Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (26 page)

"Here's the plan," John said, all eyes on
him, the others waiting with rapt attention -- possibly with horror
-- for him to speak. "If I'm right -- and the rest of you seem to
think I am -- the Malachite Navy has gone to pick up their army in
...." John had almost said the north. "In the area near Carotene.
If so, we control the sea in these parts by default. Even with
half-crews manning the ships, we can get to the backside of Xanthin
Island.

"What I propose is that we do three things.
One. Rig our ships so that every other oar is manned, the oars
wired so that, when a sailor pulls his oar, the untended oar next
to his oar moves in the same pattern. We can even use dummies
dressed as sailors at those non-functioning oars. Fix the dummies
to the handles of the oars so that the mannequins will move when
the oars move -- like they're living men.

"Two. Train the mariners we've relieved of
their seaman's duties to at least look like soldiers. Some drill.
Uniforms. Weapons or something that looks like weapons from a
distance.

"Three. Load our troops on rafts, the rafts
to be towed from the Claws to the backside of Xanthin. It's not far
at all. We'll have to install just enough oarlocks on each raft so
that, once cut free, the mariners on the rafts can row themselves
across the shallows to land. In that way, we disembark an 'army' on
the island.

"An attack from the rear combined with the
sight of our navy off the harbor, the Malachites thinking
themselves outmanned in every way possible, their skeleton force
will surrender."

"It might ... work," Nator said. More and
more, John was impressed with General Nator's perception.

"And if we take the island?" Coluth.

It was good to have men like Nator, whose
every instinct was to obey. But it was vital to have a Coluth who
questioned authority, however gently.

"Then we barricade Xanthin Harbor like
before. Keep a watch around the island to make sure the Malachites
don't pull the raft trick on us."

"And how are we ... benefited ... to have
done this?" Coluth again, rubbing his nose thoughtfully.

"In a couple of ways. First, there is no
substitute for victory." (John hoped that Douglas MacArthur
wouldn't object to a fellow countryman "borrowing" his famous
phrase. After all, that old soldier had ... faded away ... long
ago.)

"Then, too," John continued, "while we're
protected here from a naval assault, we're far from safe from
overland attack. On the island, we're secure from both. And yes,
I'm aware that Xanthin Island can't feed itself forever and is,
therefore, vulnerable to siege. Which leads me to my third
advantage to capturing the island. On the island are certain ...
ingredients ... that I need for our defense."

That will clinch it, John thought.

A look around the table at hangdog faces told
him otherwise. "Have you forgotten that if all else fails, I can
work magic?"

Faces brightened.

Unexpectedly, there was a hammering on the
door!

Startled, Nator's hand found the pommel of
his sword, Forsk, Head Second, fingering his blade hilt as
well.

Though just as surprised at the interruption
as the others, John forced himself to remain calm. "Enter," John
called.

The door cracked open, Whar's face sticking
through apologetically. "Messenger bird, sirs. From the Claws, I'm
told."

Gagar stood where he sat, then turned to
receive John's permission.

John nodded.

Gagar motioning to Whar, Whar ushered in a
boy carrying a large parrot in a cage, the shy young man shuffling
forward with the orange bird. (Orange, because everything in this
world was coded by color.)

Removing a thick leather glove from his tunic
belt, slipping the glove over his left hand and forearm, stepping
forward to open the cage, Gagar got the bird to climb on the glove,
the parrot digging its claws into Gagar's gauntlet.

The bird "secured," Whar dismissed the youth,
the young man scurrying across the room and out the door.

"I recognize this bird," Gagar trilled,
running his hand down the bird's back, looking the bird over. "It
is the newly trained bird consigned to Obolan. Since we're trapped
here ... ah ... located here in the Claws, I have assigned Obolan
to watch the sea at the Claw-mouth below the inn."

The bird and the man were now making the same
bobbing motions with their heads.

Since the bird came from that close, John
found himself wondering why someone didn't just walk the news up to
the inn.

Odd.

Enough speculation. "Let's hear it," John
said, waving his permission for Gagar to make the bird talk, Gagar
always reluctant to "tap" his birds messages with so many people
present. "We're all friends here." Which, John felt it prudent to
remind himself, wasn't true. He was still convinced it was someone
in his inner circle who'd stolen his fake crystal then stabbed
him.

Granted permission, Gagar made the kind of
jerky motion that caused the animal to speak its piece in the
curious, unaccented fashion of all, basically brainless, talking
birds.

"azare . ship . at . claws."

What?! An Azare ship? A ship from the
legendary, black band? The unknown land of the ultimate enemy?

An intense buzz of worried whispering had
begun around the table, men leaning this way and that to give or
hear an opinion.

The bird having nothing else to say, John
motioned for quiet. Got it as soon as the others realized his
desire. "And what does that mean??"

Before Gagar spoke, Coluth answered. "It'd be
my guess that an Azare ambassador is askin' entrance into this
waterway."

John looked over at Gagar who was petting the
bird, Gagar more interested in his birds than the messages they
bore. "Only one ship?"

"One ship," Gagar affirmed.

"Because of one ship, this bird flew in from
the harbor just down the slope? What is that, a mile away?"

"I would think," Gagar cocked his head to the
side, one bright eye on the ceiling, the other on the bird, "two
miles. Sending by bird is still the fastest way for Obolan to relay
important information."

"I suppose," John conceded.

Reflecting on what John remembered about the
tangled political situation here, the fact that a representative
had arrived from Azare -- the evil, black band about whom this
world's people were even hesitant to talk -- was not only
important, but unprecedented!

The black band.

Everyone's oblique nickname for the band of
Azare. The innermost of bands. The circular country with the
heaviest gravity and a normally blue sky.

From what John had gleaned from reluctant
informants, there had once been a revolution in Azare, that band's
evil Mage, Auro, overthrowing the Azare King, Auro making himself
both Mage and king. Not content with winning the coup, he'd
attempted to conquer the other bands during the so called Mage War
that followed. Malachite falling to Auro's forces, Malachite's
Mage, Pfnaravin, had fled from Malachite to neighboring
Stil-de-grain, after that, putting together a Mage alliance against
Auro: Pfnaravin, Melcor (the Mage of Stil-de-grain), Helianthin
(Mage of Realgar) and the Mage of the mysterious outer band of
Cinnabar, Cryo. Combining their magical powers, these four Mages
had darkened the sky over Azare until the blue band had become
black.

Since magic was a product of this world's
light, blacking out the sky above Azare had the effect of stopping
the Sorcerous assault of the evil Mage.

On the other hand, shutting down the magic of
Auro stopped the other four Mages from taking direct action against
him. Since magic was a product of light, their magic would
disappear as soon as they entered the blacked out band.

What it came down to was a supernatural
stalemate. While Auro could no longer launch an incantational
attack from his band, the men of the other bands could not move
into Azare to eliminate him.

More recently, there was fear that the magic
of the victorious Mages was breaking down, the Mage-magic keeping
the sky blacked out over Azare, failing.

But back to the ship from the black band. Was
the fact that this craft was "loose" another example of Auro
breaking the magical restraints the other Mages had placed on
him?

"Coluth? What do you think?" Coluth shrugged.
"Nator?" A raise of eyebrows. "Do either of you see any harm in
letting the enemy ambassador land? In hearing what he has to
say?"

"If, by entering, he could learn where our
barricades in the harbor have been placed, perhaps." Coluth. Always
practical. "But since the ship-traps can be repositioned ...."

"Then let's do it."

While there was general mumbling and head
nodding in apparent agreement with that decision, there was also
disquiet around the table. Stil-de-grainers were used to fighting
against men from the black band's ally -- Malachite. But to face
someone from the black band itself ....?

"That's the end of today's meeting," John
said quickly, as much to prevent opposition to his decision to face
the Azare ambassador as for any other reason. "Will you arrange for
the ambassador to enter the harbor, Coluth?"

"I will send a pilot boat to guide him past
the defenses."

"How long will that take?"

"An hour?"

"Take your time. I won't see him until
tomorrow, anyway. Frankly, I'd like to meet him in better
arrangements than these," John waved at the deer head, furniture
cluttered room, "... but since that can't be helped, at least I can
dress for the occasion. Until then, you have your duties to
perform."

* * * * *

Robed in the finest clothing the locals could
provide -- a vestment of white Cinnabar silk striped at the seams
with Stil-de-grain gold -- John sat at the head of the long table
in the tidied-up conference room, Platinia seated behind John and
to the right.

John had posted Whar, sword in evidence, just
inside the door, Whar to let in the mysterious Azarite, rumors
about the emissary's ingratiating manner and bizarre behavior
rocketing through the halls.

After ushering the man in, Whar was to stand
just outside the chamber's door, ready for anything. A squad of
Stil-de-grain soldiers lined the outer hall, all this security at
the insistence of both Coluth and Nator, neither of whom liking the
idea of John's solitary meeting with the enemy envoy.

As a final precaution, John had removed the
Mage-crystal from the hole he'd gouged for it behind the right,
door frame in his room. Had it in a pocket in his flowing robe.

Seated in his accustomed place at the head of
the table, a nervous soldier had just stuck his head in to notify
John that the ambassador had arrived, John signaled to Whar across
the room.

Opening the door, Whar bowed in a smallish
man, Whar exiting, closing the door behind him.

The Azare minister. A diminutive, almost
skeletal man at first glance, draped in a dead black robe, the
legate with the same alabaster complexion of the "people's" Army of
Azare. The army John had destroyed.

So uniformly pale was everything about the
man, in fact, that the diplomat's facial features were ...
indistinct.

Could living for an extended period in total
darkness be turning the people of Azare that dull white color?

Bowing first, the man approached the far end
of the table.

Closer, what few features John could
distinguish in the ambassador's face showed the man to be of middle
age.

Another impression John formed was that,
while small, the man from Azare had, at one time, been strong -- a
probability since he was from a heavy, inner band.

John remained seated. Deliberately.

When the slight, chalky-colored man reached
the other end of the table, John motioned him to sit.

"I am Paliss, of Azare," the man said as he
settled himself in the crude, wooden chair at the far end of the
table, the man looking at John down the long, trestle board. Even
the ambassador's eyes were colorless, their pale irises slitted
against the room's, morning light.

"I am the Mage of Stil-de-grain," John
replied with as much dignity as he could muster.

As if to compound the ... strangeness ... of
the situation, the ambassador began looking around him: at the raw,
white plaster walls; at the moth-eaten deer heads -- the Azarite
smiling. "So beautiful," he said at last, his voice lilting. "So
many gorgeous colors. And the sky outside. It is what one calls
orange, is it not?"

And what was John to make of that?

"I could never get enough of seeing new skies
and seas," the man continued in his high, musical voice. "First,
green, then gold. Now orange. And since I have been here, I have
tasted the delicious flavors of your foods." He looked at John
again, seeing in John's expression the need for explanation. "Of
course, at tie-ups, on the way, I have eaten meat. The meat of
cows. And sheep. Even the flesh of your wild animals. Squirrel.
Deer." He smiled again. "Until now, all I have eaten in my whole
life is fish. And, sometimes, mushrooms," he added, with obvious
distaste. "That is all we have to eat, you see. Fish that swim into
our waters from Sea Throat. It is our Mage who calls them to us.
There are also sightless fish in our lakes and rivers."

The man frowned, the shadows made in the
wrinkle-lines on his forehead the only color on what otherwise
might have been the face of a talking ghost. "It is said that some
in our band eat the flesh of foreigners. But that would be the
meaner sort of person. Of that, I, myself, have no knowledge."

Curiouser and curiouser.

The man began looking around the room again;
grinning at the walls, the chairs, the ceiling; as if meeting old,
old friends.