The Swordsman's Oath

Taken from the Magistrate’s Court-Rolls,

Charlaril District, Relshaz,

Spring Assizes,

the 3rd year of Emperor Perinal the Bold in Toremal,

the 15th year of the reign of Queen Mirella of Solura

To Zindan Ar Willan, Medlar Lane

Sir,

Further to your protests as to the likely penalties your son will face, may I remind you that as theft is a crime against property, rather than person, he will not be subject to physical penalties or execution. however, since the value of the goods stolen is estimated as in excess of 5OO Crowns (Tormalin minting), the plaintiff is fully entitled to recover his losses against the body of your son if the charge is proved and the property is not recovered. In that eventuality, you cannot compel the plaintiff to sell your son in open market if he chooses to sell him to the city for service in the galleys or at the ferry-capstans. I appreciate this threat must be very distressing for your wife, but it is not directly relevant to this case; if you wish to lodge an accusation of harassment with this office, it will be treated as an entirely separate matter.

The theft case will be heard at the Hall of Justice on the day of the greater full moon. If your son denies the charge absolutely, you may either retain an advocate or argue the case yourself. If your son admits the offense but contests the amount stolen, you will be required to present the property in question to the Magistracy for valuation and submit to a search of your household for the disputed items. The plaintiff will of course have to agree to a similar search and prove ownership of said items to the satisfaction of the Magistracy. If your son admits the offense and the full value of the theft, you will have the chance to offer the plaintiff compensation in lieu of the price of your son, who will then be banished from the city. I should warn you that the plaintiff is entirely at liberty to refuse such an offer.

I return herewith the affidavits concerning your son’s presence at a private party on the night in question. You may call witnesses with any pertinent information when the case comes to the Hall of Justice. A jury will be empanelled from the voting lists on the morning of the sitting and I must remind you that any attempt to influence witnesses or jurors, by either defendant or plaintiff, will result in immediate forfeiture of the case.

May I remind you that you only have five days remaining in which to lodge your hundred Marks with the Magistracy as Surety of Conduct. Please do not hesitate to contact me if you require any further information.

Trusting in Raeponin’s justice,

Magrin Colarene,

Clerk to the Magistrate

The House of Mellitha Esterlin, Relshaz, 29th of Aft-Spring

I woke from a fitful sleep, startled to realize it was much later than was usual for me, and I hurried to wash and shave. Livak’s mood hadn’t improved much during the previous evening. When we’d made our way upstairs after a rather strained dinner and I’d paused on my threshold with an enquiring smile, she’d simply pulled a sealed packet from one pocket and held it up to me.

“I’m dyeing my hair.” Her smile was an uneasy mixture of defiance and triumph and she whisked past me into her own room with a swiftness that left my desire as effectively snuffed as my candle. I didn’t bother to try the connecting door.

The house seemed unusually quiet as I made my way down-stairs. An elegant breakfast selection was laid out in the morning salon but, from the used plates and glasses stacked neatly on a side table, I looked to be the last to rise. I shrugged and made a good meal before going in search of the others. Most sound was coming from the kitchen, so I peered around the door, courteous apology ready on my lips from long experience of Messire’s fiercely territorial cooks.

“Sir?” A maid bobbed a nervous curtsey and looked around anxiously for reassurance.

“Morning, Ryshad.”

I was a little surprised to see Halice in a window seat, carefully examining knives, oil and whetstone to hand. She looked entirely at her ease and I realized she had that same talent of fitting in almost anywhere short of a children’s dame-school that had made Aiten such an effective enquiry agent for Messire. I made a mental note to find out later what she might discover from a morning’s ostensibly idle chat among the servants. There might well be something I could include in the letter to Messire that was to be my next priority, I reminded myself.

“Where is everyone?”

“Mellitha’s gone out to rearrange the meetings she had cancelled, Viltred and Kerrit are scrying or some such, Shiv’s waiting for Planir to contact him with instructions.” Halice tested the edge of a particularly vicious carver with a cautious thumb.

“Livak?” I asked with a sinking feeling.

“Gone out.” Halice looked up, her expression unreadable. “Shiv couldn’t say when he might hear from Planir, so Livak said she couldn’t wait.”

I must have been deeply asleep to miss that exchange; half the street had probably heard it.

“Where’s Shiv?” There was no point me falling out with Halice over the issue.

“The garden room, end of the corridor past the dining room.”

I nodded a polite farewell to the curious maids and scullions and left Halice to see what she could elicit with sharp knives and sharper ears.

Shiv was sitting by a linden wood game-table, moodily rearranging the pieces of one of the finest White Raven sets I have seen outside an Imperial residence.

“Good morning,” I ventured brightly.

Shiv shrugged and made some indeterminate reply. I moved round the room to the window for a clearer view of his face and saw weariness clouding his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting for Planir to deign to contact me with instructions and trying to decide what to do for the best,” snapped Shiv with an irritation I was glad was not directed at me personally.

He smacked the alabaster raven piece down in the center of the board with a force that made me wince; that is too soft a stone to appreciate such treatment.

“Want some company, or do you have something else more useful I could be doing?” I smiled as he looked at me for the first time.

“I reckon I could do with someone to talk to,” he admitted, pushing with an aimless finger at one of the softly swirling malachite trees standing around the board inlaid on the table top. “Planir said he should have instructions for me before noon. I’d appreciate your thoughts on what he has to tell us.”

I relaxed on a velvet-upholstered chair and picked up one of the crow pieces, admiring the exquisite workmanship; jet’s difficult stone to carve, according to my father.

“Livak’s gone out,” said Shiv abruptly, closing the circle of trees around the raven with an irritated gesture.

“Halice told me,” I replied mildly. “Still, she knows the city better than either of us; I’d say she’ll be able to keep herself out of trouble.”

Shiv looked up with a ghost of a smile; I hadn’t been able to keep the chagrin out of my voice.

“You don’t think she’ll need either of us riding in at the end of the fifth verse to rescue her like some maiden in a bad Soluran ballad, then?”

I shook my head. “A knight-protector is the last thing Livak’s ever going to want or require.” My voice must have betrayed me.

“So where does that leave you?” asked Shiv with a genuine concern that surprised me a little.

“A sworn man, whose oath is supposed to come before any other consideration?” I set the crow down carefully next to a golden agate owl. “I’ll settle for whatever she’s willing to give, just at the moment, as long as she’s willing to let me keep my oaths. As for anything more, I don’t even know if she wants a future with me, so I’ll worry about selling that skin when I’ve caught the bear.”

Shiv nodded his understanding. “Pered and I took quite some time to work out a way of living together, what with him not being a mage. It became quite difficult when I started working for the Council, but we managed to find a balance.” His gaze lengthened as he stared seaward out of the window. “I do miss him.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that; I’d been a little surprised to find that Shiv preferred to dance with his own side of the set, but as I was confident he’d be keeping his hand off my shirt tails I didn’t give the matter much thought. It wasn’t something I particularly wanted to discuss, however. I’m no Rationalist, I don’t subscribe to their theories about the determining logic of nature’s pattern—meaning one man, one woman and no alternatives; still, enough Tormalins take on Rational ideas while observing the rituals and holy days of less censorious traditions to make any of my acquaintance who felt inclined to scent his handkerchiefs do so very discreetly. I liked Shiv, I respected him as a man and a mage, and I certainly didn’t want to offend him by saying the wrong thing or revealing my own ignorance, come to that.

“How about a game of Raven while we wait?” I carefully replaced the pieces in their niches on either side of the table.

Shiv looked at the board as if only just registering it was there. “No, thanks, I don’t play as a rule.”

That made sense, since the whole game is based on the premise of birds driving out the one born different to the majority.

I opened a drawer in a small cabinet. “A few hands of runes?”

“Yes, all right.” Shiv stretched his long arms over his head and his expression lightened a little.

I took out a velvet bag and closed the drawer. “You know, if we find ourselves up to our hips in horseshit over all this and paid off in Lescari Marks, we ought to think about tax-contracting.”

“It certainly looks to pay well enough,” Shiv agreed, his grin broadening as he turned the table-top over to reveal the velvet-lined face for rune play.

I spread the nine finely made sea-ivory rods on the table-top and Shiv gave them rather more than the customary examination, dark brows meeting above curious eyes.

“Is this inlay gold or bronze?” He picked up one of the bones and turned it slowly, looking at the three faces, the angular sigils that were the ancient symbols for the Deer, the Oak and the Forest. I’m more used to the ornamental sets used in Tormalin, little pictures painted on each rune.

“Gold,” I confirmed. “So, what are we playing?”

“Three runes, three throws?” suggested Shiv, tossing the heaven rune to give us the sun and the lesser moon on either side of the uppermost faces.

“Male runes strong, then,” I nodded. “Are we counting points or pence?”

Shiv smiled and this was a wide, guileless smile that made me wonder how much he played. “Pence, I’d say, just to keep it interesting.”

I swept the bones back into the bag and held it out so Shiv could draw three. The first few plays were certainly interesting; Shiv consistently passed up modest combinations of runes from his first throws in favor of trying for higher scoring patterns. He showed no nervousness and was soon winning more than he was losing. I could almost have suspected him of weighting the game when he threw the Wolf and the Storm first toss when all I could come up with was the Reed and the Harp, and that on my third throw. Just as I was thinking the odds were starting to favor me, I drew the heaven rune and it landed with both moons up, ending the hand.

“Have you got something to keep score on over there?” Shiv grinned at me. I shook my head in mock disgust as I rummaged in the cabinet drawer.

There were several sticks of charcoal in elegant silver holders and some off-cuts of reed paper which I drew out. I glanced at the backs but they were blank; Mellitha evidently didn’t risk unfriendly eyes seeing even the most innocuous memoranda from her office.

“You don’t seem to have a problem deciding what to do when you’re playing,” I winced as I totted up my losses. Would things improve now female runes were dominant? Knowing my luck, I’d be drawing the Mountain and the Drum in every hand instead.

Shiv paused in casting idle trios of bones, hand against hand. “It’s easy enough to be bold and reckless when the worst that’ll happen is losing your boots to pay your debts.”

“You were quick-witted enough when we were trying to find a way out of that Elietimm dungeon,” I shook my head with a friendly smile, choosing my words carefully. “Don’t take me wrong, but you’ve been like a cat wanting fish but afraid to wet his paws on this trip.”

Shiv’s expression hardened a little. “I’m sorry if I’m a little hesitant; it’s not so easy finding a way to do what Planir wants that I can be sure will keep us all out of Elietimm hands.”

He shoved the runes into the bag with unnecessary force and promptly threw the Eagle, the Sea and the Zephyr first toss.

“Is Planir baying at your heels, then?” I barely bothered calculating the meager score I got from the Calm, the Pine and the Broom, deciding I wouldn’t be playing Livak for anything important until my luck improved dramatically.

Shiv shook his head. “No, not at all. He lets you know where your task ranks on the scale of things and generally you know how long you have to get results, but he’ll always listen to reason and give you leeway when you need it. I trust him; he’s got all the reins firmly in his hands.”

“He sounds like Messire.” I threw then rerolled all three bones with a mutter of disgust. “So if Planir isn’t going to savage you for following a few false scents, why are you keeping Livak on such a tight leash? Let her do some of the work for you; you know she’s got the nose for something like this.”

Shiv returned the runes to the bag, drew his three and sat fingering them with a pensive expression.

“It was easier, last year, taking chances, when I didn’t know what we might run up against. Now I know what kind of snares we could run ourselves into. I may not have had all my birds on the board after that knock on the head I took, but I saw what those bastards did to you and Livak.” He looked at me. “See, you’ve gone pale just at the mention of it.”

I wasn’t about to deny it; Shiv threw his runes with an explosive gesture of anger.

“Geris’ death was bad enough; torturing him like that went beyond any questioning or punishment. Whoever did that did it because he enjoyed it. I don’t want to end up in his hands; I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Aiten’s death was the worst, though, because it was magic that took his mind, and it’s a magic I can’t sense, I can’t counter, I can’t even begin to understand it.” Frustration edged his voice. “I might as well try casting the runes like my grandmother looking for answers by the fireside. If I could remember half of what she used to do, I’d give it a go. I’m that desperate!”

I laughed but bit it short when I saw Shiv was more than a little serious. He stared at me. “Don’t you cast the runes for fortunes in Tormalin? You must draw birth runes, if nothing else?”

I struggled for an answer. “I think my father’s mother did that when we were babies.” I sorted through the bones until one sparked a faint flicker of memory. “This would be it, yes, this one. The Calm, the Drum and the Earth, though I’ve no idea what it’s supposed to mean for me.”

Shiv gave a perfunctory nod but his thoughts had moved on. “I’m a mage and I’m a good one; I work for Planir because I think that’s where I can do most good, but if I wanted to turn my talents to studying my element, I could get elected to the Council inside a year on my own merits. Set me against these bastards from the far side of the winter storms and I’m as scared of their cursed sorcery as some lackwit peasant seeing fire conjured for the first time. I hate it, Rysh, I just hate it!”

“I’d be worried if you weren’t scared,” I said with a shrug. “Just thinking about having one of those bastards inside my mind again makes me feel like wetting my breeches. The thing is, though, you can’t let that hobble you or you’re giving them another advantage.”

“I do know that,” said Shiv with some sarcasm. “It’s just that’s the way I feel.”

“So don’t feel.” I leaned forward, sweeping the disregarded runes aside. “Lock it in a box in the back of your mind and don’t get it out again until you’ve got the time for it. As for the rest of it, why are you trying to square this circle all on your own? Halice and Livak know this town, they know a lot of people here; I spend every other season looking out information for Messire. There’s a double handful of things we could be doing instead of sitting here with our thumbs up our arses waiting for the Archmage to give us the self-same orders.”

“Livak seems to have decided that for herself.” Shiv’s tone was sour.

“Are you surprised? Now, I reckon she’ll concentrate on the black-leather troop; I don’t think she takes kindly to people putting a price on her pelt. I’ve been wondering about this second group, the ones who are trying to blend in a bit more thoroughly. How about I take this sword around a few of the dealers, see if anyone can point me in their direction? I’d like to know where they are, just for my own peace of mind. You never know, we might be able to use them against the other lot.”

“That’s a possibility.” Shiv looked thoughtful.

I stood up. “Right, then. I’ll see if I can get a scent.”

“Don’t forget what you owe me for this game,” Shiv called after me.

Viltred came bustling out of an open door as I headed for the outer yard. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To get a haircut,” I said mildly; I didn’t answer to him and besides, my curls definitely needed a trim if we were going to be spending much more time in this city. Just the thought of the vermin that would relish such a tightly packed population made my scalp itch. I could look for a barber while I made my way to the eastern wharves, I decided, where I should be able to find a merchant willing to ferry a letter to the Despatch in return for an appropriate coin or two. It felt good to be out on the streets, on my own; the sun was bright on the whitewashed buildings but a faint breeze was bringing in high clouds from the seas of the Gulf today. I’ve always hated inactivity; I’d drive my mother nearly demented on wet days when I was a child, according to my father. Walking down the streets I kept my eyes and ears open but not worrying overly much. Relshaz was an unfamiliar city to me, but I’ve seen enough new places in my years working for Messire. The garbage in the gutters is usually much the same.

My letter could wait until I had some news worth sending, I decided. Making my way to the goldsmith’s quarter, I began looking for a likely dealer to interest in the sword. It would have been easier if Mellitha had been available to ask for advice but I was confident I could manage. When a treacherous little voice whispered at the back of my mind, “You could always have waited,” I locked it back in that box I’d been telling Shiv about.

A couple of brawny lads propping up the door-posts of an auction house suggested there was more than silver gilt behind the stout grilles on the unshuttered windows. I walked up the street, stopping every so often to admire the wares on display in each shop frontage and found that theirs was indeed the richest array for a galley length in any direction. More importantly, they seemed to deal in any and every type of merchandise. I didn’t meet the intimidating stare of the guards, not wanting to get them up on their hind legs and barking; I simply went in and waited for someone to come and persuade me to part with some coin.. After scarcely a breath, a dapper little man in watered blue silk sidled up to me.

“Can I be of assistance? Are you buying or selling?”

“I was just passing and you know, I was wondering what you could tell me about this sword?” I smiled at him and did my best imitation of Camarl D’Olbriot’s countless generations of good blood and better education.

“A pleasure, sir.” The man had the pleasant knack of being effusive without being ingratiating. His eyes gleamed as I unbuckled the sword and handed it over.

“Now this is very interesting.” He actually sounded as if he meant it. “This insignia, it’s the House D’Alsennin.”

His Tormalin was flawlessly accented; it was a shame I’d never heard of the House in question.

“How very odd,” I registered aristocratic embarrassment.

The little man ran a finger over the crest embossed in the leather of the scabbard. “The House fell in the collapse of the Empire; it was extinct in the principal line some time before then, I believe, and what remained of the property reverted to a cadet succession of For Alder.”

A frisson ran through me that I couldn’t explain. Was For Alder an ancestral connection of Messire’s? I knew the family had several links to Houses that styled themselves “For” to show they had once held the Imperial Throne, but I didn’t think that was one of them.

I realized the evaluator was talking about the engraving on the sword.

“Delathan, yes, that would certainly fit, he was a smith working in the last years of the Empire. Tell me, Esquire, is this a family heirloom?”

“Of sorts, from a collateral line.” I repossessed the sword and made sufficient business of buckling it on and settling it on my hip again to avoid the little man’s eye. He couldn’t bring himself to stoop to further vulgar inquiry.

“What would it make at auction, just out of interest?”

He was polite enough to take me at my word, despite my distinctly unaristocratic appearance. “I would expect you would get offers upwards of two thousand Crowns. We could sell it for you, should you wish to part with it for any reason, but I’m honor bound to say we don’t deal in swords as a rule, so you might well get a better price elsewhere. We don’t really have clients looking for such things. If you take the second turn after the fountain on the Gulf side, you’ll find dealers who specialize in blades,” he added a little reluctantly.

“Many thanks.” Waving an airy farewell, I sauntered off along the street, following his directions. Satisfaction warmed me as I discovered a cluster of merchants dealing in everything from ivory-handled daggers for ladies to efficient glaives to keep watchmen at a suitable distance from anyone trying to do them damage. I would look for a nice little blade to take back for Livak, I decided, doing a little business would give me better reason for being here. I’d been wanting to get her a present for some while now.

I rejected a long salesroom whose two open doorways were thronged with a lively clientele of fashionable youths trying out impractical rapiers. The place looked too busy and would most likely be too honest to do more than tell me what I already knew about the blade. A more subdued establishment off the main thoroughfare looked more promising until I saw an ill-shaved handful idling the morning away in an alley opposite. As a customer left, with a friendly pat on the shoulder from the pockmarked craftsman, one detached himself from the group and sauntered purposefully after the heedless merchant. I made a note of the name above the counter-front to pass onto Mellitha; I was sure she could use the information to earn a few Marks of goodwill with the Watch. Laying a hand negligently but noticeably on my sword hilt, I continued on my way past.

Back on the busy carriageway, I paused and wondered which way to go; my initial ebullience was fading. I felt a sudden familiar pang of loss, missing having Aiten waiting in a doorway for me, watching my back before taking his turn with the questions and chat while I looked out for anyone taking too much interest in him. This was a job for two and, with Halice tied by her leg and none of the wizards more reliable than a wax rune, perhaps I should have waited for Livak. “Then you’d have nothing to match her with, when she comes back with the name of the inn where the Elietimm are staying and tells you what they ate for breakfast.”

I tried to laugh at myself but I could not shake off a growing feeling of unease. I turned abruptly down an alley and cut across a back entry to take another on to a side street. A mercer’s cart provided some handy cover and I waited for a long moment to see if anyone came out of the alley looking for me. No one did but I couldn’t shake off a prickling at the back of my neck.

“Anyone would think you’d had an Eldritch man tread on your shadow,” I mocked myself with some irritation.

This street had a choice of more workaday metalworkers. I crossed to one whose shutters stood open to reveal a display of old as well as new blades in a wide range of styles. Pausing to rumple my overlong hair across my eyes and pull the laces of my jerkin askew, I went in, rounding my shoulders and ducking my head.

“Good mornin’,” I drawled in the tones of the dock urchins my mother had spent my childhood warning me about.

“Noon chime’s been and gone, friend. Good afternoon.” The smith was a thick-set man, muscled arms scarred with the burns of his craft and his black eyes had all the warmth of wet coal.

“I was wondering what you could tell me about this sword?” I gave him a slack-jawed smile and shuffled my feet in the dust of the floor.

He reached for the blade and turned down the corners of his mouth, unimpressed. “Where’d you get it from?”

“Borrowed it off my brother,” I snickered, remembering a time I had helped myself to a rather lewd carving Mistal had been cherishing, concealed, as he had thought, inside his tool-bag in our father’s workshop.

“These leaves graved on the metal, that’s Delathan’s style, but this isn’t Old Empire.” The smith shrugged, his tone dismissive. “ ’Tis a good copy though, I’ll give you two hundred Crowns for it, Tormalin minted.”

“That’s a deal of money.” I grinned vacantly. “I’m not after selling it just yet, though.”

The smith scowled and shoved the blade back toward me. “Why are you wasting my time then?”

I hunched my shoulders and shuffled my feet some more. “Well, a man never knows when he might need some spare coin, not in a city like this.”

I snickered some more with a suggestive grin and the smith smiled back broadly.

“True enough. If you’re looking for a nice clean girl, try the Hole in the Wall, off the Lantern Way.”

I nodded with unnecessary enthusiasm. “Thanks for the tip.”

The smith made a creditable try at registering a sudden thought. “You know, I might have a customer who’d be interested in making you an offer. Where was it you said you were lodging?”

“Plume of Feathers,” I told him readily. “Thanks again.”

I shambled out of the workshop and made my way around a handy corner before straightening up. That had certainly started a hare or two but I realized with some frustration that this was going to be a hard game to course. If I’d had Aiten with me, I could have set him to watching the friendly metal-beater while I kept an eye on the Plume of Feathers. Livak might be able to take Ait’s place, if she hadn’t come up with any leads, but I wasn’t any too keen on the idea of her hanging around this neighborhood on her own. I couldn’t very well stay with her, not without risking suspicion, even if we could somehow get Halice to keep watch at the Plume of Feathers. It wasn’t that I didn’t think Livak could take care of herself, as I knew only too well that she could; the problem was I didn’t want to risk any Elietimm spotting her, dyed hair or not.

I was feeling uneasy again. I turned back to the end of the alley, looking back at the smithy, wondering what to do for the best. My wits seemed to be unraveling, and I swallowed on a suddenly dry throat. It was a warm day, sure enough, but I hadn’t been that long without a drink. I scrubbed a hand across my face but that seemed to make things worse. My eyes began to blur and the noises of the street around me became oddly distorted, echoing around my ears then lost in a sound like crashing waves. Cold sweat began to pour from me, my shirt clung stickily to my back as I crumpled against a wall, legs suddenly unable to support my weight. The blood was pounding in my head like the beat from Misaen’s own anvil and my breath was catching in my chest as I fought off the panic that threatened to choke me.

I heard a footstep on my off hand and gripped the hilt of the sword with nerveless fingers; as I did so, Saedrin opened the shades to swallow me.

The outer court of Wellery’s Hall, in the island city of Hadrumal, 30th of Aft-Spring

He was an imposing figure; tall, dressed in black velvet with a subtle embroidery of scarlet and gold flames at the neck, indicating his mastery of fire to even the most untutored apprentice. A ruby glowed on his breast, clasped in the jaws of a sinuous dragon brooch, the red gold of his ring of office catching the sunlight as he raised his hand to adjust the hang of his maroon cloak. This and the excellent cut of his gown happily concealed much of his bulk, but regretfully the current fashion in high, tight collars was cruelly unflattering to his thickly jowled neck. Several apprentices hastily removed themselves from his path as he strode through the courtyard, an expression of extreme displeasure on his flushed face.

“Archmage!”

A slimly built man in dark, workaday broadcloth turned his head, an unremarkable figure were it not for his air of absolute confidence.

“Hearth-Master.” Planir inclined his head in a nicely calculated acknowledgment then turned back to the trio of nervous novice wizards.

Kalion had no choice but to wait for the Archmage to conclude his conversation. He stood, feet planted firmly on the cobbles, brows knitting as his already high color deepened to beetroot, which clashed unpleasantly with his opulent attire.

“It’s been a pleasure; remember, my door is always open.” Planir’s warm smile deepened the fine creases around his eyes, which lingered a little on the slim back and fine ankles of one of the girls. The apprentices quickly retreated from Kalion’s forbidding gaze.

“Good morning, Hearth-Master.” Planir ran a hand over his close-cut black hair and turned to Kalion. “Let’s use your study, shall we? It’s closest.”

Before the fire mage could reply, Planir led the way briskly out of the courtyard and down the flagged sidewalk of Hadrumal’s high road. Kalion swept after the Archmage, his lips narrow with barely concealed irritation by the time they turned into a second courtyard of pale stone buildings and he took out a key to open the door to a slender tower whose pinnacles were carved into tongues of stone fire.

“I am very much perturbed by what I have just learned—” he began as they climbed the stairs.

“That much is evident,” said Planir without heat. “Which is why I feel we should discuss your concerns in the privacy of your rooms.”

Kalion’s heavy boots rang on the oak of the stairs as he stamped his way up to his luxuriously appointed accommodations.

“What has happened to this man Ryshad?” he demanded without preamble, shoving the door closed behind Planir and dumping his cloak unceremoniously, half onto a sumptuous brocade chair, half on the floor.

“Shivvalan is attempting to find out, Hearth-Master,” replied Planir mildly, retrieving the cloak and hanging it precisely on its customary hook.

“Attempting sounds more than a little vague,” Kalion sniffed. “Do these Ice Islanders have the man or not?”

Planir spread his hands in an eloquent gesture. “As yet, we do not know.”

“We need to find out,” stated Kalion firmly. “The matter must be raised with the Relshazri magistrates at once; I have contacts in the city with sufficient status to do so. I should have an answer for you within a few days at most.”

“Thank you, Hearth-Master, but I don’t believe that will be necessary, just at present.” There was steel wrapped in the velvet of Planir’s courtesy.

Kalion stared at him, undaunted. “Your man, Shivvalan, has managed to lose perhaps the most significant of all the artifacts we have discovered pertaining to this lost colony, and you don’t think urgent measures are necessary? That sword is one of the few items we can absolutely place in the possession of a man we know without doubt to have sailed with Den Fellaemion to Dastennin only knows where and then vanished.”

“I prefer to give Shivvalan some time to discover Ryshad’s whereabouts discreetly.” Planir made himself comfortable on a leather upholstered settle. “I don’t particularly want the Relshazri asking questions about this man’s significance or wondering just what our interest in him might be. It is my decision to make, Kalion.”

The Archmage’s tone was smooth but implacable. Kalion turned to busy himself at a sideboard where a crystal decanter stood in a circle of red-stemmed glasses.

“Cordial?”

“A little of the damson liqueur, thank you.”

Planir took the glass with a warm smile and Kalion sat down in a high backed, ornately carved oaken chair, arranging the skirts of his robe with some care.

“If the Elietimm have taken the man, it’ll be because they have the talents to unlock the mysteries the sword is concealing.” Kalion leaned forward, his expression intent. “We must be prepared; we have to know what we are dealing with. I have said time and again that we should make a more active search of the libraries on the mainland, demand access to the archives of the remaining temples, perhaps even bodies such as Merchant Venturers’ associations, the Caladhrian Parliament. We need to know if they have information we can use and this slow accumulation of reports from itinerant scholars is simply not good enough.”

“I am sure that we are learning what we need as fast as is consistent with discretion.” Planir wiped a bead of moisture from the foot of his empty glass and placed it carefully on the top of a highly polished wine cooler. “Still, tell me Hearth-Master, what do you propose to tell the Merchant Venturers of Col, for example, when you demand access to their confidential archive? What would be your explanation?”

“I would assume such a request, with the authority of the Archmage behind it, would need no explanation.” Kalion clearly thought the question nonsensical.

Planir nodded, pursing his lips. “And then, how would you counter the subsequent flocks of rumors taking flight clear across the Old Empire and probably right through the Great Forest and into Solura as well. That some secret plot is being hatched among all powerful wizards, hidden among the enchanted mists of their island city, guarded as they are by spell-wrought demons? What would you give me better odds upon; a plan to foist a mage-born King on to the throne of Lescar or some scheme to take control of, say, the Aldabreshi diamond trade?”

Kalion looked at the Archmage, puzzlement wrinkling his pudgy brow.

“Never underestimate the power of ignorant people in sufficiently large numbers, Hearth-Master,” said Planir crisply. “When people do not know the reason for something, they will supply their own. I have no intention of telling anyone outside the Council and our other contacts about the dangers the eastern lands might be facing.”

“We have to do something.” Kalion raised one hand in an impotent gesture of frustration. “I have spent both halves of the last season trying to come up with an application of the elements to this cursed aetheric gimmickry and I might as well be trying to catch the moon’s reflection with a spoon.”

Planir permitted himself a slight smile at the nursery tale image. “Your efforts may not have been rewarded but that in itself adds significantly to our knowledge. If you, the senior Hearth-Master, with one of the strongest affinities on record, cannot find an application of fire in the aetheric methods of kindling flame, no one can.”

His tone was entirely sincere and Kalion acknowledged the truth of this with a grunt. “That’s all very well, Archmage, but if we can’t counter these unholy magicians, the threat they pose becomes even greater.”

“We will find the means to combat them with their own methods,” Planir said firmly. “If we mages cannot use these incantations to access this aetheric power, whatever it might be, there are intelligent, trustworthy minds among the non-mage-born that we can enlist. The answers are there to be found and I am confident many of them are somehow carried in these artifacts from the end of the Empire. There are many secrets held in these dreams.”

“How are you to reach them?” Kalion looked at him, unsmiling. “Your record to date is none too reassuring, Archmage. Tell me, has that girl from Vanam recovered her senses yet? Sending her into such a deep sleep may well have given her dreams holding all we could wish to know, but as long as she remains comatose, we cannot tell.”

Planir’s expression remained unchanged. “We are hopeful that we will find a means to revive her. The indications are promising and she remains healthy in her sleep, thus far.”

“So your quest for knowledge is split now; searching for a means to control aetheric magic, on the one hand, and the means to cure those whose wits unravel when your experiments go wrong, on the other.” Kalion’s tone was unforgiving. “Surely that makes it more urgent to find the relevant material more speedily?”

“I think that haste has played its own significant part in those few tragedies that you are, of course, quite right to remind me about.” Planir rose and refilled his glass. “More cordial?”

Kalion left his own drink untouched. “So you are going to continue as you are? Do my concerns count for nothing? What of the Council?”

Planir relaxed against the deep crimson of the leather upholstery and smiled reassuringly.

“Until the Elietimm make an overt move, either against ourselves or in attempting to establish a presence on the mainland, the greatest danger from aetheric magic stems from our attempts to wield it with imprecise knowledge. Our most complete information, such as it is, has come from the dreams of those students we have recruited from the Universities of Vanam and Col, and most particularly from those who are most closely matched, as far as we can estimate, to the original owners of the artifacts. I am confident the Council will understand that this is a long, drawn-out process. We know it takes time for the dreams to assert themselves and we have more artifacts than we have suitable volunteers for this project, since we cannot, by definition, use mages. We are doing all we can to interest suitable scholars, but any overt recruitment will only start more rumors, probably about ambitious wizards seducing innocents into arcane rituals, probably as a cover for unbridled carnality, knowing the sort of things cloistered academics dream up about us.”

Kalion could not restrain a bark of laughter at that remark. “That’s all very well, Archmage, but—”

Planir raised a hand. “You cannot deny that such things have happened in the past, Kalion. Remember the stories that are still told about Lauder the Benefactor. Think how much worse they would be if the mages of the day had not managed to conceal his worst excesses.”

Kalion shuddered with unfeigned horror and Planir continued before the stout wizard regained his composure.

“You have spent long hours in the Council, Kalion, making a very persuasive case that the time has come for wizardry to take a role in the wider world. I agree with you; you know that. Therefore, I would hate to see some ill-judged move as we attempt to deal with this puzzle of the Elietimm lead to a renewal of all the old prejudices and fears that drove some of my predecessors to a frankly excessive insularity.”

The Hearth-Master sighed. “There was enough of that when we were apprentices, wasn’t there? When the Cloud-Master of New Hall had to clear up that mess Azazir and his clique made with the weather in Caladhria.”

Planir nodded and got to his feet. “I appreciate your concerns, Kalion, I really do, but you have to understand I have a great many pots in the hearth at once. If one boils over, all the alchemy’s ruined.”

Kalion looked up. “I’ve always said earth mages shouldn’t play with fire,” he commented with a touch of heavy-handed humor.

“Do come and see me if you feel you need to.” Planir left the room without ceremony and strode back through Hadrumal to his own domain, high in an ancient tower overlooking the roofs of the various Halls, old and new, strung out along the long high road as it wound down to the harbor. He did not appear to be hurrying, but he covered the distance more rapidly than most would have done. The Archmage climbed the dark oaken stairs two and three at a time without any excessive effort and slammed the heavy door of his study back without preamble. A young man leaped to his feet, very nearly upsetting the parchment-covered desk he had been working at and only just managing to save a broad silver bowl from flying headlong. An amber gleam faded from the swirling waters within it.

“Where’s D’Olbriot’s man, Usara?” demanded Planir, his eyes gleaming. “More to the point, where’s that cursed sword?”

“I don’t know.” The pale mage’s voice was under control but he couldn’t restrain the tide of color that swept up from his ink-stained collar to shine through his sparse hair.

“If you can’t manage the scrying, get Shannet to do it. It’s her specialism.” Planir’s tone was unforgiving.

“I can’t see how that would help; she doesn’t know the man anymore than I do and we don’t have any of his possessions to give us a focus. At least I met him on the boat coming back from the ocean last year,” said Usara defiantly.

“We need to find him, ’Sar, and fast!” Planir’s warning was unmistakable.

“I know.” The younger man squared his rather thin shoulders. “I bespoke Shiv a while ago and he’s persuaded Mellitha to call in any favor that might give them a lead. It’ll cost her a lot of goodwill but she’s confident she should get a result.”

The Archmage scowled. “Spending her goodwill means costing me coin. At least tell me she’s got the sense not to make it mage business? If people start thinking of her as a wizard instead of a tax-contractor she’s no use to us anymore.”

“Give her some credit. By the way, there’s a letter here for you, came in with one of the ships from Col.” Usara turned to a side-table and held out a thick package with several ornate seals. “That’s the D’Olbriot crest, isn’t it?”

“Yes, thank you, ’Sar, I think it might very well be.” Planir looked at the letter for a long moment and groaned with exasperation, tapping the creamy parchment against one palm. “So what do I tell the good Sieur? How exactly do I explain to him that we’ve lost his heirloom sword and have no idea where it has got to?”

“I think he might be a little more concerned about the loss of his sworn man.” Usara avoided Planir’s eyes but his voice held a mild rebuke.

“That too.” Planir granted him a perfunctory nod. “When does the ship sail? Do you know if they’re expecting a reply?”

“They are,” confirmed Usara. “The courier said he had authority to hold the vessel for as long as you needed.”

“I think I’ll write to Camarl,” Planir said thoughtfully. “He has the Sieur’s ear and can be trusted to be discreet. Tell me—”

His question was lost as the studded door swung open to crash against its hinges. A sharp-faced old man leaned against the door jamb and heaved a rattling sigh.

“Get me a drink, ’Sar, and clear away some of those bloody papers so I can sit down.”

“Good morning, Cloud-Master Otrick. May I say how delighted I am that you honor us with your company.” Planir’s tone was sarcastic but he offered the old man his arm while Usara hastily grabbed a sheaf of documents off a chair.

“Don’t get lippy with me, you jumped-up coal-heaver, or I’ll turn you into a rabbit. Thank you, ’Sar.”

Otrick drained the glass of white brandy and coughed with a penetration that rang a faint echo from Usara’s scrying bowl. The deeply carved lines in his face told of a long life, lived hard but his vivid blue eyes were as alert as either of the men in the room.

“So, what’s the latest?” demanded the old wizard.

“If we don’t come up with some results and fast, I’m going to be spending some long evenings persuading Council members not to back Kalion’s demands for an all-out assault on every library with more than three books to its catalogue,” Planir said grimly.

“For a man who wants to see wizardry raised to a position of influence, he doesn’t seem too clear on the consequences of that, does he?” Otrick shook his head in disgust. “Perhaps we should just send an envoy to the Elietimm: ‘Please don’t attack us just yet; you see, we have no idea how to combat your magic and that really wouldn’t be fair, would it?’ ”

“I can think of a few others who would be interested to learn that the fabled Archmage isn’t omniscient,” commented Usara, glancing through his documents. “Summertime ambitions in Lescar and parts of Ensaimin could get distinctly out of hand.”

“I’d like Kalion to come up with that idea for himself,” Planir mused. “Do you think you could accidentally encounter Allin, that apprentice of the Hearth-Master’s, ’Sar?”

“Do you mean the mouthy piece from Selerima with the unlikely hair or that timid little lass from Lescar with the fire affinity?” Usara looked up for a moment.

“The latter,” confirmed Planir. “She’ll answer any questions Kalion puts to her, I’d imagine.”

“I’m surprised Kalion lets her associate with the likes of you, ’Sar,” Otrick laughed suggestively.

Usara ignored the old wizard. “I’ll discuss a few minor worries with her,” he said to Planir. “By the time she’s carried them back to Kalion and he’s had a chance to think it all through I imagine he’ll see the way the birds are flying well enough.”

Otrick growled something obscene under his breath and held out his glass to Usara.

“So how are your experiments going, ’Sar? What wonders of aetheric mystery have your sad little collection of bookworms managed today?”

Usara refilled the glass, his hand steady despite a faint tint rising on his high cheekbones at Otrick’s words. “I am pleased to report, Cloud-Master, that we now have the incantations perfected to send a message clear across the island.”

Otrick’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “And that must be all of six leagues!”

“I don’t think sarcasm is particularly helpful, old man.” Planir reached for the brandy himself, his tone a little acid. “Unless you have something constructive to follow it, that is?”

Otrick frowned and his face became serious, his angular features forbidding. “We are agreed that we need people with knowledge of aetheric enchantments to combat the Elietimm— when, mark you, when, not if—they decide that the mainland offers more than those wind-scoured islands of theirs. I know you’re working those scholars hard, Usara, and yes, some means for non-mage-born to communicate over distance could be vital, especially if it comes to a full-scale war. The thing is, we know these ancient sorcerers could do so much more; finding a path, confusing pursuit, taking information out of hostile minds—”

“Do you teach goodwives to spin their distaffs in your spare time, Otrick?” Planir inquired. “We know all this.”

“All I know is we need to find out how this magic works, the basis of it. Only then can we work out how to stop the bastards.” Usara’s shoulders drooped and weariness clouded his face.

“The ancients who sailed to Kel Ar’Ayen knew. That’s what they called that colony of theirs, that much I can tell you.” Otrick leaned forward in his chair, his eyes bright sapphire. “They knew enough to disrupt the basis for aetheric magic so thoroughly that the Elietimm have been chained to their barren rocks for thirty generations or more. They must have been masters of it; they’d been using this mysterious power to stitch the Empire together across thousands of leagues for twenty generations! They would hardly have sent people clear across the ocean without the very best magical support they could muster. We need to know what they knew, so let’s find this colony of theirs and see if they left any records, any clues, some helpful tome covering aetheric magic right from its first principles, whatever there might be!”

Planir drew a sudden breath and leaned back in his tall chair, long fingers laced together in front of his smoothly shaven jaw. “You might have an idea worth study there, Cloud-Master.”

“You mean I’ve got something else to try and tease out of this ever increasing tangle of half-remembered dreams and reveries,” groaned Usara.

“It can’t be that difficult.” Otrick’s tone was dismissive.

“Would you care to work out the rules for White Raven, working from a set with half the pieces missing and no board?” the younger mage retorted with spirit.

“Who can we spare for a search of the Archives?” demanded Planir abruptly. “We’ll start by collating all the references to this lost colony in the existing record; that should give you some idea which thread to pull to unravel the weave, ’Sar.”

“Casuel Devoir,” Usara replied almost before Planir had finished speaking. “He has got the talents for it, Misaen only knows, and it’ll keep him out of my hair for a good long while with any luck.”

“He’s a real kiss-breeches, that one, isn’t he?” commented Otrick contemptuously. “Still, he has an eye for detail, I’ll give him that. So where are the best records likely to be held?”

“I’ve been thinking about sending a mage to wait upon Messire D’Olbriot,” Planir said thoughtfully. “Devoir’s Tormalin born, isn’t he? He’ll know the steps of the dances there well enough to be a credible choice for an envoy and he could make a discreet survey of any contemporary records, while he was there.”

“It’ll be a long job.” Usara shook his head.

“Well, if the Elietimm turn up before we’ve discovered some more elegant way of frustrating their magic, we’ll just have to blast them into the Otherworld with traditional fire and flood.” The old wizard grinned like a death’s head.

“That would certainly give Kalion something useful to do,” remarked Planir dryly.

The Barracoons, Magistrates’ House of Correction, Relshaz, 30th of Aft-Spring

I can’t say I woke up; rather the chaos inside my skull finally subsided enough for me to become aware of my surroundings and myself again. Once I had the measure of it all, I almost wished I hadn’t bothered.

My arms and legs ached as if I’d been trampled by a dray team and for one heart-stopping moment I thought I couldn’t move any of my limbs. The frozen panic of that idea eased when I found I could just about force my sword hand toward my eyes but it felt as if I were drowning in treacle, it took so much effort, so I gave it up once I had seen my fingers with my own eyes.

That wasn’t particularly easy either; blood, mud or both was thickly smeared across my face and my eyelids pulled painfully at my lashes as I forced them open. I blinked to try and clear the worst but it did little good. To my feeble annoyance an unbidden tear of frustration escaped me, and I winced as it stung a raw graze across the bridge of my nose. That at least did not seem to have been broken again and I managed to mumble a rather incoherent blessing to Dastennin for that minor mercy. If my nose had been broken I would probably have suffocated on my own blood, never to waken.

Insidious fears came creeping out of the back of my mind. How had I come to collapse like that? Was this falling-sickness? There wasn’t any history of it in my family, not that I knew of, but you never could tell. Perhaps that Elietimm enchanter rampaging through my mind had done some damage that was only now becoming apparent. Was this the start of some awful disease; was I going to lose my legs, my sight, my wits, end up drooling into my gruel like the old man who had lived with his daughter at the end of our street, worms eating away his brain? Was I going mad?

I gradually became aware that I was lying face down on a dirt floor, coarse straw pricking painfully into my naked skin. This did not augur well. I drew a deep breath, preparing to try and get myself to my hands and knees, but the stench of the place seized me by the throat: a potent mix of old urine, rank sweat, rotting food and soiled straw. I was racked by merciless coughing until I retched up a sour mouthful of bile. That started such vicious cramps in my gut, they would have floored me if I hadn’t already had my nose in the ratshit.

I had taken an unholy beating; that much was becoming apparent. Who had done it, and, in Dast’s name, why? I lay in the filth, wished helplessly for some water and waited for the fire in my lungs to subside, the iron constriction around my chest to ease. In the meantime, I tried to lash my debilitated wits into action to at least make sense of the sounds around me, since that took no effort that could cause me more pain.

There was a low murmur of voices, mostly male, some that could either be lads or women. A bark of rapid Relshazri came from somewhere and caused a shuffle of bare feet on the earth and straw of the floor. Someone laughed, a vicious cackle and leather whistled and snapped on naked skin, the crack followed by a strangled whimper. Whoever was laughing carried on merrily, clearly having the whip hand in more ways than one. Somewhere at a little distance, an argument erupted, the words lost in snarls and obscenities. Fists smacked on flesh and a surge of encouragement from all sides urged the combatants on until a metal door clanged and booted feet stamped in to break up the brawl. I opened my eyes and squinted at the figures silhouetted against the meager light from a grille set high in a wall, watching as clubs forced the fighters apart, landing indiscriminate blows on any of the cowering, filthy bodies within reach, just for good measure.

I was in a lock-up. That was better than being in an Elietimm cell or at the mercy of Relshazri street robbers, I was forced to conclude, but how in the name of all that’s holy had I got here? I forced myself to try and knit my wits back together; I’d collapsed for some reason I couldn’t guess at and the implications of that were enough to start shivers running up and down my spine like blackbeetles. Given the place I was in, who knows, it could have been actual blackbeetles. I forced myself to concentrate, no easy task given my exhaustion and the multitude of aches distracting me.

“You’re a Tormalin, a sworn man; get a grip on yourself,” I berated myself silently. “Lying in a heap of filth feeling sorry for yourself will get you nowhere.”

If I’d been found collapsed on the street, some kind citizen could have rung the Watch bell on me, couldn’t they? If that had happened, the Watch would most likely assume I was drunk. From what I’d seen of Relshaz, it seemed to be a city where soaks would probably be left where they lay, but if I’d been blocking some wealthy man’s gate perhaps the Watch would have dumped me in a cell to sober up. All this sounded reasonable enough, but what had I done to deserve a kicking like this? I narrowed my eyes with some effort and deciphered the pattern of boot nails on my forearm. I had hardly been in a state to stand, let alone fight back, so why beat me even further senseless?

A groan escaped me. I shut my eyes, black despair threatening, despite all my efforts to fight it. My head swam and, as I felt myself slipping back to the shades, I didn’t even try to fight it.

Waking again, briefly, I saw faint stars dotting the midnight blue of the sky as the lesser moon rode high, alone and unreachable behind the stark black bars of the window grille. Chilled to the bone but too stiff to move, even assuming there would have been anywhere to go for warmth, I stared hungrily at the distant lights until my eyes slid shut once more.

“Ryshad Tathel!”

The sound of my own name, bellowed in a harsh Relshazri accent, stung me to life more effectively than any lash.

My first attempt at reply died on my dry tongue and cracked lips. I swallowed, winced at the truly foul taste in my mouth and coughed, gasping as all my bruises awoke at once and fought to outdo each other with stabs of agony.

“Here!” I managed to croak, getting painfully to my feet.

“This way.”

I scrubbed hastily at my face to clear my vision and blinked at a burly man in a coarse, stained livery who was standing in a doorway. Morning light came through the grille in the wall and showed me a wide room, stone walls and sloping floor carrying the worst of the ordure to an open drain. The stench was enough to choke a cat. Men were slumped against the walls, some sleeping on jealously hoarded piles of straw, most stripped, a few in rags and all with wounds and bruises in varying stages of healing. If I looked like any of them, I was in a worse state than I had realized.

“Come on, move!” The guard growled and gestured menacingly with a short stave. I didn’t need telling again and followed him meekly, stumbling on knees weak as wet wool, determined not to give him the excuse to hit me that he was clearly looking for.

He crossed a narrow courtyard and shoved me into a stark, whitewashed room, closing the door behind him and leaning on it, curiosity alive among the boils on his face as he stared greedily at my visitor.

“Good morning, Ryshad.”

Mellitha was seated on a crude bench, her skirts gathered neatly around her ankles, no lace on her petticoats today and stout boots laced against the filth underfoot. She had a closely woven and lidded reed basket beside her and looked entirely at her ease.

“Good morning, my lady.” I lifted my chin and ignored the fact that I was standing there with my stones swinging in the breeze. At least the muck on my face would conceal any blushes that might escape me.

“Do sit down. Now, what in Trimon’s name do you think you were doing?” Anger sparked in her stormy gray eyes as she spoke in a rapid Toremal dialect, which evidently left the guard struggling to keep up.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said flatly.

Faint puzzlement deepened the laughter lines around her eyes.

“The last thing I remember is passing out in a street in the metalsmiths’ quarter,” I hissed. “What got me here?”

“The fact that you attempted to steal a valuable antique arm-ring from an antiquarian’s salesroom.” Mellitha shook her head, as if not quite believing it herself. “Apparently you simply walked in, picked it up and tried to leave. When the man tried to stop you, you fought with him but by then his assistant had sent for the Watch. It took five of them to subdue you, apparently. How badly are you hurt.”

“No bones broken,” I was glad to realize this as I answered. “Whoever gave me a beating knew just what they were doing.”

Mellitha surveyed my various bruises and lacerations and then reached into her basket.

“Yarrow ointment,” she said crisply, pressing a small pot into my hand.

I ignored it. “This makes no sense. I wouldn’t try and rob someone in broad daylight. Why should I when Shiv’s got a bag of coin heavy enough to buy up whatever he fancies?”

“There has to be an explanation.” Mellitha looked at me speculatively. “What about the Elietimm? They might want you off the board for some reason. You’ve some experience of them attacking your mind; could this be one of their tricks?”

I shook my head decisively before stopping to think properly about what she was suggesting.

“No,” I said slowly after a long moment. “The Ice Islanders, that was definitely an assault from outside, someone forcing their way into your head and seizing your wits. This was—” I shrugged. “This was just losing myself, everything coming apart at the seams—” I shook involuntarily at the horror of the memory and Mellitha reached out to take my hand, leaning forward.

“It’s all right; I’m here now.” Her words were those of a mother soothing away a nightmare, but her grip was strong and reassuring, somehow passing me a measure of strength.

“How did you find me?” I managed to ask.

“Not easily.” A shade of a smile lightened the concern in her eyes.

“How soon can you get me out?” I was starting to get a grip on the essentials at last.

“I can’t,” said Mellitha grimly. “Not today, anyway.”

I stared at her. “You must know who to pay off, surely?”

“It’s not as simple as that.” Irritation colored her voice. “We have elections at the next greater full moon; several of the candidates have been making a lot of noise about excessive profiteering by the sitting magistrates, so no one’s taking so much as a consideration until the votes are counted.”

“You’re telling me an elected official doesn’t want to take a bribe?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Don’t Relshazri dogs eat free sausage? Just offer more money; Messire will honor the debt.”

“It simply isn’t a question of money these days.” Mellitha’s tone was sharp. “Despite what you Tormalin may think, our elections do sometimes produce dedicated and honest magistrates. We certainly find it preferable to nailing everyone into place with clientship and patronage for the benefit of those lucky enough to born to the right parents. That’s one thing I do think the Rationalists have got right.”

“I’m sorry.” I shut my eyes for a moment to get myself in hand. Just for the present Mellitha was the only help I had and it would do me no good at all to alienate her. What was I thinking, losing my grip like this? “So, what is going to happen to me?”

“You’ll be sold at the open slave auction, the day after tomorrow.” Mellitha lifted the lid on her basket. “Now, I have got some clothes for you and some food and water. I’ve paid the jailer to get you into a better cell as well. There’s some coin inside the cheese, in case you need to pay anyone else off or buy food before I can send more in to you. Now, where’s the salve? Oh, yes, I gave it to you…” She continued talking but her words faded to a meaningless jumble as I stared at the opposite wall. This is probably going to seem really stupid, but I hadn’t even given a thought to the trade that is, after all, one of the principle foundations of Relshazri wealth: the buying and selling of slaves.

We don’t trade in slaves in Tormalin, not for the last handful of generations; we’ve progressed beyond such things. Caladhrian Lords, on the other hand, are only too happy to take a bond against a debtor’s body and even against his wife’s and children’s, in some cases. Defaulters can wake one morning to find themselves being measured for an iron collar and either sold to an erstwhile neighbor to work the fields or stumbling down the road to Relshaz, depending on the prices. Lescari Dukes are often in the market for a couple of hundred warm bodies, trying to get a quick crop of wine or grain out of any land that has escaped the fighting for a couple of seasons to sell for sound Tormalin Crowns or Caladhrian Stars. On the other side of the coin, they’re only too happy to recoup some of their costs at the end of the fighting seasons by selling off any prisoners they’ve managed to seize, the poor bastards who don’t have relatives willing or wealthy enough to pay a ransom. Relshaz takes them all and sells them on at a profit, usually to the Aldabreshi where by all accounts they live a few wretched years chained in a galley or worked to death on some island, Trimon only knows where.

“You have got to pay whatever it takes to get me out at the sale,” I broke in on Mellitha’s detailed explanation of her agreement with the jailer.

“Of course, I’ll do my very best—” she began, a little affronted.

“Bid whatever you need to,” I insisted. “Messire will repay you, trust me.”

“Of course. Try not to worry. Once you’re out of here, we can sort out what happened, find some answers.” Mellitha sounded just like my mother, consoling me over a lost hound-puppy. I wasn’t reassured. That hadn’t turned out at all well either; the poor little scrap had gone scavenging around the crab-boats, fallen into the harbor and drowned.

The guard snapped something at Mellitha and she responded with a curt rebuke. She still got to her feet however, pressing a bundle into my arms. “Just keep out of trouble in here and we’ll get you out at the sale.”

“See if Shiv has any ideas,” I called over my shoulder as the guard hustled me out with his stave jabbing painfully into my kidneys.

The rank-smelling turnkey led me through a couple of courtyards to a different wing of the lock-up. Mellitha’s coin had bought me a pallet lumpily stuffed with coarse husks in a wooden-floored, second-story room with a couple of handful others. I sat down carefully, my back to the wall, and unwrapped the bundle, the outermost layer proving to be a plain linen shirt and a pair of old breeches. Judging from the garb of my companions that was evidently the most clothing anyone here was allowed. A threadbare towel was rolled around a leather water bottle, some fresh bread and a creamy yellow cheese. The sharp scent made me realize I was actually starting to feel a little hungry again. I dampened the corner of the towel and cleaned the worst of the filth from my hands and face but gave up on the rest; the water would be more valuable in keeping me from the risk of prison fever lurking in whatever the turnkeys gave us to drink. Eating half of the bread put more heart into me and I certainly felt less vulnerable with some clothes on.

A few of the others in the long room were staring with a greater or lesser degree of curiosity. I met their gazes without a challenge but with enough intensity to make them drop their eyes first. Once I was satisfied that I was unobserved, I discreetly removed the wax-paper package molded into the cheese and tucked it down the front of my breeches. That done, I made my own survey of my fellow would-be slaves, making sure I didn’t catch anyone’s eye or look at any one of them for too long. The last thing I wanted was to get myself into a fight. The other men were slumped on their pallets or staring idly out of the barred window; most were a little older than myself, well enough fed, and about half had the weathered faces of an outdoor life. No one was talking so I had no means of identifying their origins, but since I was only going to be here for a short while I didn’t see any benefit in striking up a conversation with anyone.

A couple of younger men were coughing persistently, a soft but repetitive sound that was already becoming tiresome. It looked as if they had been forced to the far end of the cell, my pallet and another vacant place separating them from the other prisoners. I glanced at them and wondered how far over I could move myself before my neighbor on the other side would object.

“Sit tight, be patient and Mellitha will get you out,” I told myself sternly. If I kept myself to myself and didn’t share a cup or anything, I shouldn’t be at too much risk of contagion.

To my considerable surprise only the second chime of the day came ringing in through the unglazed window, from a timepiece quite close by, from the sound of it. I sighed; it was evidently going to be a long and tedious couple of days.

Noon came and went, a shower of rain pattered softly down on the roof tiles and a different turnkey appeared with a tray of wooden bowls of barley-meal, all unpleasantly crusted with the remains of old meals and with flies hovering eagerly above them. I left mine untouched, soothing my growling stomach with a little more bread.

“Hungry’s better than risking the squits,” I advised myself firmly. Besides, the less I ate, the less I would have to visit the reeking crocks standing against the far wall; one for excrement to sell for manure, one for urine to sell for bleach, I assumed wryly. Trust the Relshazri to find a way of turning coin from every situation.

That was about the most humorous aspect of the day. The afternoon’s entertainment came when we were herded to the window by a couple of guards with whips in order to watch a man being garrotted in the courtyard below. It took ten men to drag the heavy-set criminal out and lash him to the execution frame; he screamed obscenities at them until a leather gag stopped his mouth. At that point tears began to stream down his brutish face, already red and suffused with blood even before the guards drew lots to see who would turn the ratchet to crush the sad bastard’s throat.

I didn’t bother watching; there are no more lessons I can learn by seeing men die. Instead I looked at the other windows in the tall blocks ranged around the courtyard. The bottommost levels were evidently cells of the kind I’d woken up in; gaunt and filthy faces with matted hair were pressed to the bars, too many all too eager to see the spectacle. At the higher levels, men and women in decent garb looked down, some reluctantly, some with horrified fascination. I wondered how much they were paying for decent food and cleanliness; probably more than they would had they been lodging in the costliest inn the city boasted.

As soon as the guards allowed us, I returned to my pallet.

“What did he do?” one of the others asked, rubbing a hand over his ashen face.

The guard scowled. “Raped and murdered little girls.”

I was pleased to see everyone in the room grimace or spit with honest revulsion; perhaps it would be safe to risk going to sleep in here after all.

By the time evening came I was bored out of my mind. I’d tried doing some basic stretches to loosen up my bruised limbs but that attracted everyone’s attention, so I soon stopped. I ate the rest of the bread and cheese, reasoning it would probably be stolen while I slept if I didn’t. The window faced west, so we caught the last of the sunlight as the rain clouds passed and I watched the black shadows of the bars slowly crawl across the chipped and stained plaster as I dozed. I can’t have gone to sleep so early since the summer evenings when my mother would herd Mistal, Kitria and myself to our beds as we all protested that it was still light and it wasn’t fair, why were Hansey and Ridner allowed to stay up?

I woke in the dawn cool of the following morning with a nagging sense that something was not quite right. With a sudden shock I realized the coughing had stopped. Sitting sharply upright, I looked over to see one of the sick men lying rigid and silent, his glazed eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, lips blackened in an ashen face. His companion was prostrate opposite, skin pale and tainted with blue, his chest still moving slightly, a pulse hammering in his neck as the breath bubbled moistly in his lungs.

My abrupt movement had woken a couple of the others; one went to hammer on the door and bellow for the turnkey. When two surly jailers arrived, they dragged the corpse and the sick man away, treating both with equal indifference and leaving the stained pallets behind. I shuddered and hoped that no one had died on mine recently, certainly not of anything contagious.

If anything, that day was harder to endure than the first. I’ve never taken well to inactivity and although I continued to tell myself not to let it rile me—that Dastennin sends fish to the patient, anyway, that I’d been in worse places than this—it was all wearing a little thin by the end of the day. The only worse place I could think of was the Elietimm dungeon and at least I’d had people I could talk to in there, Aiten’s support, Shiv’s magic and Livak’s talents with locks as a basis for plans for escape. That started me thinking about the others, hoping they had some plan to secure my purchase at the auction, worrying in case the Elietimm had made some move while I was stuck in here. I finally concluded that what I hated most about my current situation was not the place I found myself in but the fact that I was having to rely on other people to get me out. That realization did nothing to improve my mood.

I was trying to remember all the verses to one of those interminable Soluran ballads about some brainless noble rescuing an idiot girl with more hair than wit when the door swung open to reveal a couple of guards and a well-dressed man with a ledger under one arm and in the other hand a pomander that he kept lifted to his nostrils. I envied him that more than his well-polished boots. The bookkeeper looked around the room and then started with the closest to the door, which happened to be me. Looking me up and down, he nodded to the nearest guard.

“Strip him.”

I ripped off my shirt and breeches myself, giving the guard a warning glare and trying to tuck Mellitha’s coin under the clothes unseen. The man with the pomander scrutinized me closely from head to toe and then nodded again; this time the guard seized my jaw and held it down so the man could see my teeth. The turnkey’s hand stank and I swallowed against an urge to gag, opening my mouth wide so the bastard wouldn’t have a reason to put a filthy finger in my mouth. If he had I’d probably have bitten it off, whatever it cost me.

The clerk counted my teeth, nodded, made a note in his ledger and then looked me in the eye.

“Do you have any skills?” he asked in passable Tormalin.

I wondered quickly what to say for the best; I didn’t want to push my price up too high for Mellitha, but equally I didn’t fancy being sold as part of a yoke of ten field slaves to the first bidder.

“Swordsman,” I said firmly.

He shrugged, made another note and moved on to the next man. I won a warning glare from the turnkey as I reached for my clothes, so I simply sat down to wait and see what would happen next, listening as the bookkeeper went around the room. It seemed I was in the company of a couple of dockers, a mercer’s runner, a clerk, two rent collectors, a potter and a stockman. Dastennin only knows how they had ended up here. With this interrogation complete, we were herded, still naked, out of our cell and down to the end of a long line of other unfortunates waiting to enter a long, low building at the far end of the compound. A second line was forming, evidently drawn from the female cells, which made the wait a little less tedious. I felt sorry for some of the women, probably here through no fault of their own, vainly trying to cover their nakedness with hands and hair, often with children clinging to their thighs, eyes hollow with distress. Others had clearly been through this before, challenging the men with bold stares, pointing and giggling, hand gestures leaving little of their conversation to the imagination. One bold piece caught my eye and gave me a long, slow wink, but I caught sight of the brand on her palm marking her as a whore who stole from her customers so she didn’t get a response from me.

The line moved on. We were shoved through a door by guards with ungentle clubs. I found myself facing a long, deep bath, for all the world like the one on Messire’s hill country estate that they use for washing the sheep. The guards were using their staves like shepherd’s staffs, so I jumped in rather than wait to be pushed. The water was scummy and foul with soiled straw but I didn’t care, scrubbing at myself to get the worst of the filth off, ignoring the sting of my cuts and grazes that were now joined by numerous bites from nameless vermin. Emerging at the far end, a man in a long tunic forced me on to a bench with impersonal hands and took a pair of clippers to my head. All in all, I now had a fair idea of what it felt like to be a ram being readied for market.

The air was cold on my shorn scalp as we were herded through another door. It was one way of getting a haircut for free, but on balance I would rather have paid the coin to a barber and had a decent shave into the bargain. I rubbed a hand over the bristles on my chin, now at the aggravating stage where they were both sharp and itchy, and I doubted my own mother would recognize me at that moment.

Stock brought down off the mountains for sale at home gets cleaned if it’s lucky, then it gets weighed while the water in the wool is still adding to the burden. The Relshazri evidently worked the same way; this line moved slowly toward the kind of balance I was used to see weighing sacks on at the harbor side. A couple of men were manhandling the hefty bullion weights on and off the scales while another checked the arithmetic, consulted a ledger and scrawled something on to labels, which were tied around the neck of each piece of merchandise. I tried to squint at mine but it was tied too short, tucked under my chin. For some reason I found that irritating me more than anything else that had happened so far.

On the way back to our cell a guard handed me a bundle which proved to come from Mellitha. It had obviously been opened but she’d put in enough bread and cheese to leave me a decent meal after the guards had taken what they wanted. That was the highlight of the day; my money had vanished from my pallet and, as the sun faded from the window, I found myself struggling to keep my spirits up. Despite all my efforts to distance myself from events I had no hope of controlling, I could not help feeling humiliated. It wasn’t the nakedness, the impersonal handling like a piece of merchandise. It was the way my mind had been invaded again.

Something had been done to me to make me lose my senses, to make me do something so out of character and worse it was something I couldn’t even remember. If I’d known who to blame, I could at least have been angry with them, but I couldn’t even be certain about that. Was it the Elietimm? If so, what were they trying to achieve? As I wondered, I began to worry about it happening again, despite all my determination to stay calm. Losing control like that, my wits lost in the shades, my body at the mercy of whoever might be passing, the danger of being robbed, even killed; I found myself shaking at the thought and with a real effort forced myself to drive it out of my mind.

Fighting sleep as the night darkened outside the bars, I tasted faint salt on the breeze, reminding me of home. How was I going to explain this to Messire? However I told the tale, I was going to look incompetent. I’ve never favored explanations for failing in a duty that begin “I couldn’t help it but…” and frustration welled up in me as I tried in vain to come up with something better. My pride was going to take a worse beating than my body when I had to make my report. My hopes of making the step from sworn man to chosen man would fall right down the privy, I realized gloomily.

I looked out at the stars. Livak was a girl who could count the beans in a handful; she wouldn’t blame me for what had happened but I still didn’t like the idea of looking such a masquerade fool in front of her. I cursed under my breath and sighed, looking in vain for the first glimmer of dawn lightening the sky. This would never have happened to me if those cursed wizards hadn’t dragged Messire into their half-witted schemes; I scowled into the darkness. Surely Shiv, Mellitha and Viltred could have come up with some way of getting me out of here? If you believed any of the ballads that kept minstrels fed, couldn’t wizards do things like walking themselves through walls, turning things invisible, sending guards to sleep? What were they doing while I was stuck in here, at risk of anything from a ramming up the arse to jail fever?

“There’s no more point in them magicking you away than there is in you finding a way to break out of here,” I told myself sternly. “Think sense, fool. The Watch would have the ferries tied up and be turning the city inside out before we’d gone around the chimes.”

I awoke with a sudden start to find guards busily rousting us all to our feet, herding us down the stairs to the courtyard where I saw manacles were to be clamped around our wrists, a chain threaded through to link us all together. The thought of being chained like a common criminal filled me with sudden rage. Without thinking, I pulled my hands away, cursing. A stinging slap from the guard split my lip. I reached for the bastard, only to be felled by a numbing blow to the meat of my thigh from the blunt end of a stave. The pain of that brought me to my senses. When I could stand, I gritted my teeth and submitted meekly to the fetters.

“Get yourself reined in, imbecile,” I rebuked myself.

“You’ll be out of here by the end of the morning and then you can go looking for the bastard who had you slung in here.”

That idea warmed my blood and I began to take more notice of what was happening, realizing too that the worst of the stiffness from the beating had passed, unnoticed, over those idle couple of days. I found myself behind the clerk as we were marched along a series of foul alleys, the guards laughing and joking, wagers being made as to who would fetch the best price. The sun was barely climbing above the ruddy tiled roofs and we were all glad to move briskly in the morning cool.

“No one knows what to make of you,” the clerk commented, looking back over his shoulder.

I shrugged. “They seem to think you’ll go for a decent weight of coin.”

The man smiled. “Yes, I should do, if the auctioneer gives me a chance to speak for myself. It did the trick last time.”

“You’ve been sold before?” I had no idea what usually happened to slaves and this seemed the ideal time to start learning.

“Twice,” he confirmed. “First owner died and we were all sold to clear his debts; second was only interested in getting a couple of season’s work for a deal with some Aldabreshi warlord.”

“So what happens to you now?”

“If I’m lucky, I’ll go to a decent merchant who’ll let me earn a coin or two at the back gate, so I’ll have something put by to keep me out of the gutter. It won’t be too much longer before I get too old to be worth my bed and bread and they set me free.” The skinny man’s face grew solemn.

The jingling column reached a broad market square with a high platform on one side. We were herded unceremoniously into a pen behind it; to my frustration, I could see none of the crowd. All I could hear was the noise and it sounded as if there was a good turn-out, eager to buy the servants, field workers and laborers who made up most of the early lots.

The sun was riding high in the sky by the time the sale reached the skilled men like myself and my companion. It was hot and airless in the slave pen and I shouldered my way forward eagerly when a lad with a bucket and ladle walked down the lines, dipping stale water into eagerly cupped hands.

“Come on.” A guard unchained the clerk and he stepped eagerly on to the platform.

“I am a clerk and bookkeeper, fluent in Tormalin, Caladhrian and the western Aldabreshi dialects. I am honest and accurate and I have worked in this city for fifteen years; you will get a loyal servant and the benefit of my knowledge and contacts. I know the bronze trade, shipping and exchange, the tax systems of every port from Col to Toremal and can advise on contracts drawn under either Soluran or Tormalin law codes.”

His confident voice rang back from tall buildings on the far side of the square. After a moment’s pause, bidding started briskly. He went for a thousand and five Crowns and judging by his smiles as he came down from the auction block, that was a good price.

My manacles were removed and I walked slowly up the steps, a hollow feeling in my stomach; I hoped swordsmen went for less than bookkeepers as I really didn’t want to be responsible for landing Messire with that kind of debt to a wizard.

The square below me was thronged with people, faces turned up and eager. I looked for Mellitha, fighting the threat of panic as I initially failed to find her. The auctioneer was rattling off something behind me but I ignored him, waiting desperately for the bidding to start so I could get a sight of Mellitha.

The first offer came from a burly man in dark brown and for one moment of complete confusion I thought it was Nyle. A second glance told me I was wrong but he was a similar type and I decided the heavy-set men standing behind him were swords for hire. How keen was he going to be to add me to his stable? For fifty Crowns, not very, it would appear.

Relief flooded me as I heard Mellitha’s clear tones ringing across the heads of the crowd to top the previous bid. She was almost hidden behind a group of giggling girls, who must have simply been there to ogle half-naked men. A hundred and fifty Crowns sounded like a fair opening offer.

My satisfaction was short-lived as Mellitha’s bid was rapidly countered by a stout matron with a vicious nose and at least two hundred Crowns to spend, and then by a fat man in blue velvet whose hand rested on the shoulder of a painted youth in rose silks.

A bid of three hundred Crowns came from the back of the crowd and a chill hand gripped my stones as I saw a black-clad arm raised above a corn-colored head. I looked frantically at Mellitha, not daring to signal to her, not wanting to risk identifying her to the Elietimm. Squinting at the Ice Islander, I saw it was not one of the liveried troop but an older man dressed in a plain Caladhrian style. Gold at his neck showed he wore the gorget of a magic-wielder, however, and I found my breath coming faster and faster as the pace of the bidding increased, soon passing five hundred Crowns. That meant all my savings would have to be offered to Messire when I returned home, if only for honor’s sake.

The goodwife was clearly keen to have me, for reasons I couldn’t imagine, but dropped out first at six hundred, yielding to the sack-arse whose interest in me was only too easy to imagine. I glared in his direction, trying to look as unappealing as possible and, to my intense relief, he dropped out at six hundred and fifty, relief unmistakable in his companion’s face as he draped himself over the older man’s shoulder. The sword-master was still pushing up the price with an air of unconcern and I looked anxiously at Mellitha as the numbers climbed steadily. It was hard to judge her expression at this distance, but her voice remained steady as she countered each offer. A thin man bent down to whisper in her ear and she nodded, raising her bids from ten to twenty-five Crown increments, which rapidly drove the sword-master to retreat at eight hundred, shaking his head with disgust. My heart began thudding in my chest as I realized the man with Mellitha was Shiv, his black hair oiled and curled, a clerk’s tunic flapping around his knees.

The Elietimm was still in the game, topping each offer Mellitha made. I clenched my hand in impotent anguish as the auctioneer kept taking bids from each of them. A sudden stir at the back of the crowd abruptly interrupted the to and fro and I swore under my breath as a flurry of activity hid the Elietimm from me and I lost Mellitha in a surge of bodies.

Shiv moved rapidly across the square and vanished from sight.

“Two thousand Crowns.”

A harshly accented voice bellowed across the market place and silenced every voice there. Half the faces turned to see who had made such an outrageously extravagant bid and the rest looked to see what the auctioneer would do.

Before anyone could react, the bastard slammed his hammer down. “Sold.”

The market erupted in a frenzy of speculation and astonishment, Mellitha was nowhere to be seen in the sudden bustle and I struggled against the pull of the guards, desperate to try and find her neat figure in the throng.

“Move.” A smack across the back of my legs sent me sprawling down the steps and I struggled to find my feet as I was hauled around to the far side of the sales block.

“No, listen—” I shoved the guard in the chest with my manacled hands, fury welling up inside me.

A lash came curling around from behind me, wrapping a coil of fire around my chest, tying my arms to my sides. As I gasped and bent involuntarily, two thick-set men grabbed me by the upper arms and hauled me off.

“Here he is, bought and paid for.”

I looked up to see a bored Relshazri stamping a closely written parchment. He reached over and tore the label from my neck, the cord leaving a stinging weal under my ragged collar. I ignored the pain, staring open-mouthed at the woman clutching my bill of sale.

She was slightly built, with coppery skin and thick black hair with a curious blue tint coiled high on her head. A gauzy mantle of gossamer silk was draped over her shoulders, open at the front to reveal a low-cut dress of emerald silk, closely tailored to outline full breasts and slim hips, all accentuated further with gem studded chains of gold and silver. She looked as if she might be the same age as Livak but it was hard to tell, given the bright paints that decorated her pointed face, which was alight with mischief.

A burly man of about the same age as my father stood next to her, studying me thoughtfully down a hooked nose, eyes keen under thick black brows. He wore a flowing silk tunic of vivid green, belted with a black sash over loose black trousers tied at the ankle. His skin was considerably darker than the woman’s and his long, graying hair and beard were slicked back with aromatic oil; an Emperor’s ransom in jewels glittered in his earrings and around fingers and wrists. A thin-faced man in fine chainmail waited behind the pair, his hands tucked into a jewelled belt bearing two swords and a multitude of daggers. He looked at me with an expression of profound boredom.

Beyond realizing there was absolutely no point in anymore resistance, I couldn’t summon a rational thought. I’d been bought by an Aldabreshi Warlord. Viltred’s piss-poor magic hadn’t shown any of us that, had it?

The man in the mail-shirt gestured toward me and I fell in beside him numbly as the three Aldabreshi walked happily away from the slave sales, the woman hanging on the Warlord’s arm, evidently thanking him, laughing with a delight that started to make me seriously worried. My only consolation was that all the passers-by were so busy staring at the wealth dripping off the exotic couple that they had no time to spare for the mundane sight of a slave in chains stumbling along behind as we walked briskly through the city.

Pausing at a footbridge, I tried to look around for Mellitha or Shiv but that earned me a growl from the man with the swords. I glared back at him but, when he put a hand to a dagger hilt, I dropped my eyes. If he wanted to be cock of the dunghill, I wasn’t about to challenge him, not just yet, anyway, not until I had a blade in my hand. Once I had a sword, we could find out if the reputation of Aldabreshi swordsmen was all it claimed.

We turned between two lofty warehouses and I found myself on a dock facing the open gulf. This was a far cry from the grimy wharves that took in the trade from Caladhria and Lescar; here the quays were swept clean by urchins standing ready with their brooms, pale stone bright in the sunlight. Tall buildings with private apartments above the storerooms looked down on a bustle of activity, laden hand-carts and porters carrying bolts of silk, bales of linen cloth, barrels of wines, small iron-bound caskets closely guarded and larger chests treated with lesser concern.

Massive breakwaters reached far out into the deep waters of the Gulf here, tides or storms no more than a passing inconvenience as the sweeping arms of the great harbor offered sanctuary from the open seas. Immense galleys bobbed gently, tethered to the jetties, their vast holds ready to receive every luxury that Relshaz could offer in return for Aldabreshi gem-stones. Men in flowing silks and stern expressions stood in intense conversation, jewels at waist and wrist catching fire in the sunlight, women with painted faces and seductive dresses chatted and laughed, tall men in shining mail expressionless beside them, each with enough weapons to outfit half a troop of mercenaries. Voices chattered harshly all around me and I realized with a sudden shock that I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying.

I found myself buffeted and shoved but the throng opened itself instantly before my new owner and his lady, anxious faces bowing low in reverence, hands spread wide. The Warlord passed by, aloof, but the woman turned this way and that with a brilliant smile and a negligent scatter of silver from a pouch at her waist. We reached a high-sided ship, one of the few with three banks of oars and a bright green pennant at the masthead bearing an abstract, angular design in broad black strokes. The Warlord paused, spoke rapidly to the swordsman and then escorted the woman up one of the two gangplanks.

I raised my eyebrows at my companion in mute question. He shrugged, slight confusion in his copper-colored eyes and walked down the dockside to the other gangplank. I hesitated for half a breath but a quick glance around made it clear I’d have twenty Aldabreshi after me like dogs on a rat if I tried to run. I sighed and followed obediently, my expression calm but my mind racing around in fruitless circles, like a mouse trapped in a bucket by a squeamish maid. Dastennin help me, how was I going to get out of this?

Once on the deck of the ship, the man with all the blades simply pointed to a space between two bales and turned his back on me. I watched him enter a door at the rear of the vessel and, hardly able to believe that I was left unguarded, I took a couple of rapid steps toward the gangplank. A handful of dark faces immediately turned toward me, sailors and porters all halting in their tasks to stare at me with unfriendly eyes. I returned to my assigned spot and tried to look harmless; just a piece of self-loading cargo, that was me.

A ripple ran through the organized bustle on the quayside and I looked desperately to find its origin, hoping for a sight of Shiv’s dark head or Mellitha’s blue cloak. Instead I saw the crowd parting for a troop of black-liveried men whose yellow heads stood out like beacons among the dark Aldabreshi. My breath came hard and fast as I stood, helpless, watching as they drew closer and closer, a gleam of gold at the neck of the leading man the only touch of color in his garb. Relief swept over me like a breaking fever when they passed the galley. I watched, heart pounding, as they halted at a distant berth; the leader accosted by a slim Aldabreshi woman with russet hair and eloquent, gesturing hands.

A sudden stillness all around me turned my head. I looked warily to see if I had done something to provoke it. I found I was completely ignored as all eyes were fixed on the Warlord, now standing in the prow of the vessel, in conversation with the woman. He took a small withy cage from her and opened it to release a white sea bird, its wings edged with blue and black. Everyone but me seemed to be holding their breath as the bird rose skywards, circled the mast for a moment, then winged its way south on urgent wings.

The stillness was broken by unmistakable cries of pleasure and relief from the Aldabreshi. The deck lurched beneath my feet and I watched in horror as scurrying sailors cast off the chains that held the galley to the dock. With a sudden shout the oars crashed into the dimpled water and I heard the muffled beat of the pace drum beneath my feet. Unregarded now, I moved to the rail, gripping it with desperate hands, finally spotting Shiv’s lanky figure in animated debate with some Aldabreshi in a vivid emerald tunic. I looked hastily for the Elietimm and saw he was moving down the dockside, his men obediently falling into step behind him, heading toward Shiv, who was oblivious, still arguing with the warlord’s man.

“Shiv!” I bellowed frantically but my lone voice was no match for the slap and flurry of the oars, the creak of the timbers and the shouts of the sailors as the massive galley made its careful way out of the busy harbor. The great vessel wheeled around and another ship glided past, hiding the dock from me.

I stood and swore in impotent fury, only registering a peremptory tap on my shoulder when it was repeated. I turned, an oath dying on my lips, to see the man with the swords looking at me with expressionless eyes. He unlocked my manacles and tossed them disdainfully into the sea before turning, beckoning me to follow.