’s complaint is resolved.”
Shay-Ni saw a faint glimpse of hope. “Might I suggest, uncle, that I would be well out of sight if sent to command a flotilla at Gon Fu.”
The Duke frowned.
“…Or perhaps, farther west?”
The Duke’s expression darkened. He held up a hand. “No, nephew. That is not what I meant at all. If charges are brought, you cannot appear to be avoiding them. No, you must remain in Minhang—but out of sight of the Court. I’ve arranged an apartment here in the Keep.”
Shay-Ni slumped in his chair. Disgrace and now imprisonment. It occurred to him that the shadow play with the prognosticator had been a sham. His uncle had already decided this outcome.
“For how long?” he asked.
“That will depend. A month or two, at least. If Lady Clorodice succeeds in getting the matter dismissed, that would be the end of it. But, if the complaint goes forward and a lawsuit is filed …” The Duke showed a regretful shrug. “That would likely take many months. I would of course do all in my power to ensure the case went before a magistrate sympathetic to our cause. Meanwhile, you must remain out of sight.”
The Duke stood with a benevolent smile. “It will not be so bad. Your quarters are luxurious. You may send to the mansion for anything you wish—books, servants. Practice your swordsmanship, read up on strategy. I will provide a concubine or two to amuse you.”
Controlling his inner rage, Shay-Ni bowed. “My uncle is most generous and gracious.”
Fifteen
Over the course of fair and balmy days, the paddleboat travelled up the River Ling Va Troo. This name, Eben learned, meant ‘River of Turquoise Light’—well-chosen, since the witchlight that illumined all the seas and oceans of Glimnodd, but not usually the fresh water, glowed here as brightly as he had ever seen. Nights shone nearly as clear as days, so the stars and moons appeared hazy.
Along the shores stretched endless farmlands, irrigated by canals, planted with orchards, terraced rice paddies, and fields of wheat that glowed golden in these last days of First Summer. Spying the paddleboat, farmers would pause in their work to wave and shout greetings, wishing long life to the Mage and her party. Twice the boat pulled in at landings to restock provisions. Then the travelers were greeted by town officials and elders. But when it was learned that the party included the witch Amlina and her warrior band, who had wrested the Cloak of the Two Winds from the evil witch of Tallyba, then feasts were arranged, songs and puppet plays performed, and gifts of gratitude offered—flower wreathes, tinctures, perfumes, and sweets. Eben had never eaten so well, not even in the Tathian Islands or Queen Meghild’s castle in Gwales. He was cautious, however, to avoid excessive drinking—limiting himself to two cups of the sweet and varied Larthangan wines at each dinner.
Otherwise, he spent his time aboard the boat in rigorous training with his mates, practicing with sword, spear, and knife. His physique had grown sleek and strong again, and he disciplined himself to keep it that way. The rest of his waking hours he studied, working with Kizier and Buroof to hone his command of the Larthangan tongue.
Often the lessons were shared with the rest of the klarn. With Glyssa’s encouragement, the Iruks took to speaking Larthangan as much as possible when conversing among themselves. At first, Karrol and even Lonn balked at this idea, but Glyssa argued that they had all learned to speak Tathian readily enough, so this should be no harder.
As Amlina had advised, the mates kept a wary eye on the Mage and her servants, and slept with their weapons near and one of them always awake to keep watch. These precautions seemed increasingly unnecessary, as Melevarry and her people treated Amlina’s party with all friendliness and courtesy. Kizier suggested that the Mage was probably satisfied with the deal she had struck with Amlina. Looking at the matter with her witchsight, Glyssa pronounced a similar opinion. That was when Karrol muttered that Glyssa always thought well of everyone and that she, Karrol, thought they should still be wary of the Mage.
The mates’ other concern was Amlina. Once they left Randoon and settled on the boat, the witch’s energy drained. She appeared on deck infrequently, looking pale and exhausted. Mostly she stayed in her cabin, and did not invite Draven to share her bed. She claimed to be meditating and weaving designs to help ensure their success in Minhang. But Draven fretted that his love had lost herself again in fear and brooding, struggling against the taint
ed power that had ravaged her on and off now for many months. He suggested she might be cutting herself again, drawing her own blood to relieve the terrible pressure. Glyssa went and talked with the witch each day. She tried to reassure Draven and the others that Amlina was coping well with her burdens, all things considered. But Eben sensed Glyssa was more worried than she pretended.
When the craft was eight or nine days from their destination, Amlina entered the dark immersion. Witches of Larthang usually invoked this ritual once a month, in alignment with the cycle of Grizna. The moon was now at its dark phase, and for Amlina the timing was propitious. She would lie in deep trance for several days, but waken well before their arrival in Minhang.
That same evening, Karrol called a klarn meeting. The Iruks assembled on the platform of the upper deck. Grizna hung like a pale, curved blade in the fading twilight of the eastern sky. The Iruks sat in a circle, wearing their deerskin garb as they had most of the voyage—in preference to the Larthangan costumes given them by the Mage. To ensure secrecy, they spoke in Iruk.
“Karrol requested the meeting,” Lonn said. “It is for her to begin.”
Karrol climbed to her feet. “I’m troubled, mates. Ever since I watched our dojuk being towed away, I’ve been worried. We don’t know what we’ll do after we reach this inland city. On our past voyages with Amlina, at least we had a clear purpose.”
“Our purpose,” Glyssa said, “is to help Amlina deliver the Cloak and the scrolls, and to heal her inner wound.”
“I know that, but what happens then? What happens to us? We’ve not talked about that all. What happens to us?”
Eben had to admit he had not given the matter much thought. After Karrol sat down, the mates looked at each other. It was Glyssa who stood.
