The Larion Senators

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, winked again and took his seat beside Brexan, who started rowing towards one of the public piers. ‘That wasn’t so bad,’ he whispered. He checked to make sure the harbourmaster was no longer watching them, then asked, ‘What time is it?’

  Brexan glanced at her watch. ‘It’s just before the second rune. So fifteen more revolutions—’

  ‘Hours,’ he said, ‘I think they’re called hours.’

  ‘So fifteen more hours,’ she repeated obediently.

  ‘So, what’s on our shopping list?’

  Brexan took a folded piece of parchment from her tunic and he took over the oars while she read aloud, ‘Pel wants a woman—’

  ‘A likely story,’ the captain snorted. ‘Pel wouldn’t know what to do with one if she fell from the sky.’ He realised what he was saying and blushed.

  Unfazed, Brexan went on, ‘Hoyt wants ten boxes of tecan, fifteen roast gansels, two hundred crates of Falkan wine, a block of mild cheese, a new set of silk leggings and a log large enough to carve a full-sized woman. A naked, full-sized woman, obviously.’

  ‘Oh. So is that all?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Brexan laughed. ‘Kellin would like you to kill the man who invented women’s underclothes. She also requests a side of beef, twelve barrels of Pragan beer, a more comfortable place to sleep, peace in our time, a slightly smaller backside and a way to keep her berth as warm as summer in Estrad Village.’

  ‘All sounds simple enough. And you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Brexan said. ‘Maybe a couple of flagons of decent wine, but otherwise, I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Good. That’s a lot to track down in two avens, so we’d better cut all this pointless chatter and get rowing.’ With that he redoubled his efforts and they made speedily for the wharf.

  Steven, Alen and Gilmour watched from inside Captain Ford’s cabin. Lessek’s spell book lay closed on the table. Milla, squatting on a small rug, played a game with a bundle of sticks she’d found. One – she had turned it a lustrous shade of pink – scurried here and there around the floor while the others pursued it, their twig arms grasping blindly for the oddly coloured fugitive. Milla squealed with delight every time her bright pink heroine escaped almost certain death at the hands of the woodland posse.

  ‘Mooring here buys us five hours,’ Steven said. ‘It’s almost two o’clock now, so we can sit tight until seven o’clock.’

  ‘And then we need to find some way to linger inconspicuously on the river for another ten hours,’ Alen said. They had been awake for most of the night, an uncommon feat for Alen Jasper, who was looking longingly at the captain’s comfortable berth.

  ‘Where does that put Hannah?’ Gilmour asked, watching the twigs chasing one of their own around the cabin.

  ‘Assuming her mother didn’t offer too much resistance, Hannah should be well on her way to Long Island by now. She has plenty of spare time, in case she runs into anything unforeseen: a flat tyre, a car accident—’

  ‘A tan-bak,’ Alen added.

  ‘I hope not,’ Steven said. ‘I hope that by now Mark is so focused on getting the table ashore, sorting out his officers and getting that army ready to move that he won’t be paying any attention to us opening the portals.’

  ‘Or reading Lessek’s spell book all night,’ Gilmour said.

  ‘But we had to do that,’ Steven said nervously.

  ‘Do you think he’s there yet?’ Gilmour asked.

  Alen shrugged. ‘Even if he is, Steven’s right, he has at least a few avens’ preparation before he opens the table. That place is a terrific mess and no matter how brutal he is, it will still take some time before they’re ready to move.’

  ‘Do you think he can do it?’ Steven asked.

  ‘The ash dream spell?’ Gilmour said. ‘I’m sure he can, else why would Nerak have been putting all these wheels into motion?’

  ‘Because he believed Lessek’s key had come back to Eldarn,’ Alen said. He crossed to the captain’s berth and sat on the down-filled mattress.

  ‘True,’ Gilmour conceded the point, ‘but coming to Falkan himself, in that great horrible ship of his, to retrieve the spell table on his own—’

  ‘You’re right,’ Steven said, ‘he was ready; the key was just the final variable in the equation. He had the portal; he could have gone and retrieved the key any time. He either waited for someone to bring it to him – complete with a brain-sized filing cabinet filled with knowledge of Earth – or he would have gone to get it himself, probably right after excavating the table from the river.’

  ‘Prince Nerak could go inside the dreams,’ Milla interrupted them as she watched her twigs race about. ‘He’s the one who showed me how to do it. He said it was a hard spell, but I didn’t have to try too hard. There were other things that were a lot harder. Making ice, that was really hard for me.’

  ‘Ice?’ Alen gave up the fight and lay down on the bed. ‘Ice was one of the first spells we learned as kids. You should have been able to do that one easily, Pepperweed.’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ Milla said, ‘but every time I tried to make ice, the water just bubbled and turned funny colours.’ She turned away from her sticks and they all fell dead in mid-stride.

  Gilmour said, ‘So you know that Nerak was able to go inside the dreams, Pepperweed, because he showed you how to do it with Branag’s dog?’

  ‘I could have gone in other ways,’ the little girl explained carefully, ‘but I liked that puppy and he was so nice when I asked him to follow Hannah.’ She waved at the pile of sticks and cried, ‘Get up! Let’s go again!’ The sticks complied, leaping up straight and dashing wildly about again.

  Steven watched out of the window as Captain Ford and Brexan tied up at one of the piers. He asked, ‘Milla, when I was dreaming, it wasn’t the ash dream. I was sick because the tan-bak’s bug had bitten me, but you still managed to get inside my nightmares. How did you do that?’

  ‘Oh, I can get inside lots of dreams,’ Milla said. ‘Once you can do it, the dreams are all about the same. The ash dream is a little easier, because no one can make you leave.’

  The three men shared a worried look. ‘What do you mean, Pepperweed?’ Steven pressed.

  ‘In the ash dream, the person is living the dream, instead of just watching it happen.’

  ‘But I was living those dreams too,’ Steven asked, ‘wasn’t I?’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ Milla explained. ‘If you wanted to, you could have made me leave, or changed the puppy into something else, something that you picked from your own mind, but in the ash dream, you can’t do that.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Steven whispered, then asked, ‘Could you hear me when we were running? I remember talking to you – well, to the puppy – while I was running that race with all those people.’

  Milla giggled. ‘Of course I could hear you, silly. I was there with you.’

  ‘But if I wanted to, I could have made you into something else? An iced doughnut, or a flying pig?’

  Milla burst out laughing; her animated sticks did a collective leap and some of the driest ones shattered when they crashed down. ‘A flying pig?’ she giggled. ‘That’s funny. I’ve never seen one of them.’

  ‘But I could have, right? And that would have pushed you out of my dream?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, bored with her stick races now. She looked at Steven.

  ‘How did you find me, Milla?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ She stood up and walked across to the little desk they were grouped around.

  ‘I wasn’t in the ash dream,’ Steven said. ‘I was sick and dreaming, but it wasn’t the ash dream. What made you come looking for me?’

  ‘I found you by mistake,’ Milla said, then asked, ‘is there anything to drink? I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Just a moment, Pepperweed,’ Alen said, ‘and we’ll get you a drink. But tell us how you found Steven when he was sick.’

  She pouted endearingly and said impatiently, ‘I was look
ing for Gilmour. Hannah and Hoyt and you wanted to know when he was going to get to the inn, so I was searching for him. I talked to him that time and I knew what he felt like, even from pretty far away. I’m good at that—’

  ‘Not like the ice,’ Steven teased.

  ‘No,’ Milla smiled back, her momentary irritation forgotten, ‘I can’t do ice. But I was looking for Gilmour that day but I found the other magic.’

  ‘My magic?’ Steven said.

  ‘No, I can’t find you, ever,’ Milla said. ‘It was the magic from those bugs. I hadn’t felt them before, but that morning, they were really loud.’

  ‘Loud?’

  ‘Easy to hear,’ Milla tried to explain. ‘There were two of them, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Gilmour said.

  ‘And one that had died,’ Milla went on. ‘They were looking for that one right before they bit Steven and hurt that other man …’

  ‘Marrin,’ Gilmour added, then asked the question all three of them were thinking. ‘Pepperweed, could you get inside Mark Jenkins’ dreams? Or maybe show one of us how to do it?’

  ‘Yup,’ she said, ‘but only if he goes to sleep.’

  ‘Shit,’ Steven said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘That’s a bad word!’ Milla was indignant. ‘Hannah told me that even though she’s not at home, she shouldn’t say that word.’

  Steven raised his hands in surrender. ‘She’s right. Sorry.’

  ‘Could you show us? Me?’ Alen asked.

  ‘You want to learn how?’ Milla asked.

  ‘I read that book last night,’ Alen said, ‘and I think I know how to do it, but Mark would be one of the hardest people to follow. So I want to learn how to do it like you do, as a puppy, or maybe a kitten or even a little mouse on the floor.’

  ‘A mouse!’ Milla shrieked excitedly, ‘yes, let’s be a mouse if you want to!’

  ‘I do, Pepperweed.’ Alen clapped his hands. ‘Now, how do I know if Mark is sleeping?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Milla said, ‘but can we get a drink first?’

  ‘Of course, a drink.’ He took her hand and led her from the cabin, saying, ‘We’ll see if Hoyt or Kellin have something nice to drink.’

  When they were gone, Steven asked, ‘Have you ever heard of any of this?’

  ‘It wasn’t my bailiwick,’ Gilmour said. ‘I’m sure Nerak and Pikan would have been involved in this sort of work, but my department was more concerned with education than magic. I had access to Lessek’s scroll library, as did Kantu, but last night was the first time either of us had ever read through these writings.’ He flipped absently through the spell book. ‘There’s so much more here than just the ash dream, but there must be a reason why Lessek organised this book around this particular spell.’

  ‘I can’t make most of it out,’ Steven admitted, ‘but if you think about how textbooks are organised, there’s generally a key theme around which the rest of the chapter is written and every time you learn something new, a bit of extra information is added, like building a wall.’

  ‘And they all relate to the main topic, the cornerstone idea.’

  ‘So do you think the ash dream was the key concept around which Lessek organised his work? Did his research spring from this one place, from the ability to see inside the minds of others as they slept?’ Steven was disappointed. He had developed a feeling about the Larion founder, and this theory didn’t live up to his idea of Lessek as a powerful yet compassionate magician and teacher.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gilmour said, ‘but from what I know of Lessek and his work, if he did see the ash dream as a cornerstone construct of Larion magic, we have only seen it from the most narrow of perspectives.’

  ‘This dirty, wrong-feeling perspective that an otherwise intrusive and voyeuristic spell could be so important?’

  ‘Unless it was used for teaching, like you suggested last night,’ Gilmour said.

  ‘Unless that, I guess.’ Steven wasn’t convinced. They hadn’t delved deeply enough; something was missing; it was seventeen minutes past two in New York and he prayed they would decipher it all in time.

  THE RUN SOUTH

  ‘Cast off that mooring line,’ shouted Captain Ford. It was ten past eight by Mark’s old watch and the Morning Star was still lashed to the two-aven buoy in Pellia Harbour. They had overstayed their welcome by an hour – he credited his generous bribe for that – but now time was running out. ‘Pel!’ he cried again, ‘don’t you see him coming? Cast it off now! I don’t want to be answering any more questions.’

  In the fading twilight they could see the harbourmaster’s ketch approaching, slowly but inexorably making its way through the maze of boats moored off the wharf.

  ‘Aye aye, Captain,’ Pel shouted as he hurried to untie the brig-sloop. He waved a cheery thanks to the harbourmaster and called, ‘See you next time through!’

  The Malakasian official gave a half-hearted salute and watched as the incoming tide carried the Morning Star upriver a ways. He considered something, then dug in his tunic for a tempine. ‘Come about, Jon,’ he finally ordered, peeling the fruit. ‘One more time around and then it’s home for both of us.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the boy replied, still looking at the brig-sloop. ‘Funny the way they’re just drifting, isn’t it?’

  The harbourmaster chewed contentedly; another day was over. ‘They saw us coming, Jon, that’s all; he didn’t want to pay extra for going overtime. They’re drifting because they probably weren’t ready to get under way just yet.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Strange that he’s already setting topsails, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’ The harbourmaster turned to watch the brig-sloop set her tops and topmains. The ship was running upriver, showing no sign of tacking beyond the headlands. ‘But he said he had a long journey ahead of him.’

  ‘I heard him, too,’ the boy said, ‘but I don’t know how long a journey a boat that big can make along this river, maybe just up beyond the palace and back, and what’s that? A couple of days for them? Rutters! Look at them go! That’s a fast ship!’

  The harbourmaster wasn’t listening. The captain, if he even was their captain, had been lying. ‘Jon, run us in to the wharf, now – hurry on with you!’

  By one twenty-five the navy ship had tacked east and was running up on the Morning Star. She was visible only by her watchlights; probably a schooner with enough sheets on her to overtake a typhoon. The tide had run in, carrying the brig-sloop upriver for the past two avens, but as slack water approached, the winds slowed and the current pushed back against Captain Ford’s best efforts to run a beeline south from Pellia.

  ‘What time is it?’ he called from the quarterdeck.

  ‘It’s about one-thirty,’ Steven shouted back, ‘less than two avens before we can disappear.’

  ‘That’s too much time,’ he replied, checking their stern. The schooner was bearing down on them and within an aven, it would be within hailing distance, and at that point, there would be nothing he could do. For now, he could play dumb, claim that he had no idea the navy was after him – why would they be? He paged through viable excuses in his head: just running with the tide while he made repairs, testing a new rudder, breaking in a new crew; just about any excuse would free them, because they were doing nothing wrong, nor hauling anything illegal – apart from partisan sorcerers, a Welstar Palace fugitive and an outlaw text from Prince Malagon’s personal library, of course. With Steven and the others gone, however, it would be a different story: they could board him, search his ship, interrogate the crew and all he need to do was tell them, come on, make yourselves at home; we’re just testing this new rudder before we head for Orindale.

  ‘Two avens,’ he muttered to himself. ‘How, by all the gods of the Northern Forest, do we avoid being boarded for two avens?’

  Pel climbed to the quarterdeck and reported, ‘That’s all the sheet we can get on her, Captain.’

  ‘Nice job, Pel,’ he said generously. ‘How long until slac
k tide?’

  ‘Half an aven, maybe less,’ the young sailor said, looking cold and weak with exhaustion. None of them had slept much over the past two days, but while the others were huddled together below, devising a plan to seal the Fold for ever, Pel had been up on deck, out in the wind and weather, keeping the Morning Star on course.

  ‘Half an aven,’ Captain Ford echoed, ‘good. That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘We’re going to lose this tailwind, though,’ he added. ‘When the tide turns, the wind’ll change. This is no front blowing us south.’

  ‘I know, I know, but he’ll lose the wind, too.’

  Less than half an aven later, the southern tidal flow slowed to a trickle, and with it went the Morning Star’s tailwind. Slack tide: on the coast it would have meant half an aven of dead water, but here, the Welstar River took over. Captain Ford was talking to himself as he considered the limp sheets and the following naval patrol. ‘One chance. That’s it. We have to turn east and run back north beyond the city, but we can’t look like we’re running, son of a raving whore!’

  Still at the helm, he was glad to see Steven appear on deck. ‘Our list of excuses remains good,’ Captain Ford said. ‘We’re putting her through her paces before heading for the Northeast Channel. Why’d we turn and run downriver? Why not? We needed a bit of time and the tide was coming in, right? When we hit slack water, we turned and headed for the open sea. Simple, believable … and yet still likely to have me hanged and my boat pressed into the Malakasian navy.’

  Now that it was the middle of the night, Steven could safely be on deck. ‘You’re fine,’ he said. ‘With us gone, you’ve got nothing to hide; just don’t do anything that looks suspicious.’

  ‘Easier said than done, my friend,’ Captain Ford replied. He felt the brig-sloop turning slowly beneath his boots. He checked the schooner, cursed the river and shouted, ‘Pel! Kellin! Garec! We’re coming about, let’s go! Let’s go! I want to make a hard left.’

  ‘Sir, the barges!’ Pel’s voice rang out.

  ‘You think I don’t see them?’ The captain wiped his face on his cloak. ‘Come about, on my order!’ He left the helm to Steven and crossed to the port rail, listening through the darkness for the armada of massive barges plying the river. The broad, flat-bottomed vessels were loaded with crates, lumber, even quarried stone. Passing between them at night was just about the most insane decision he could make. But given the circumstances, it might give them time to escape. The sailors tailing might be interested in the brig-sloop, perhaps even angry with her apparently oblivious captain, but he doubted they would risk death to investigate a boat that had, thus far, done essentially nothing wrong. His mood was turning sour; he retook the helm.