Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (37 page)

John paused again to consider this seeming
lack of ceremonial adulation. "Once the word gets out that we're
back, though, the palace staff will probably throw a gala for the
heroes who've rid the world of evil. Maybe a surprise party in the
....."

* * * * *

As the Mage continued to speculate about his
welcome, Golden's mind was ablaze! It had been a startling change,
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin giving Golden permission to search the palace
for the green Mage-gem of Malachite! Particularly since Golden had
reason to believe that the Mage had been preventing him from
searching for the crystal.

The unpredictability of Mages was well known,
of course.

It was also unclear how John-Lyon-Pfnaravin
had defeated his rival, the evil Auro. Unclear, it seemed, even to
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin!

In the time it had taken the Mage to recover
from his wounds, he had forgotten much. Or, perhaps, refused to
remember.

Now, they had come home -- though
Stil-de-grain could never be a Malachite's true home.

On the dock, shore-side stevedores were
hauling on the ship ropes, bending their naked backs to snug the
boat beside the quay, ready to snub down the heavy hawsers to
docking cleats.

The pier was the same as before. Lined with
carts. Piled with cargo boxes large and small. Stacked with kegs of
wine. At every tie-up berth, a wooden loading gantry.

Sweating porters from adjoining ships were
trundling off precious bales of Cinnabar silk and -- now that the
war had stopped -- metals from Malachite. Golden saw crates of
dried meat from Realgar as well as cows and small flocks of sheep
herded up from holds.

Being onloaded, were barrels of Stil-de-grain
wheat, barley, and rye, together with tight-woven sacks of
flour.

The other, parallel piers were also thick
with wide-bodied merchantmen. Behind them in the harbor, two, trim,
Stil-de-grain cutters were on patrol.

Beyond the dock, civilians, gaudily dressed
in gold-striped robes, milled up and down the road paralleling the
harbor. Farther up the hill, Golden could see shoppers clogging the
connecting alleys that led into Xanthin proper.

And finally, on the butte beyond Xanthin City
-- mounted serenely in its own space -- was the triple-walled
palace. From the prow of the boat where he stood with the Mage,
Golden could see the top floor of the young king's residence, the
fort's corner turrets flying the gold and white of
Stil-de-grain.

Everything was the same, except ... brighter
... the return of full-light the greatest gift of
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin's victory over evil.

Truly, the great Wizard's triumph had
benefited ... all people in all bands!

Like Golden had long hoped, the Mage would
now sponsor Golden as King of Malachite! There could be no other
reading of the Mage's permission to search for the hiding place of
Pfnaravin's Mage-crystal. Once Golden found the green gem of magic
and returned it to the Mage, he and Pfnaravin would go home to
Malachite together.

In triumph!

The greatest Mage of all bands and Golden as
Malachite's legitimate king!

What would happen to John-Lyon-Pfnaravin's
other Mageship? (For though he didn't wear it, John-Lyon still
possessed the golden crystal of Stil-de-grain, Golden able to see
the disk's outline in a secret pocket in the Mage's robe.)

Golden didn't know.

Perhaps John-Lyon-Pfnaravin would be Mage of
both bands.

For now, the Mage's party could look forward
to a triumphal return to Xanthin. .... Except that, there again,
the Mage was right. It did not appear that preparations had been
made for a proper appreciation. Golden would have thought that at
least the young king -- though still a child -- would have been
brought to the harbor to greet his "father" Coluth. In addition,
Golden had expected a throng of cheering citizens at the dock, the
city's grateful people crowding the harbor streets and quays to
catch a glimpse of Stil-de-grain's benefactor.

Instead, there were only these few
men-at-arms. Perhaps a hundred. Drawn up in a double line across
the quay.

Golden squinted to see who was leading the
soldiers. .....

No.

Not, as he had expected, the Army Head,
Nator.

Also ... peculiar.

Looking more closely, Golden saw that the
Head Second, Forsk, was commanding the troops.

In turn, Forsk's soldiers were divided into
units of twenty five, each under the direct control of an under
Head.

All was as it should be ... except .......
there was something disturbing about the under Heads ........
Something ......

Wrong!

These under Heads were known to Golden!

Sassu! Iscu! Xevi! Renn!

Should Golden warn the Mage, standing so
calmly, so careless beside him, the Mage resting his elbows on the
ship rail!? Had John-Lyon-Pfnaravin failed to recognize the
four!?

On the other hand, Mages had secret
knowledge, special powers. That being the case, Golden did not wish
to second guess that man of magic. Still .........

What to do?

With a hurried compromise in mind, Golden
formed a plan! A plan that required him to wait a little longer.
Wait. .... Wait .... until the very moment the ship's prow nudged
the quay when Golden deliberately lurched into
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin.

"What!?" cried the startled Mage.

"I beg your pardon, sir," Golden answered
politely, as one addresses Mages. "Long at sea, my legs are not
accustomed to the shock of land."

"Probably worn out from all that exercising,"
was the Mage's dry response.

At that, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin returned to his
observation of docking procedure, the Mage saying something that
Golden did not hear. Because Golden, as silently and as quickly as
possible, had begun to back away from the ship's prow, headed for
the back of the reconstructed boat.

Arriving amidship without incident, Golden
was then able to slip out of sight behind a group of sailors who,
at Coluth's order, were preparing to lift the landing plank from
deck to pier.

Beyond these sailors, Golden scuttled aft as
fast as possible without attracting attention.

Astern, and so out of immediate danger,
Golden found he was shaking. For what he had just done -- on
impulse more than as a result of reason -- was to steal John-Lyon's
golden crystal!

It was an old thieve's trick. Bump into the
mark to distract his thoughts while picking his pocket -- in this
case, putting a clever hand into the Mage's inner, robe pocket to
extract the Mage-gem, the disk of magic now residing in a tuck of
tunic below Golden's belt.

All on board still engaged with the docking
process, Golden climbed the aft railing to let himself over the
side.

Hanging for a moment to the rail, stretching
toward the water, Golden let go to slip noiselessly into the harbor
sea.

All that Golden could do now as he swam
strenuously -- mostly underwater -- to a parallel pier on the
boat's other side, was hope that what he had done was right! If so,
it was possible he had saved John-Lyon. More importantly, had
rescued the source of John-Lyon's magic.

If Golden had misjudged the situation -- a
thought that made him shiver from more than the water's cold -- he
had to hope that, before the Mage missed it, Golden would be able
to slip the amber crystal of Stil-de-grain back into the Mage's
pocket -- the Mage never to discover this slight of hand Golden had
performed!

* * * * *

It was still difficult for Forsk, young as he
was, to accept the fact that he was Head of the Stil-de-grain Army,
his command signified by the full width of yellow sash striped
across the vest of his formal, white, military tunic. Nor could he
believe the charge that Army Head Nator had committed treason
against the Mage.

Much was wrong in Stil-de-grain.

Much happening that Forsk did not
understand.

One thing was clear, however. Failing to
please the Mage was the quickest path to the palace dungeon!

Nor was being Army Head a position without
... disgust. Disgust at changes in the military. Disgust that he
must use these odious under officers the Mage had forced upon
him.

Quietly, Forsk had checked on them. Had
discovered that their record was a long one! First, they had
claimed to have served as "irregulars" at Carotene -- "irregulars,"
little more than brigands. More recently, the four had been
incorporated into the army during that time in the Claws when a
desperate Stil-de-grain had pressed everyone into service. Even
those of doubtful parentage! Later, these men had deserted, only to
be caught and sentenced to the dungeon for their crimes.

From what Forsk could learn, that was where
the Mage had found them -- in the palace dungeon. Discovered them
there when personally supervising Nator's incarceration in that
wretched place.

A dungeon guard, for a sizable sum, had told
Forsk that the Mage had recognized the four criminals from another
time. Had pardoned them on the spot, whereupon he had them
unchained from the dungeon walls.

The Mage had then placed the scoundrels in
the army -- even made them officers of this hand-picked unit.

Though putting such men in command positions
was a practice Forsk opposed, he dare not say so. It was for
opposing the Mage in such matters that Nator had been declared a
traitor.

Leading to the current business.

Forsk had ordered his command into two files
of 50, dressing them at right angles to the pier to form a guard
through which the crew of the strange ship would pass on
debarkation.

At least the information
brought by the captain of the
Wanderer
had been correct. This was
undoubtedly John-Lyon's ship -- what was left of it.

By this time, burly stevedores had finished
tying the boat off fore and aft, the ship even odder looking now
than formerly. From two hulls, the craft had become a narrow,
one-hulled boat with a ... wood extender ... to the far side.

As the ship was pulling in at dead slow,
Forsk had seen John-Lyon in the prow. Also Golden, by John-Lyon's
side. Plus Navy Head, Coluth, who was in command.

The two women, Forsk had
not seen. If they were there, so much the better. If not, Forsk
could not be blamed. The captain of the
Wanderer
had not reported their
presence.

The ship's side bumping along the dock, Forsk
woke from his reverie. "Attention!" he commanded, the soldiers
straightening. On the dock, laborers paused to watch -- the workers
eager for any excuse to lay down their burdens.

There was a grating sound as the wooden
gangplank was slid out and over the ship's railing, the walk board
thudded onto the dock, a pier-man fitting its end against one of
the dock's slip fittings.

At the top of the gangway was John-Lyon. On
the deck behind him, Forsk could see Coluth, ready to
disembark.

Striding down the crosshatched gangplank,
smiling, approaching, stopping before him, was ... John-Lyon. "Ah,
Forsk. Nice of you to meet the ship."

Before Forsk could stop himself, Forsk had
saluted -- a mistake that could mean arrest in the new
Stil-de-grain!

Forsk found himself sweating. Even though
he'd been told it was safe to ignore John-Lyon's rystal-magic, he
was still afraid.

"And Nator?" asked John-Lyon.

"He was ... unavailable."

"I see. Now that the war's over, the Army
Head is busier than ever, I suppose." Said in a satiric way.

Forsk found he could hardly speak. Always, he
had been in awe of John-Lyon.

Forcing himself, Forsk said: "My orders are
to conduct you and Navy Head, Coluth, to the palace."

"That would seem to be the thing to do," said
John-Lyon, still in that mocking tone.

John-Lyon turned. Called up to ship deck.
"Coluth? We're wanted at the palace, it seems."

At that, the Navy Head and captain of the
ship shambled, loose legged, down the gangplank, coming to a halt
just back of John-Lyon.

"Also the guard, Whar," Forsk added.

The Mage looked sad. "There was an accident.
Whar was drowned."

"Also the man, Golden, if you please."

"Golden!" John-Lyon called.

Receiving no answer, John Lyon turned; looked
up at the deck. "Golden!"

John-Lyon turned back to Forsk. "He was there
a minute ago."

"That is not a problem," Forsk said, the Army
Head's voice sounding small even to him, and coming from afar.

Forsk forced himself to rally.

"First squad! Board the ship to find and to
escort the man called Golden. Also the two women."

Having second thoughts, Forsk turned to the
First squad leader. "Sassu, do you know this Golden?"

"I know him," the squad leader said with an
impertinent grin.

"Then execute my order."

With that, the first squad, at a hand signal
from its under Head, marched up the plank to the ship's deck.

Preliminary actions underway, the next part
of Forsk's duty came hard. John-Lyon was a man of power, no matter
what was thought of him.

"Sir," Forsk said, gently. "It is my painful
duty to arrest you on the charge of treason."

"What!?" cried John-Lyon, his face rigid, his
odd green eyes flashing with surprise.

"I also place Navy Head, Coluth, under
arrest. Also Golden."

"Have you lost your mind!?" shouted
John-Lyon.

"It is not my order, sir, but that of the new
Mage."

"New Mage .....!" John Lyon's mouth snapped
shut. His face red. Strangely, John-Lyon then began fumbling inside
his robe. An action that frustrated him further.

Making a hand signal to the remaining
soldiers to form a close escort squadron around the prisoners,
Forsk waited for the rest.