As the evening wore on and the smoky room changed from an overall illuminated gray to an overall illuminated black, frequent calls of “Landlord, t’lad’s dry! Ale!” reverberated through the room along with the clanking of flagons and the singing. Then Colin was good for another forty verses, and after the first few times was amazed at how harmonious the chorusing of the sailors had become.
When the second gallon had poured down his throat, a man with a striped cap and an eye patch produced a concertina and another man produced a hornpipe, and then it didn’t matter if Colin sang or not, as everyone else was making music, even if they weren’t all singing or playing the same song.
As the night wore on and day approached, Colin was still singing and yarning at the table occupied by his most fervent and intoxicated supporters. The minstrel listened to their stories and thought he’d never heard anything so wonderful, or met such fine, brave, intelligent, altogether splendid fellows in his life.
There was a lull in the conversation then as all of them took a pull at their flagons and he told them about his own adventures. When he’d finished, several pints later, his face was wet with tears. “…and so I lost dear, dear li’l Maggie…” and a couple of the tears slid over the lip of his flask.
“There-there, lad, you’ll dilute the ale,” said the concertina player, thoughtfully mopping Colin’s face with his striped hat, and then blowing his nose on it before replacing it on his own head.
“Ah, you loved the lassie, didn’t you, lad?” asked a tender hearted old soul, the boson of the ship they all crewed on, and a former pirate.
“Well, she made excellent stew…” Colin said wistfully, the tears still flowing freely. “But I left her in the wood. Couldn’t find her. Nothin’ left of her a’tall but her pussy cat.” The originator of the ribald remark that followed that statement was awarded a scathing look by Ching, who was filled with fish given him by the friendly cook in the kitchen and perched once more on Colin’s neck.
When the laughter died away, someone else said, “Sign on with us, then, lad.”
“Can’t. I’ve all this unfinished business. Got to find ’er ladyship for Maggie, and get the gypsy’s heart from t’ sorcerer for Zorah, like I told you.” He started bawling again at the impossibility of it all, then brightened. “I say, you lads wouldn’t know where I could find any bad sor—sor—men witches, would you?”
The old pirate with the romantic streak spoke up again. “Now there’s a good reason for you to join on with us, laddie. The wiliest rogue of the sorcerous lot lives on an island in Dragon Bay, so I hear tell. If it’s evil sorcerers you want, he’s your man.”
Colin, who didn’t see how he could be running into two evil sorcerers on the same journey, felt sure that the sorcerer the pirate mentioned must be the one he sought. He agreed to sign on as far as Dragon Bay, and asked when they were leaving.
“First light ’o morning, which is to say as soon as I can boot these rogues out of here,” said the second officer. “We wants to get into the Bay and docked before Dragon Days starts if we can, which we can’t if you lads sits here all day.”
“What’s Dragon Days?” asked Colin.
“Aw, it’s nothing. Just every month for a week or so Dragon Bay is plagued by this great beastie what it feeds before it eats everything in sight.”
“How can people live there, then?”
“It’s this sorcerer fella, you see,” said the concertina player, warming especially to the narration now that work was in sight. “He sets up this Dragon Days arrangement with the Dragon. Persuasive sort of chap, they say he is, the sorcerer—not the dragon—thought dragons do their own persuadin’—anyhow, the way of’t is everybody has to give up so many of their beasts every month to feed the dragon. There’s some say an occasional rival of Himself the Sorcerer gets unlucky enough to wander in among the poor beasts and be eaten, but none will swear to it. The folk drive their beasts down to the Bay, and the animals are driven onto a barge and hauled out to one of them rocky patches that surrounds Evil Island.”
“Evil Island?”
The man leaned forward, whispering, “That’s where the sorcerer dwells, of course. Some say it’s beautiful and others say it’s terrible, but all say it’s a bloody good thing t’ sorcerer has made this arrangement so they can tithe a cow t’ the dragon instead of being eaten out o’ house and home in a more personal kinda way. Ah, laddie, a dragon is a terrible plague!”
“I don’t know ’bout that,” Colin said, trying to be fair, “I met a dragon once, and she wasn’t such a bad sort once you got t’ know ’er.”
This remark was met with laughter that all but gusted away the atmosphere, the guffaws being so lusty as to blow the smoke clouds out the door. “Not so bad oncet you gets to know ’er! Now there’s a good ’un!”
The old pirate clapped him on the back. “You surely must come with us now, laddie. It’s a fine sailor we can make of you.”
“But I’ve never been to sea.”
“No matter. We can teach you the sailin’ part, but the serious requirements is drinkin’, singin’, and lyin’, and you surely do excel at that.”
15
His Highness the bear, Maggie found, made the perfect traveling companion. While strong enough and bearlike enough to barge through the woods with no fear of interference from griffins or lions or much of anything else, he was nevertheless cultured, erudite, witty, and considerate. Ever courteous, he was mindful of her comfort and courtly in his manners, yet not too dignified to use his claws to dig for edible roots she could cook for supper.
The first night they had spent getting out of the wood, and had in the morning camped on the banks of a river which neither of them could name, Maggie never having been so far from home before, and the bear being a foreigner. Of course, he told her, he had been all over a great many countries with the gypsy band, he was sure, but his own mind then was dominated by the bear’s, and he had only a bear’s perceptions of where he had been.
The worst part of the spell Xenobia had caused to be cast upon him was that he was not only a bear in appearance, but a bear in thought and deed as well. His own mind was imprisoned by the bear’s, and he had only the control a bear normally had over his actions and treatment. There had been other times, he admitted remorsefully, when enemies of Xenobia not so well connected with magical cats had been put in the cage with him. Maggie shuddered, but so did the enchanted prince.
It had been a terrible thing to watch the body he occupied murder helpless people. It was somehow not at all the same as leading troops in a border skirmish, bashing heads and laying into one another in good clean soldierly fun. That was, after all, a prince’s duty.
Well into the afternoon they had a dinner of berries and bird’s eggs. The bear had them raw as he found them, but Maggie made an omelet of her share, after she had first prudently expanded both foods to satisfy their appetites and have a few days’ supply in reserve. There were enough eggs left over to return to the bird’s nest, if the bird would have them after they’d been juggled about by bears and magical spells.
As His Highness regally licked in the last of the blue stain from his muzzle, Maggie reached into her pocket and produced the silver mirror. “I suppose,” she said, “we ought to find out where we’re going.”
“Good idea, gurrrl. How?”
Maggie showed him Aunt Sybil’s mirror and explained its powers and restrictions. “Only trouble is, this type of gift magic limits itself to three visions only. Then it’s useless unless it’s recharged.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I think we’ve used two already, if the one that misfired at the castle counts. Colin and I saw Winnie in Queenston the second time we tried it. And I was thinking. If we’re up against such a powerful sorcerer, maybe we should try to enlist the help of my uncle.”
The bear waited courteously for her to continue. “My aunt said her brother lives in these parts somewhere, and by now he may be very powerful himself. A
unt Sybil and Gran are. Unfortunately, I’m not. Making a superb soufflé hardly qualifies me for rescuing people from the clutches of mighty sorcerers. There’s also that little matter of your son’s heart he might advise us on. No,” she concluded, having convinced herself, “we need first-class help.”
“So you’re thinkin’ to find your uncle in the glass instead of Lady Rowan?”
“It’s an idea. Probably Uncle Fearchar knows this sorcerer, what with both of them living on the coast and all. Possibly they even play chess together once in a while—though neither of us have any reason to be fond of him, to another sorcerer like Uncle Fearchar he might not be such a bad fellow.”
His Highness grumbled deep in his throat, but only said, “If your sister is with the peddler and you think he’s dangerous, shouldn’t we fetch her with all speed? If we delay, she and her babe may come to harm that no powerful help can remedy.”
Maggie automatically started to open her mouth to argue her point of view further, then considered. Without knowing Hugo’s plans, she had no way of knowing how much danger Winnie could be in. Had she hit on the idea of locating her uncle to be of the most possible help to her sister, or merely to bolster her own confidence, which had taken a sharp drop once they were dealing with sorcerers rather than a few gypsies and a gossipy peddler?
“You’re right, of course,” she finally agreed. She tried to concentrate on Amberwine then, as they peered expectantly into the rainbow lights that began gathering in the silver, and she hoped the vision would be of Amberwine in better straits than before.
Again she got a double image. “I’m sorry,” she told the bear. “I’m not nearly so good at this as Aunt Sybil. I keep bunching them together.” The bear stared over her shoulder as the blurry vision of Amberwine’s face gradually faded. “At least her hair seemed to be combed this time,” Maggie remarked hopefully.
“Maybe this is where she is,” said the bear, indicating the second picture, which was sharpening now that Amberwine’s face had disappeared. In the mirror was the interior of an inn, as seen in front of, around, and behind a man whom both Maggie and the bear thought they recognized, but were equally sure they had never met. His appearance was strikingly unusual, not that of a person one would easily forget, Maggie thought.
He had coppery skin, lined deeply around his intensely dark brown eyes, and grooved on either side of his hawkish nose down to a thin-lipped mouth that held a faint suggestion of a smile. His cheekbones were high, and his brown hair, distinctively striped with gray at the temples, waved handsomely back from his forehead. In his hand was a wine glass and at his elbow the innkeeper’s wife, pouring him a refill.
“It’s such an honor to have you stay with us here at Bayshore Inn, Master Brown,” the woman simpered, setting down the wine crock. “Will you be staying with us long?”
“Only ’til the second loading is done, Goodwife,” the man replied.
“It’s Uncle Fearchar!” said Maggie, now that the reason for his familiar appearance was clear.
“Of course, that’s why I thought I’d seen him,” the bear said, “the fellow’s the spittin’ image of you, gurrrl.”
Maggie blushed guiltily. “I’m afraid the magic mirror must show what I want to see, not what I think I ought to see. But I wish we could get Winnie back—maybe—” she returned her eyes to the mirror but the image was already gone. She shook her head. “Too bad. That was the last one, too.”
The bear sat back down by the fire, and Maggie put the mirror away. “I propose that we use the non-magical clues we have. All roads seem to lead to Dragon Bay. Let’s get over there so I can get the boy’s heart and tear out of that smiling sorcerer what he’s done with your sister.”
It was easier to talk of getting to Dragon Bay than to do it, for the way led into the foothills and over a high passage that crossed the Mountains of Mourn. The mountains had been named, said the bear, who had studied wars foreign and domestic as Crown Prince of Ablemarle, after a battle involving giant soldiers who landed on the shores of Argonia, wreaking destruction in the coastal villages. They were repulsed finally, at the cost of many lives, from crossing into interior Argonia when the loyal home guard defended their home from the towering slopes. It was reported to have been a terrible battle, with even the Argonian dragons aiding in the defense. Maggie said she’d heard of it too, except she had heard that the dragons only helped the Argonians because the enemy tasted better and were larger. The dragons had been concerning themselves more with their plates than their patriotism.
Although there was a footpath, perhaps left from the days of old before the Argonian Navy became strong enough that the mountains did not need to be foot-patrolled, the going was by no means easy. Road-hardened as Maggie’s feet had become, her lungs were entirely unconvinced they were able to breathe the rarified mountain air, and the bear often had to wait while she caught her breath.
It was cold up there, too, and the snow was deeper than her riding boots, which were growing thinner and thinner with each magical patching. She shivered even in her woolen cloak, which was not, unfortunately, her winter-weight cloak. If she had only brought her hand spindle from the pack she might have woven some of the bear’s fur into a coat, but it was too late for that now.
When they finally came down out of the mountains it had been a full seven days since they’d left the river. By noon of that day they stood on a hill overlooking Dragon Bay and the little town that lay along its shore.
From where they stood, the Bay was silver and white, smooth as glass in long flat curves offset by choppy glittering expanses of water. Beyond the Bay was the open sea, but behind it was another mountain range, craggier and even more forbidding than the one they had just crossed.
Studding the waters were a number of small islands, some no more than rocks for the waves to break against, and others fairly large and green and covered with vegetation. The largest of the islands was crowned by a castle. Even from their vantage point it appeared crude and ancient, two enormous stone houses, one taller than the other, with towers stuck at each corner and surrounded by a high wall.
The town was situated on what was the only possible site for it, having been built on a beach that was backed by the hill on which they stood. Fierce rocky cliffs brooded over the water on either side of the town, their grimness somewhat softened by the sparkling falls of spring water cascading down their faces and by the wildflowers growing in the deep cracks that scored them.
“I’ll wager,” said the bear, “that that’s where the dragons of Dragon Bay lurk.” Maggie shaded her eyes, straining to see. “In those caves in yon cliffs, gurrrl. Just the thing for dragons. Bears too, matter of fact.”
“I was getting ready to speak to you about that, your Highness,” she said, turning back to him. “I’m really afraid that the sight of you will cause undue panic in the town. Perhaps I’d better go find out, if I can, where the sorcerer dwells.”
“No, gurrrl,” he replied. “You’re a good gurrrl to offer to take my chances for me. But sorcerers are tricky, and you might be trapped with no way to send for me. I think if you enlarge that cloak of yours to fit me, and put a hood on it, I can pass for a foreign pilgrim, and none’ll be the wiser.”
Maggie had been almost afraid he wouldn’t object to her suggestion, for she felt safe in his company, if not from dangers sorcerous and arcane, at least from those physical ones like ogres and goblins which were well within the competence of a bear’s strength.
When the cloak had been altered as he requested and he stood before her on his hind legs, paws concealed in the folds of the garment, she smiled with satisfaction at her handiwork and pulled the hood a little lower over his snout. “There. If you just keep your voice down and your claws hidden, your Highness, this might do the trick.”
“You’d better make out that I’m fasting, as well, then,” replied His Highness, “I’m not much for knives or forks these days.”
* * *
It was odd coming into a
town again after being in the woods and mountains for so long. There seemed to be too many buildings and too many people moving too quickly. The self-preoccupied looks on the faces of the townspeople as they brushed past the travelers forced Maggie to keep reminding herself that their own business was just as important and they needn’t keep giving way before people. Though Dragon Bay was small, it was still much larger than a gypsy camp, where the bear had spent his last few years, or Maggie’s home at Fort Iceworm. Many of the hurrying people were driving geese, ducks, cows, and pigs through the streets, so that the noises of those animals were mixed with the cries of their drivers and the general conversation of day-to-day commerce.
Careful to keep the bear as far as possible from the larger animals, Maggie looked around for a point of reference. “I’m not sure how to do this, now that we’re here,” she told the bear. “I feel so silly just walking up to someone and saying, ‘Excuse me, sir or madam, would you be so kind as to point the way to the nearest evil sorcerer?’ I mean, how could they admit knowing someone like that? It would show they kept bad company.” The bear nodded, but had no suggestions to offer.
Most of the structures along the shore street were fishermen’s huts with boats docked at the front doors and nets set out to dry and mend. Several landings down from Maggie and the bear, some of the animals were being loaded onto a barge While they stood staring at the activity, a cow being driven down the street behind them came too close to His Highness’s wild-smelling person and bolted, causing several other animals to engage in a miniature stampede.
The Prince pulled Maggie away before she could be run down by a flock of frantically bleating sheep, and the two of them fled up a narrow side street to avoid being trampled. When they had put another street between themselves and the bustling dock, Maggie collapsed against a building to catch her breath.
Song of Sorcery Page 18
