The Ibis was a lovely thing to look upon. She didn’t have the efficient carnivore lines of a ship of war, nor was she as fast. She was a shallow-drafted merchantman — ninety feet long and twenty abeam — built to take any seas and carry people as well as cargo in comfort. When she was completely rigged for sea she’d carry a single mast, but just now there were flag poles mounted for the ceremony, flying colorful banners.
There was a quarterdeck at her stern with the wheel, a maindeck forward, then the small-decked forecastle where the sailors would sleep. There were big cabins in the stern whose interiors would be lit by large, square, many-paned windows.
This was a ship ideally suited for exploring new seas to win new friends for Orissa and customers for the Anteros. Besides her sails she could be powered by six large sweeps. She’d roll some at sea, but with her shallow draft and maneuverability she could sail up rivers, or hug any coast line, and still have grace enough to impress a savage king. Although she could carry twenty five men and women with ease, she’d need no more than six or seven to crew her. I like my ships to have a bit of flair so I had her painted in bright, eye-pleasing colors that at the same time did not detract from the bright skies and sparkling seas she’d soon sail.
The only decoration still missing was the figurehead, which required not only much artistry but magic as well. It wouldn’t be finished for some days yet. The family who had created such masterpieces for several generations was notoriously precise — some said picky — and besides it was bad luck to mount a figurehead until the ship sailed.
Someone shifted at my side, and I noticed Kele inching forward to sneak a better look. As an excuse for joining us she had the green and cold ceramic flask that held the blessing potion. At the right moment I was supposed to break it against the side and officially launch the ship and name it.
“I’d trade my left tit to command her,” she whispered.
I smiled, as taken by the craft as she, and slipped the flask from her grasp. Palmeras nodded, signaling me to get ready.
The ship sat in a cradle, a frame made of wood that would collapse when she was launched. She was held in place by thick-beamed shores angled up to steady her. And the whole elaborate contraption rested on freshly tallowed ways she’d ride down into the river.
Palmeras raised his wand and a hush fell over the crowd. But the sudden stillness let another voice carry loudly through.
“Damn you!” I heard my son roar. “How dare you take the word of a stranger over your own blood?”
We all jolted to see Cligus nose-to-nose with Hermias. Both of them were so absorbed in their confrontation they didn’t notice that all eyes were on them.
“This is not the time to continue such a discussion,” my nephew said.
“I’ll not have you spread your filthy slander,” Cligus said.
My son’s hand went to his dirk. But Hermias beat him to it, his own hand shooting out to grasp Cligus’ wrist.
I recovered and found my voice. “Stop it, you two! Remember who you are!”
My words jolted them to awareness and they turned, flushing in embarrassment. I let my glare sweep over the crowd, putting all my authority into it, and I saw the looks fall away and return guiltily to the business at hand. So much anger was in that glare that even Palmeras quickly dissolved his “I told you, so” look into one of complete disinterest.
I raised my hand and the musicians caterwauled into what quickly smoothed out into stirring music of the sea.
Still angry, I braced to hurl the flask. But then I hesitated as the ship seemed to speak out to me; begging me not to let such emotion soil her luck.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised under my breath.
I flung the flask and it crashed against the ship’s timbers. The heady scent of the blessing potion cleansed the air.
“Before all who witness,” I declared, “I name thee Ibis. And may all your Tradewinds be Fair!”
Palmeras gestured with wand and the air crackled with the force of the spell he cast. The ship tilted forward, the cradle collapsed and the Ibis slid smoothly along the ways to enter the water as royally as any princess slipping into her bath.
There was much cheering and music. Men and women pressed around me to congratulate the Anteros for the newest addition to their fleet. The merry making began in earnest then. Roasts sputtered on their spits, wine flowed and couples, young and old, danced.
Cligus melted into the crowd and disappeared to sulk at home, I supposed. Hermias found a moment to come to me and apologize.
I waved him down. “I don’t have to tell you that you acted the fool,” I said. “Just as you don’t need for me to admonish you and say that I shall be angry at your behavior for some time. If you are the man I hope you are, you’ll know you deserve it and suffer in silence.”
Hermias blushed and bowed his head. He was wise enough not to speak.
“But I would like to know what you and my son were quarreling over that was so important.”
Hermias shook his head. “I’ll not say. Please don’t press me on it, Uncle Amalric. I’d hate to earn your further wrath by refusing. Refuse, however, I must.”
I could see there was no point in demanding an answer. He was an Antero, after all, and no one can match our stubbornness.
So I called for Quatervals and my carriage and headed home.
The day had left me in an even deeper quandary than before. I couldn’t delay much longer. But the incident at the launching did nothing to grease the ways for me.
* * * *
I repaired to my villa garden to listen to fountain play beneath my mother’s shrine. She’d died when I was a boy and I had little but my child’s imaginings to remind me what she was like. And that was mixed up with the gentle myths my sister Rali told.
Isn’t it odd to think an old man might still want his mother’s comfort and advice? Odd or not, this is what I wished for. And then a different light pierced the facets of that wish and I found myself mourning for Rali, my strong warrior sister whose common sense had been invaluable to me for many years. A final turn dredged up Omerye’s face and the memory of her flute which used to charm reason out of any mess I’d made of things.
I was Lord Amalric Antero, a man whose wealth and good fortune was the envy of many. But I had no one to lean on when weakness threatened.
No one I could trust to help.
Outside the villa walls I heard a horse trot up. Then a stranger’s voice hallooed the house. I rose from the stone bench and went to the grated window in the garden wall.
It was a woman. Despite my age, my eyes are sharp and I could see her clear.
She was young, fair of skin and form, but with a commanding presence. She sat tall and easy in the saddle of a fine gray. She wore a hunter’s tunic of forest green over a tight-fitting black body stocking that showed off shapely, but muscular limbs. Her hair was dark, cut short, and on her head was perched a jaunty hat with a long feather of green to match her tunic. A simple chain of silver or white gold gleamed about her neck. Small studs of a similar metal winked at her ears and as she waited for a response to her hailing I saw her draw off elbow-length riding gloves, revealing a pair of wide silver bracelets on each wrist.
Impatient, she slapped the gloves against the saddle, then dismounted. On foot she was not so tall as her high-split limbs had made her first appear. She moved with a wiry grace, full of energy and purpose. And I noted that her high boots were expensive if well-worn from travel. About her narrow waist was a sturdy, large-buckled belt which bore a slim dirk in a scabbard on one side and what looked to be a leather wand case on the other.
She hallooed the house again. A servant came out and although I couldn’t hear the conversation I gathered the young woman was asking for me. The servant shook his head, no, the master was not available. He was resting and had given orders not to be disturbed.
This was true. But curiosity overcame weariness and I hastened to send someone to tell the servant I’d change
d my mind, and please show her ladyship in.
When she strode into the garden, a large purse of well-worn leather slung over one shoulder, I was not disappointed. She was a dark-eyed beauty and close up there was no mistaking her royal bearing. Only a slight bump at the bridge of her nose — hinting of an unset break suffered in some adventure — marred her chiseled perfection.
But I was too old to be dazzled by such things so it was not her looks that impressed me. Her eyes glittered with an intelligence that was so familiar I could almost say its name. I’d never met her but somehow felt I’d known her long ago. And she was far too young for the number of years my mind was leaping over. She smiled, white teeth glittering against her dark features, and once again I was reminded of someone I once knew.
A double jolt struck me when she spoke and I heard the rich timber of her voice. It was feminine, but deep and firm, and I felt an old ghost trying to roust itself from the tangles of my memory.
“Good evening, Lord Antero,” she said, bowing.
“Good evening, my Lady,” I said. “Thank you for gracing an old man’s day. Please bless me further by revealing your name and what I might do to assist you.”
She drew a breath and firmed her nerves, as if this were a task she’d long awaited but was now hesitant to perform.
But when she answered her voice was steady and strong.
“I am Janela Kether Greycloak,” she said. “Great grand daughter of Janos Greycloak — the man you were once proud to call friend.”
I was rocked by her announcement — left gasping with amazement. For there was no doubt from the look of her and the sound of her that what she said was true.
But what came next struck harder still.
“As for the second question, my Lord,” she said. “I’ve come to ask you to accompany me to the real Far Kingdoms.”
I sputtered. “What do you mean?”
“You and my great grandfather were wrong, my Lord,” she said. “The Far Kingdoms have yet to be found.
“And only I know how to find them.”
CHAPTER TWO
JANELA
I’ve been ambushed by that jester, Surprise, many a time. I like to think I’ve handled most such encounters with the harlequin well. I’ve bargained with cannibals, amused touchy giants and dodged demons who ate a hundred souls for dinner and coveted mine for dessert. But I never expected I’d be confronted with the ghost of Janos Greycloak, telling me it wasn’t over yet.
The young woman standing before me wasn’t a ghost and she wasn’t Janos, but she might as well have been. There was no denying her likeness. She had Greycloak’s far-seeing eyes, his sardonic smile, high, stubborn cheekbones and a voice that bade you listen. Even lacking demonstration I could tell she was a wizard. She had an aura about her of tightly coiled magical energy waiting to be released.
I needed time to recover. Time to think. So I said, as calmly as I could, “I believe we could both use a brandy, my dear.”
I called for a servant to fetch a bottle of my best and yes, thank you, we’d prefer to have it served in the comfort of my study. As I led her there, pointing out a few interesting treasures from my travels on the way, I could see the mask of calm I’d donned had been effective. She seemed pale, tense and there was barely-disguised wonder I seemed unaffected by her announcement. I thought what a cold, stony heart she must think beats in this old breast of mine. If only she knew how shaken I really was.
But by the time she’d had sip or two of spirits she was ready to recommence the hunt for the old lion in his thorny lair.
“I have proof, sir, of my claims of kinship to Greycloak,” she said. She didn’t hesitate to see if I would instantly demand it — which I would have. I’ve been tangled in too many lies not to be wary, especially from someone who used that name.
Janela drew back the flap of her purse. It yawned open — showing it was even more voluminous than it first appeared — and she reached inside. Although it seemed full of all manner of things, both mysterious and common, her fingers quickly found a sheaf of papers which she spread out on my desk. There were gilt-lettered documents of introduction from half-a-dozen kings and princes, all whom I knew well and whose word I was accustomed to accept.
She had other proof, including testimonials from wizards noted for being scholars of sorcery. They praised one Janela Kether Greycloak — great granddaughter of Janos Greycloak — as an able student who’d surpassed teacher after teacher, and who now, despite her youth, had the powers of a Master Wizard.
So I’d guessed correctly on that, I thought, leafing through the documents with fingers as numb as my brain. As final proof she unrolled a scroll from Irayas itself, proclaiming her as a daughter of a noble family who had the favor of the king.
I looked at the family name on the scroll. I saw a discrepancy and seized it.
“It doesn’t say Greycloak, here,” I said.
Janela nodded, eyes intent, determined to convince me. “My great grandmother, who was called Sendora,” she said, “was a Lycus. So that is the name you see inscribed. It’s a family renowned for the beauty of its women. Until Sendora, they were known for their purity as well.”
“Ah,” I said. “So you’re claiming you are the result of scandal? A child born on the wrong side of the bed?”
“Not just any bed,” she said with a wry smile. “It was Janos Greycloak’s bed my great grandmother crept into.”
“I knew him well,” I said. “Better than any man. And I never heard him speak of a child, much less a child conceived in The Far Kingdoms.”
“Irayas,” she corrected. “I’ve already told you, sir, that you and Janos were wrong. The Far Kingdoms lie elsewhere.”
“We’ll get back to that later, my dear,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. I know it’s out of fashion and some young women take offense these days but I’m too old to unstick that once-gentle phrase from my tongue.”
“You may call me anything you like, sir,” she said, “as long as it’s understood you are referring to a Greycloak.”
I sipped my brandy to cover the laugh bubbling up. Greycloak or not, this was a very impressive young woman. She’d come better prepared for this meeting than many a sharp businessman and refused to let me wander off the path she’d blazed with such care. From her short-cropped, easy care locks to the simple elegance of her traveling costume this was a woman who breathed confidence and efficiency.
“Go on,” I said. “If you please.”
“Do you doubt,” she asked, “that my great grandfather really left no children behind?” She laughed. I liked the sound of it. Although it lacked Janos’ boom it resonated with the same free and easy humor that had charmed me when first we’d met.
“His victories with women,” she said, “were the stuff of legend. Why, he bounced more eager damsels -virginal, or otherwise — on more mattresses than any man I’ve certainly ever encountered.”
From the flash in her eyes I could tell she was not a woman totally inexperienced in such matters. A passionate nature was another thing she seemed to have inherited from Janos, I thought. I grinned, remembering that Greycloak, who was also a master of many tongues, once said the best language book could be found in the arms of a charming native.
“How many languages do you speak?” I asked, idly.
She seemed surprised. “Oh, twenty or more, I suppose. That’s without accent. I can get on well enough in twenty others. Why do you ask, my Lord?”
“No reason,” I said, feeling a little ashamed for wondering if she favored the same learning devices as Janos.
I went on. “There’s no denying Janos’ reputation. But when we were in Irayas together, as foreigners we were kept away from the daughters of the high born. Janos dived into the fleshpots, to be sure. But to be frank, they were orgies of the most decadent sort and with the most decadent of people. I wouldn’t be so quick, if I were you, to shame your great grandmother by including her in such activities.”
/> Janela shrugged. “She was young,” she said. “No more than sixteen. When she saw Janos at court she fell hopelessly in love — which is not uncommon at that age. However, as you said, there was no normal way such a thing could ever be consummated. But, she was a determined young woman. She bribed a courtesan to let her take her place at an orgy Janos was attending. And she showed him so much ardor that their affair lasted some time. He didn’t live long enough to learn her true identity.”
“And Sendora became pregnant,” I said. “That would have been a great scandal.
“As soon as the family learned of her condition,” Janela said, “and who was responsible — a filthy foreigner and a dead one to boot — they took quick action. In a false act of piety they had my great grandmother make sacrifice at the Temple of Virgins.”
I knew of the temple. Several times a year maidens of some very religious families offer their virginity to the gods. They must accept the embrace of any man who presents himself during the night they spend there. It is presumed that a god enters the body of that man so he can accept the gift the maiden offers.
“In other words,” I said, “the child was said to have been conceived by a god.”
Janela chortled. “Considering my great grandfather’s vanity,” she said, “perhaps they weren’t lying as much as they believed.”
She sipped the brandy, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. “I’ve heard a particularly ugly beggar became a very lucky man the night Sendora made her sacrifice. He was so amazed to hold such fresh, clean beauty in his arms that he took his own life the following day, knowing nothing so grand would ever occur in his life again.”
“But even if your family went to such extremes to avert scandal,” I said, “there would still be doubters. There’d still be ugly talk.”
“Exactly why they married her off to a country lord,” Janela said. “Which was where my grandmother was born, only to wed another rural squire and produce my mother. None of the women bred in those marriages has ever been permitted to leave the countryside. All to protect an old family secret.”
Kingdoms of the Night (The Far Kingdoms) Page 4
