Sorcerer's Moon (33 page)

'Ready the catapults with the bombs!' Tallu cried. 'They're closing on us fast! Range twenty to thirty ells!' Seamen dashed about the poop and foredecks, loading the war-engines with hissing tarnblaze grenades. Missiles flew into the fog, trailing luminous red arcs. The starboard battery fired again, the gun-barrels depressed to the ultimate notch. The air filled with smoke, worsening the already poor visibility.

And then the ship began to roll.

The oscillation was almost imperceptible to begin with, but gradually increased in intensity so that the crew were hard put to keep their footing. Tallu glanced at Ontel. His eyes had been closed as he scried beneath the water. Now he opened them and met his wife's gaze, shaking his head gently.

'They are upon us darling. Clinging to the portside hull and rudder and using their great strength and the frigate's own mass to rock and capsize us.'

'All hands, leave off firing guns and grenades!' Tallu cried. 'Grappling irons to the port rails. Haul away and snag the brutes as best you can. Be alert to repel boarders!'

Ontel spoke to her on the wind. 'Can we fight them off? Is there still a chance?'

'No, my dear.' She gave silent reply.

'Then bespeak Zirinna one last time, giving her what information you can about the Salka tactics.'

‘I tried,' Tallu admitted. 'But there was no reply to my
hail. The wind is strangely empty of any windthread, as though we were enclosed in more than fog - as though we were walled away from the world of life itself. It's strange . . .'

'Then all is lost,' the little shaman murmured.

The sealady took up a coil of hempen line. 'Dear husband, only this ship is lost. We who die on her can take comfort in knowing that our first warning was passed on. I shall so inform our crew. But first -'

She began to tie Ontel to the binnacle, the tall case holding navigation instruments that stood just behind the ship's wheel.

'I'll return to you immediately and lash myself in place,' Tallu assured him. 'From here you and I will direct
Gyrfalcon's
last battle.'

* * *

The memorial ceremony for Lord Chancellor Kilian Blackhorse was only sparsely attended. Lurking in the narthex where he had a clear view inside the chapel, Beynor counted only eighteen blackrobed Didionite wizards ranged around the simple open coffin, holding candles and chanting ritual praises to the deceased sorcerer. Neither Duke Ranwing nor any nobles from the court of Somarus had felt it necessary to pay last respects to the foreign magicker who had exerted such a powerful influence over their king.

Beynor had come to reassure himself that the body was that of Kilian, and that he was truly as dead as mutton. No suspicion had attached to the death, which was officially adjudged by the coroner to be accidental, and unofficially viewed as fortuitous. Rumors that the chancellor had schemed to
unite Cathra and Didion under a single ruling dynasty had incensed the most powerful nobles of the northern nation
and kindled fresh resentment against the Sovereignty.

When the service ended, Beynor stood watching impassively as pallbearers carried the now-closed coffin past him
and down the steps into the outer ward. To his surprise, one of the wizards in the funeral procession broke from the line and approached him in a purposeful fashion, drawing back the hood of his robe. The man was well-built and quite good-looking, of no great age. He made a perfunctory bow and spoke without diffidence.

'Conjure-King Beynor of Moss, I presume.'

Beynor frowned at the fellow's over-familiar manner - but of course his own appearance was unique and striking. By now, the lowliest scullion in the castle kitchen would be able to recognize him. 'I am Beynor,' he admitted. 'Who are you, and why do you presume to address me?'

'Garon Curtling, at your service, Majesty. I was a close associate of the late Lord Chancellor Kilian. Like him, I am a Cathran and a former Brother of Zeth. If you could spare me a few moments, I have a proposal that might appeal to you.'

'Do you indeed, wizard? What sort of proposal?' Beynor moved out of the vestibule into the chapel porch and watched the cortege as it headed toward the Watergate. The brief announcement of Kilian's demise that morning stated that his remains were to be sent downriver after the memorial service, to be interred in the royal cemetery in Didion's capital city of Mallburn.

The eyes of Garon Curtling revealed only a modest talent, but his attitude was that of a man with business to conduct. He glanced about to be sure that no one else was close enough to hear. A small bell had begun to toll the noon hour.

'Since I'm about to lose my special position and now face an uncertain future,' he said, 'I must do what I can to provide for myself. My late master kept a journal. I have it. It is written backwards to discourage ordinary snoops, but simply holding it to a mirror reveals the sense of it. It contains much that might interest one who has lived outside the higher social circles of the Sovereignty for some years - one who
might be gratified or amused by an intimate view of notable personages as observed by a member of Didion's Grand Council. The journal is for sale.'

Beynor's mouth quirked and he almost smiled. 'By a thief?' he said without rancor.

‘I only took it for safekeeping, after finding it discarded on the floor of Lord Kilian's bedchamber. It lay in a heap of other items from a ransacked iron coffer that the chancellor always kept locked. We - that is, I myself and Lord Kilian's other close confidants, Niavar Kettleford and Cleaton Papworth - always suspected that he kept his treasure in that box. I found no money or jewels. Since Niavar and Cleaton have disappeared, I fear they may have absconded from the castle with the valuables.'

'You did not raise a hue and cry over this?'

'No, Your Majesty. I can't prove anything was taken. Furthermore, my two fellow-wizards are highly experienced in conjuring expert spells of couverture. Finding them may be impossible for those having only moderate talent - and that description fits most adepts in Didion, including myself. I took charge of the journal, which has no obvious monetary value, because I'm sure Lord Kilian would have wanted me to have it as a souvenir of our years together. You see, I was the one who guided him over the trackless Sinistral Range on his escape from Zeth Abbey. In the ensuing years I've served him faithfully -'

'Ten gold marks,' Beynor interrupted the self-congratulatory gush with a laconic flip of his hand. 'Bring the journal to me at once and I'll pay you. I'll be walking along the esplanade. Don't let anyone catch you with the book or our bargain is void.'

Garon blinked. The sizable sum would buy a fine cottage, or ten superior horses with their tack, or keep a man in decent food, liquor, and feminine comfort for a year.

'All right, Your Majesty. I agree.' With no more ado, he hurried off to the Wizards' Tower, where the visiting magickers had their apartments.

'A self-confident sort of rogue,' the Conjure-King said to himself, 'And unemployed! A wastrel as well, unless I miss my guess. But he may have his uses.'

Beynor walked through the north barbican and over the moat's drawbridge to the long strip of gardens and parkland that formed an ornamental promenade along the castle's river side. The day was now pleasant and sunny, and many noble ladies and their male companions were taking the air. He strolled for nearly half an hour, using his keen windsight to survey the many military camps on the opposite shore, which were in a predictable state of ferment at the prospect of demobilization. At last he reached the western boundary of the esplanade, where the moat joined a natural stream that debouched into the great river. The main gatehouse of the castle was visible from this vantage point, as was the highroad leading to Boarsden Town.

Beynor took a seat on a stone bench and waited. There was no one else near by. Finally Garon Curtling reappeared in the distance, moving at a leisurely pace through the well-dressed gentlefolk, looking like a lone black crow amongst a colorful flock of finches and orioles. Beynor waited patiently for him and pretended to study boat traffic rounding the great bend in the river.

When the wizard approached and made a respectful obeisance, as though he were delivering some message, Beynor motioned him to sit down on the bench beside him. Garon obeyed and proffered a buckled leather dispatch case with bellows-sides.

'It's in here. When the case is opened wide, you may easily examine the journal without taking it out.’

‘Excellent.'

They sat in silence for many minutes while the Conjure-King thumbed through the volume bound in worn brown pigskin. It was not easily deciphered, for Kilian had not only written backwards but also overwrote each page with vertical as well as horizontal lines, making a Crosshatch that strained the eyes even in bright sunshine. Turning to the last entry, Beynor was able to read an account of the Lord Chancellor's disastrous final visit to Somarus. He chuckled aloud as he came upon Kilian's doleful speculations about the king's dreams of independence for Didion - dreams that Beynor himself had skillfully implanted.

'Do you find the journal good value?' Garon inquired.

'Yes, indeed.' Beynor refastened the straps of the case and took a purse from his belt. 'And here is your price.'

The other man reached out eagerly, but the Conjure-King kept the pouch just beyond reach. 'I'll be honest with you. This is sorcerer's gold - adequate tender only when the buyer will be quickly away and never again see the person who accepted it. The money is solid only for a single day and night, after which it vanishes like a blown-out candleflame.'

Garon's eyes widened with outrage. 'What?!' He tried to seize the dispatch case, but discovered that his arms were paralyzed. 'You cheating whoreson -'

Beynor laughed. 'Not at all. Hush! Be easy, Garon Curtling. No one will bilk you of your due. Didn't I warn you that the money was bogus?'

The younger man's anger melted into perplexity. 'But why?'

'Because I want more from you than just this journal -and I'm prepared to offer you a hundred times the journal's price, paid in coin of the realm, for your help in a certain venture. Plus one-tenth of whatever loot we recover on the job. And if you think it worth your while, I also offer you
a
place as one of my men, at a generous stipend, for as long as you wish to serve me . . . Now! If I release you, will you sit still and make no rash move?'

'Yes.' The wizard shrugged. 'Why not? I have no chance of besting one such as you in sorcery.' He eyed Beynor slyly. 'And neither did Kilian Blackhorse, I suspect. Did you slay him?'

'Of course.' Beynor freed Garon from the magical restraint. 'We were once allies, then became mortal enemies. One of us had to kill the other. I admit I was stupid not to have considered that he'd have a treasure cached away. My mind is too much befuddled by dirty politics these days.'

It was Garon's turn to laugh. 'Tell me about your venture, and how it might concern me. Although I suspect I know what you're about to say.'

'Do you, indeed! Well, it's obvious, isn't it: I want that treasure. I need it if I'm to re-establish my kingdom. No one can be a king without real money. Given time, I could do this task alone. After all, I invented the superior spell of couverture your larcenous friends are hiding under. I taught it to Kilian before he taught it to
them.
They can't evade my mind's eye.'

'Then why not nab Niavar and Cleaton yourself and take away their goodies? They have only eight or nine hours' start on you.'

'My time is limited and I have other vitally important things to attend to. You know this precious pair of thieving magpies from long association, and they know you. If you approach them they won't be suspicious. At least, not at first.'

'Perhaps,' Garon flashed a cynical smirk. 'But I won't bet my life on it. My talents are no match for their combined sorcery. They'd blast me to greasy collops with uncanny lightning. I've seen them do such a thing before, to a cutpurse
that was stupid enough to attack us in the back lanes of Mallburn Town.'

'You'll be quite safe if you use the spells I'm prepared to teach you.' Beynor looked away, distracted by a commotion of shouts and neighing horses over at the west gatehouse of the castle. The double portcullises lifted and a dozen or so mounted men, led by a knight bearing the guidon of the Sovereign, emerged at full gallop and headed toward the city.

'Spells?' Garon was intrigued. 'What kind of spells?'

'Wait!' the sorcerer commanded. He rose. His countenance was like wood and his dark eyes wide open but unfocused as he scrutinized the troop closely with his windsight. They were all Cathran knights and warriors save for one, who wore crimson leather with a hooded capuchon, the customary riding habit of ranking Brothers of Zeth. Beynor identified the Royal Alchymist, Lord Stergos.

'Well, well! . . . Garon, didn't King Conrig ride out earlier in the day to tour the military camps around Boarsden Town?'

'Such was the gossip among my fellow-wizards at breakfast. It was said he wished to inspect the condition of the men and mounts in the various companies before giving the official order to disperse. I believe the High Sealord accompanied him, and the Cathran Earl Marshal, and the new Prince Heritor - along with a gaggle of generals from all nations of the Sovereignty. But King Somarus was indisposed and stayed abed.'

Beynor uttered a bark of laughter. 'No doubt - after last night's bout of feasting and drinking.'

Getting up from the bench, Garon screwed his features to a gargoyle grimace as he windwatched the departing riders himself. 'I wonder whether some important report may have been vouchsafed to Lord Stergos, which he now carries personally to the Sovereign?'

'Doubtless we'll learn of it in good time,' Beynor said coldly. 'Meanwhile, other matters concern us. If you accept my offer and agree to track down your former mates, I'll instruct you in several types of advanced sorcery. You won't need to scry out Niavar and Cleaton - I'll find them for you. But you
will
have to defend yourself against whatever magic they're likely to throw at you. And ultimately, you must slay them.'