Sorcerer's Moon (11 page)

Once Momor's punt left the harbor area, with its tall-masted ships, sturdy warehouses, and bustling taverns and brothels, the buildings along the canal changed in character. At first the dwellings were grand, constructed of fine timber and imported stone, with balustered steps leading down to well-lighted landing stages. She saw only a handful of people moving about on the shore. A number of other punts and the occasional private barge or paddle-scow moved up and down the
waterways, but most of the citizens seemed to have already retired to their homes.

Further along, the canal narrowed and began to wind sharply. Momor turned into a side-channel where the houses became meaner and more closely crowded, although still neat enough. They were made of pole and thatch, set on stilts in the mud, and often connected to one another by
board walkways. Tiny watercraft were tied to laddered pilings below them. A multitude of feebly glowing lamps shone from unglazed windows, screened from flying insects by cloth or bead curtains. She saw people moving about within the houses, heard laughter, crying babes, music, and the night-cries of frogs and birds. The odors of exotic cooking and human waste vied with the rich perfume of the flowers that filled ornamental containers on almost every rickety balcony.

Induna unfastened her heavy cloak and folded it on the thwart beside her. Beneath it she wore a simple russet-colored linen gown.

Momor said
‘That's right, mistress. You won't need a wool mantle here in Mikk-Town. Our weather's a far cry from that in Tarn. Nice and warm year-round. Overwarm during the rainy season, if you want the truth. You planning to stay long?'

‘I
don't know,' she said wearily. The message was all that really mattered.

During the voyage, she had tried to visualize her reunion with Deveron countless times, but without success. In truth, she didn't know his heart, his true self, well enough to speculate. Their time together before he was forced to flee had been too brief. Even after they were engaged to marry he had not opened his mind to her as windtalented lovers were wont to do. He was unfailingly gentle and considerate, but always on guard. They had kissed and caressed and laughed together but had never joined their bodies. It was not the custom in Tarn to swive before wedlock - although one honored more in the breach than the keeping by many young couples. But Deveron had respected it.

'Does he know you're coming, lass?' The boatman's bantering voice had turned compassionate.

'No.'

'Is he a relation?'

'In a manner of speaking. We - we were once betrothed,
but unhappy circumstances caused us to part. It's been many years.'

'Oho! So that's the way of it. And now things've changed for the better and you're come to tell him the good news, eh? Well, Haydon the Sympath has no wife or regular doxy here. He keeps house for himself. So mayhap you're in luck.'

She said nothing, having no illusions about her upcoming reception. If Deveron had wanted her to join him in his exile, he would have found a way to get word to her long ago, although Tarn was far beyond windspeech range, even for persons as highly talented as the two of them. But he had not sent for her. She knew that he had escaped from Conrig Ironcrown's agents sixteen years earlier; but whether he lived or not had been a mystery that was solved only when the Source bespoke her and sent her on this improbable journey.

'Your man's done well for himself in the years spent away from home,' Momor was saying. He had stowed his pole in the boat and installed a sculling oar at the stern when the waters of the canal became deeper. 'Even the rich folk consult Haydon, since they know he keeps his mouth shut. Was he also a sympath in Tarn?'

'We call them shaman-healers. Dev-Haydon was one, and so am I.'

Her reply inspired a drawn-out account of bodily miseries suffered by the boatman and his family, along with requests for free medical advice that lasted until
the punt finally drew up at an
isolated dock. Two small craft were tied there - a wooden dinghy and a peculiar elongated skiff fashioned from sheets of some thin material resembling treebark. The house served by the dock stood alone on an island that was otherwise densely forested with strange tall trees having narrow trunks crowned with mops of feathery leaves. One of the dock-pilings was adorned with a large carving of an owl,
hung about with garlands of snail-shells. Another bore a brass ship's bell on a bracket and a lantern with a guttering flame.

'The sympath's sign,' Momor said, indicating the nightbird's image. 'Both an invitation and a warning. Owls are rare in this part of the world, omens of wisdom because they see in the dark ... but also of sudden death because they swoop to kill on silent wings. Haydon's not to be trifled with, either.'

He sculled his punt up to the dock and tied the line to a cleat, then helped Induna to climb out. 'Will you want me to wait, mistress? I'll have to charge triple. My own bed's waiting.'

'No. You need not stay' She gave him his fee. 'Am I supposed to ring this bell?'

'I'd recommend it.' Momor gave a laugh without much humor in it, slipped the line, and glided briskly away. In a few moments he was lost to sight around a bend in the canal.

Induna studied the owl image for a moment. The bird had been Deveron's heraldic cognizance and this was certainly his house. Unlike most of the flimsy dwellings she had seen, it was well-constructed of squared logs, Tarnian-style, with a covered porch surrounding it. Its roof was slate slabs, steeply pitched to shed rain, and the chimney was of stone. The windows that faced the canal were not large. They had been fitted with storm-shutters and were curtained by what looked like straw matting. Slivers of lamplight penetrated them, casting golden quadrangles on the ground. The front door was made of iron-bound planks. If he wished, Haydon the Sympath could turn his house into a rather tight little fort.

And that's why you never sent word to me, Induna said to herself. Deveron had not wanted to risk her life, should Ironcrown's assassins hunt him down.

She stood irresolute for a few more minutes, quite certain that he knew she was there, not wanting to disturb the gentle jungle sounds with the brass bell's clangor. Finally, with the
folded cloak tucked under one arm and her fardel under the other, she walked down the dock and along the stone-bordered path to the porch. Then she knocked on the door.

It opened almost immediately. He
had
been waiting.

He wore an unadorned tunic and trews of dark green camlet, well worn and not especially clean; but his belt was finely tooled and had a golden buckle. Around his neck a flat gold case engraved with an owl hung from a handsome chain. There were new lines at the corners of his vibrant blue eyes, and his mouth had grown thinner and tighter. He had a short beard and a neat moustache. His nut-brown hair was touched with grey and cut shorter than she remembered, combed over his forehead and ears like a close-fitting helmet.

'Welcome, love,' he said quietly. 'Come in and be at home.'

In the dragon's devouring abyss, darker than night and shot through with giddy red sparks, Deveron Austrey waited angrily for death. Meanwhile, he dreamed of the time Induna finally found him.

She came with tentative steps into the house's sitting room, which was separated from the apotheck workbenches and shelves at the rear by a long counter with a half-door set into it. The fireplace against the lefthand wall held a small nest of glowing coals in its grate. A steaming teakettle hung from an iron crane and a covered stoneware crock stood on the warming-hob.

She seemed at a loss for words, still carrying the folded cloak and the leather case. Her smile was almost fearful and her eyes remained fixed on his face, as if comparing it with another long remembered.

'Give me your things,' he said gently. 'Be seated in the cushioned chair by the table. Is this all you have with you, or did you leave more baggage in town? I can have it sent for.'

'There's nothing else. The fardel holds everything I needed for the voyage. I only just arrived this evening on a clipper ship. I - I came directly to your house from the harbor.'

'I see.' He hung her cloak on a wallhook and placed the carrying case beneath it. 'Have you eaten?' When she shook her head, he fetched a bowl and a spoon and ladled out a generous portion of lamb pottage from the crock on the hob.

‘I
have herbal tea steeping in the pot - chamomile, lemon, and valerian to soothe the mind. Shall I pour you some, and perhaps add a splash of good Stippenese brandy? I was going to have some myself before retiring.'

'I'd like that,' she said. 'The stew is delicious. I was near starving. The ship's mess was served early in the afternoon, and I was too nervous to eat much, knowing we were approaching your home.'

'Help yourself to as much as you want. I usually break my morning fast with supper's leftovers, but I'll make us something much better tomorrow morning: buttered eggs with cocodrill sausage.'

He filled two plain pottery mugs, placing hers on the table and taking his own to an armchair that he pulled out from the wall.

'Cocodrill? What manner of meat would that be?' she asked.

'The tail portion of a huge lizard that dwells in our jungle waterways. I make the sausage myself. Smoked and well-peppered, with onions and herbs, it's fit for a king's banquet.'

'A king . . .' She lowered her eyes to her food, then continued to eat in silence.

'Is there still a price on my head?' he inquired lightly. 'The notices were taken down years ago.’

‘Ah. But I daresay the reward still stands, doesn't it?’

‘I hope not,' she murmured.

He paused in sipping his tea and leaned toward her. 'Why? What do you mean?'

She shook her head and would not meet his gaze, so he left off asking questions, content to wait for her to explain herself in her own good time.

When she finished her meal he refilled their mugs and led her outside to the covered porch facing the canal. Several sturdy sling-stools with leather seats were set about a low stand, which held three little clay pots. Using his talent, he struck a finger-flame and touched it to the pots' contents; fragrant smoke arose.

'The resin's smell keeps biting midges at bay most effectively. I wish we'd had it at our Deep Creek manorhouse.'

They sat side by side, drinking tea and listening to the night creatures. He had put out the lamp within the house and aside from the stars, the small lantern down on the dock gave the only light. She took a deep breath and reached for his hand. It was cool and rough with calluses.

'I came to you for a reason, Deveron. I was sent by the Source.'

He said nothing, but his fingers tightened on hers.

'He bespoke me some three weeks ago at the manor, giving me an urgent message for you. I left immediately. Tiglok's sons carried me south to Mesta in their sloop, and there I took passage on an Andradhian clipper.'

'This is the only reason you came, then.' His voice was toneless. 'You were compelled by that black manipulator. The One Denied the Sky has pulled you into his inhuman game. And now I suppose he seeks to re-enlist me as well.'

'The choice to come here was my own, Deveron. I can't deny how my heart leapt with joy at the prospect of seeing you once again, after so many years of not knowing whether you were dead or alive. The message . . . it's vitally important. But once the Source told me where you were, neither
the powers of heaven nor hell could have kept me from coming. Since you left me, there's been no other. There could never be. But if - if it's what you want, I'll leave after saying what I must.' Her eyes overflowed.

He took her in his arms. 'Duna, Duna, don't cry. I had to go away. It was the only way to keep you and Maris safe from Ironcrown's evil minions.'

'I know.' She wiped her face on her sleeve and sat up straighter. 'And here is the Source's message. Make of it what you will. He asks that you return to High Blenholme with the utmost speed and stealth, using the Subtle Gateway sigil. You must go to Castle Morass in Didion and there take counsel of your - your twice-great-grandmother, after which you are to present yourself to the Sovereign of Blenholme and offer to serve and guide him as Royal Intelligencer once again.'

For a moment Deveron was rendered speechless. Then: 'It's a cosmic joke! One of those tricks the cursed Beaconfolk are so fond of. What is the Source, save one of
them?
A renegade Light who now thinks to send me to my doom to serve some dark purpose -'

She touched his mouth with her free hand, cutting off the tirade. 'Nay! Not so, love. He told me you would be welcomed. That your special services are sorely needed. That the New Conflict now enters its final critical stages, and its outcome depends upon the defeat of the Salka as well as the evil Lights who empower them. You can help bring that about.'

He drew away from her with a violent motion and rose to his feet. 'I know almost nothing of the political situation on the island nowadays, save for the fragments of news that reach Mikk-Town and are gossiped about by my clients. Throughout this exile, I've deliberately avoided any attempt at scrying Conrig's court - not that it would have been easy,
from this great distance. I didn't want to know what was happening in Blenholme. I still don't want to know!'

'Would you allow the island of your birth and all the human folk living there to fall prey to the Salka?'

He said nothing, turning his back to her and staring at the canal. His loud outburst had silenced the calls of the birds and frogs.

'If you wish,' she said with shy eagerness,
‘I
can tell you much of what's happened there. And once you've arrived in Didion, your great-great-grandmother -'

'There's no such person. My aged grandsire, who raised me after the death of my parents, never spoke of her. Even if she were alive, she'd be over a hundred years old. What use could such a feeble crone possibly be in a war against the Salka monsters?'

She rose and went to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. 'That's what you must discover, Deveron. You
must
return to Blenholme. Not for Conrig's sake - he's a tyrant unworthy of your love - but for the sake of the people he rules. For all his faults, he's a strong Sovereign. He's held the Salka in check this long, but only because the creatures have never taken full advantage of their sigil weaponry'