The Swordsman's Oath

Taken from the Family Archive of the

House Tor Alder, Toremal,

from the Records of the 35th Year of

Emperor Aleonne the Gallant

Compliments to Dardier, Esquire Tor Alder, from his brother Caprel, Sieur of that House.

I am pleased to tell you that Carrey continues to recover well from his injuries. This comes to a great relief to his mother and myself, one’s last son being no less precious than any of the others after all. Forgive my feeble attempt at levity, it stems from disordered nerves, I confess it.

We have had no success tracing the brigands who attacked the boy and his companions in such an underhand manner; I suppose that would have been too much to hope for at this late date. Nevertheless I still remain concerned that by all accounts an organized and liveried troop of men could commit such an outrage on the Emperor’s highways and vanish so thoroughly. I can only surmise that their appearance was a calculated disguise, wigs and liveries discarded as soon as their work was done. Perhaps they wanted to throw suspicion on to the Men of the Mountains since they are generally fair of head and visage, but few are trading so far from home at this season so I am not inclined to suspect them.

Carrey’s greatest concern is the loss of his sword, an heirloom admittedly but one of little significance for the House after all. His mother is anxious lest this distress lead to a return of that disorder of sleep and nightmare that plagued the boy last year, and I confess I share her worry. There has been no recurrence of such trouble as he has convalesced and I would not wish to see it visited upon him again. Accordingly, could you alert your sergeants-at-arms and ask them to spread the word among their fellows in other Houses in case the weapon should be offered for sale to any such. If we can recover the blade, so be it but my main concern is to reassure Carrey that no blame for its loss attaches to him. Since you are due to visit us soon, if you could find a way of broaching the subject in private converse with him, I would be most grateful.

The Palace of Shek Kul, the Aldabreshin Archipelago, 8th of For-Summer

I checked the sun again; it seemed to have been hanging directly overhead for what would have been nearly a full chime at home, but we hadn’t heard the signal horn yet.

“More water.” Sezarre passed me a beaker and I drank obediently. The sun was striking up from the sandy surface of the practice floor like the blast from a roasting hearth, even though we were sitting in the shade of the bath-house.

“There, that is good.” Grival gave the sword blade one last wipe with an oiled rag and laid his whetstone aside. I should say it was; I could have shaved with the edge he had put on it had that been allowed.

“Thank you.” I hadn’t been looking for Grival to turn up, expecting he would be staying close to Mahli and little Nai, but he had appeared without ceremony and taken it upon himself to check all my weapons and armor. He placed the sword next to my mail-shirt; I wasn’t about to put that on until the very last moment possible.

“This man, he is older than you by some years. The heat, the armor, losing much sweat, all of this will tire him the sooner,” remarked Grival thoughtfully. “You could use that to your advantage.”

“If this was a fair fight, then yes, I would look to draw him out, keep him moving until he tired.” I scowled at the circle marked on the white sand in charcoal. “But I still think he will find a way to use magic. Can you appeal to Shek Kul for me, ask him to forbid the chanting?”

“I will denounce him myself and ask it as a boon.” Sezarre nodded. “You look to finish him as soon as possible?”

“How stiff is your leg? You need to be able to move against a mace.” Grival wiped moisture from his own brow. “A blade may glance off a hauberk but that mace will leave a bruise wherever it lands. That could hamper you if he lands too many blows.”

“I’ll be looking to cut him as early as I can,” I said grimly. “He’s going to bleed freely with the exertion and the heat. I want him to weaken quickly; with luck that’ll stop his magic as well.”

Sezarre and Grival nodded as one, their faces grim at the thought of enchantment polluting this fight. “Try not to shed his blood outside the circle,” warned Grival solemnly. “You are here to protect the domain as well as assert the truth.”

I wondered exactly what he meant by that and looked up at the sky again; the sun didn’t appear to have moved any further on. “Have either of you ever fought like this, as a test of truth?”

Sezarre shook his head. “It is very rare. I can understand why Laio did not expect such an outcome.”

I grimaced a little at his implied rebuke, only too aware that he and Gar must have heard all my dealings with Laio the previous night. To my relief everyone was continuing to treat me just as they always had, and anyway I was too preoccupied with this forthcoming fight to feel particularly self-conscious.

“I saw such a test in the domain of Lys Izat,” Grival looked up from wrapping his sword-cleaning kit in its cotton bag. “It was to resolve an accusation of murder, but that was three years ago.”

“Why do you think Shek Kul chose to do this?” I was curious to know what they thought.

“It will send a message through all the domains,” stated Sezarre with considerable satisfaction. “That magic will not be tolerated, in any form.”

“If these enchanters are looking to worm their way into our lands, I don’t suppose Kaeska is the only fool they had seduced,” Grival added. “Her fate will give any others who are tempted pause for thought.” I liked the certainty in his tone, his confidence that Kaeska’s doom was already sealed. I wondered if he was right—were other Elietimm trying to suborn those with influence among the Aldabreshi and, if so, just what was their plan? I tucked the question away, one more to address after I had met this present challenge.

“Do you fight like this on the mainland at all, one to one? Have you experience that will help you?” Sezarre’s hesitant question surprised me, given how much effort he and Grival always put in to reminding me I was supposedly an Islander now, all past life as surely lost as the morning mists off the mountain.

I leaned back against the wall of the bath-house and shut my eyes for a moment, trying to summon up a memory of the fresh frosts of a Toremal winter amidst the heavy and humid heat of the Archipelago. “We fight one man against another as a test of skill sometimes, when all the Great Lords gather to make treaties with each other.” That was going to be about as much explanation as Grival and Sezarre would understand of the Convocation of Princes at Winter Solstice. “Each Lord puts forward his best men and a contest decides the finest.” Aiten had won the last time we’d both attended and carried off a heavy purse, soon lightened by our celebrations. Esquire Camarl, Messire’s nephew, had asked me privately if I had wanted to compete this time and understood instantly when I told him I hadn’t the heart for it.

I opened my eyes abruptly. This wasn’t the time to be dwelling on memories of home, though I made a mental note to watch for the bastard striking at my head. Such strokes were banned in the formal contests I was used to and I didn’t want to be caught unawares, lulled into expecting the same rules to apply.

“You have killed before?” Grival was clearly expecting that I had.

“Yes, when I have had to.” My unemotional reply won satisfied nods from them both.

The signal horn sounded and we all started. I rose to my feet and began some stretching exercises, determined to meet this challenge with every possible preparation. People began filing into the practice ground, the early arrivals taking the best spots under the broad-leafed trees. Some eager youngsters decided to forsake shade in the hopes of a better view and climbed on to the roof of the bath-house, sharing pockets of nuts and waterskins. As I looked round I realized most of the free Islanders were here; another occasion when the main gates would be standing open, thronged with people, while I had no chance of slipping out unnoticed. I discarded the irrelevance as Sezarre and Grival began to armor me, focusing my mind entirely on the contest to come.

A rise in the level of sound all around alerted us to the arrival of Shek Kul and his wives. Three chairs had been set below a broad canopy on the far side of the practice ground and Gar and Laio took their seats composedly, tucking their silk skirts around their ankles. Each was dressed in a modest, everyday dress, scant makeup and limited jewels. Laio raised her hand in a half-wave and I nodded to her, noting her calm face and posture. For all her abandoned passion last night, her manner to me this morning had been the same as it ever was, something I had to admit came as a relief.

Shek Kul was standing in the center of the charcoal circle, robed in much the same style as the women, a slave at his elbow carrying a carved and pierced gourd. The Warlord released a lizard from it, all eyes on the scaly creature as it darted this way and that before finally dashing for the cover of a bush laden with blossoms. A murmur of approval ran around the crowd and I was pleased to see Grival and Sezarre nodding and smiling at me. Whatever the nonsense signified, it seemed to be working in my favor.

The crowd then lost interest in the bush and parted to admit Kaeska and the Ice Islander. Kaeska wore a similar dress to Laio and Gar but had a long and quite dense veil covering her face, secured with an ornate arrangement of hairpins. I looked across the killing ground to see Laio and Gar exchange a questioning look and a shrug of incomprehension.

“Why has she covered her face?” I asked Grival as he laced my hauberk tight to my hips. “Is that usual?” I hauled my belt in another notch and then loosened it again, finding it constricted my breathing too much.

Grival looked puzzled. “No, not as I understand the rite.” He shrugged. “May be she is worried that something in her looks will give her away.”

As good as his word, Sezarre had crossed the circle to speak to Shek Kul. The Warlord inclined his head and nodded with a serious expression; his gaze followed Sezarre’s hand, outstretched toward the Elietimm. Shek Kul summoned the priest with an imperious wave of his hand and spoke to him sternly, emphasizing his words with a series of sharp gestures. The Elietimm bowed his head in acquiescence, nodding humbly, too readily for my peace of mind, given enchantment had to be part of his strategy somehow. Moving slowly to the place marked for me inside the dark circle, I wondered what the bastard was going to try first as I flexed my fingers inside my close-fitting gloves.

His face gave me no hint, barely visible beneath a helm that reached down to his neck and curved around to guard his cheeks. I studied his armor; laced mail plates protected his shoulders and gut over what looked to be a boiled leather base. With the padding I could see under it, he was going to be sweating like a dray horse, but then so was I, so that would balance the runes. My beard was already soaked with perspiration, but I ignored the unpleasant sensation. This was no time to give way to petty distractions. A flexible leather cuirass covered the priest’s thighs above steel greaves. As always, that left his knees the most vulnerable point. All in all, I had more protection from my mail and helm, especially with the studded leather leggings Grival had produced from somewhere, but I was carrying much more weight and in this heat, with the water we would be sweating away, that was going to count if the fight went on too long. More than ever, I decided to finish this as fast as I could, settling my helm firmly on my head and sliding the nasal bar down to lock it in position.

With us both in position, Shek Kul took his place between Gar and Laio, Kaeska seated to one side on a low stool, head bowed beneath her veil. I drew a deep breath and focused on the Elietimm to the exclusion of all else, as the Warlord clapped his hands together, the abrupt sound echoing back from the surrounding buildings. For a long moment neither of us moved; then the Elietimm took a cautious pace sideways and the fight was begun.

I moved slowly, sword at the ready, assessing what I was facing. He was using a long mace, a foot soldier’s weapon, the flanged metal head with a collar of spikes on a haft of black wood reinforced with strips of steel. No chance of simply hacking through that, then. I wasn’t used to seeing such a complex guard on a mace though; it almost enveloped his hand and gave his knuckles unassailable protection. I noted the poniard at his belt as well and resolved to spare what attention I could for his off hand, also protected by a heavy plated gauntlet, which would at least make drawing that dagger a clumsy task.

We continued to circle, just out of each other’s reach, feet scuffing up the sand, sweat already beading our faces. I wanted to go for his knees but wasn’t about to risk lowering my stance and catching that mace on the side of my head, helm or no helm. He made a move, a darting step toward me and I took a rapid pace backward, sword at the ready. He didn’t follow it up, instead shaking his head at me with a mocking smile. Let him grin; I wasn’t some first-season recruit about to let any taunt distract me. I’d spit in his face, if I got the chance; see how he liked that. Lost temper kills more men than lost swords—I reminded myself of the sergeant-at-arms’ words back home.

I stopped the circling and swayed from side to side, trans-ferring my weight from one foot to the other, assessing his balance and stance. A backhanded downward sweep nearly reached him, but he caught my blade with the head of his mace, circling it up and around, trying to catch the blade in the sword-breaking spikes as I fought equally hard to free it up. I pulled the blade loose and the priest leaped backward just in time to escape a blow to the gap between shoulder and helm that would have taken his head off if I’d landed it. The bastard caught my blade again, putting all his effort into denying me another stroke until I ripped the sword free. Taking a pace backward myself, I looked for the next opportunity. Against another sword I’d have aimed to trade a flurry of blows, sending the killing stroke through any hesitation in the response. This was clearly not going to be an option here, not against a mace used like this; I was starting to think the Ice Islander was looking to draw the fight out until the heat and the weight of my armor started to slow me down. I could tell already that my reactions were just that little bit faster than his, my blows just that little bit harder, my feet just that little bit lighter in the dry sand. I reminded myself not to grow overconfident.

I lunged, he parried, I got my sword back fast for a round, high swing, he swept it aside and as my blade slid down the mace’s shaft, I leaned into it, shoving him backward, nearly taking him off his feet. I followed up my advantage, hitting him with rapid strokes that he could only defend against, giving him no chance to tie up my blade again. A feint deceived him and I got a full-bodied blow in on his side, the finely honed blade gouging into the black leather, the weight of the stroke punishing his ribs sorely. As he retreated around the circle, I looked for a chance at his knees, sending him jumping backward with a low sweep before dodging back myself to avoid his riposte.

That was when I first felt it: a scratching; a tapping; insistent fingers running along the edges of the doors to my mind. I set my jaw and went for the bastard, sending fast, short feints to either side until his guard faltered and I thrust for his guts. He turned sideways just in time as my step took me forward; we stood there, helmets almost touching, hands trapped between our bodies and I saw his lips were motionless inside his concealing cheek guards. No words from him were raising whatever demon had escaped Poldrion’s vigilance to pick away at my consciousness. As I thought this, the gnawing sensation redoubled.

I threw the Elietimm away from me but he came back with renewed vigor. Now I had no time to spare to wonder who was working this cursed enchantment as I dodged and shifted, fighting to turn every defensive move into a chance to regain the initiative. All the while the feeling of being undermined, that my defenses were crumbling, grew stronger and stronger. In a burst of desperation I unleashed a storm of blows on him, sacrificing my own protection in an all-out assault, taking a few bruising blows myself but managing to leave some telling cuts on the priest’s arms and legs. I withdrew, satisfied, careful to avoid the treacherous patches of blood-stained sand, happy to let the Elietimm go back on the defensive now he had bleeding injuries to drain his strength.

A ripping noise tore through my head. Cold talons dug themselves into my mind and clenched themselves, sending my senses reeling. The hot sunlight faded before my eyes, and I could feel nothing beneath my feet. The sounds of the crowd died to nothing as I gasped and stumbled, knees as weak as water, head swimming. Some instinct pulled me away from a mace stroke that would have sent my brains rattling in my skull, but I could only watch the bastard prepare for his next stroke, unable to move as the black iron flanges came hammering in toward my blurring eyes, wrestling as I was with the grasping hatred that was clawing at my wits.

My sword met the stroke, turning it fluently aside. My feet followed up the move, spreading my weight, light and balanced, as my hands launched a series of piercing thrusts. I could only look on in astonishment, locked in a frantic struggle for possession of my own mind, as some other intelligence took over my body and defended it against everything the Ice Islander could do. I was dimly aware of a long, shadowy hand overlaying my own work-hardened fingers as they wrapped around the sword hilt, the great blue stone of a signet ring catching the sunlight. My mind was stumbling a step or two behind my body, struggling as I was with the clutching hands of the magic trying to drag me down into the blackness. Someone else’s emotions were running through my veins, stiffening my sinews, guiding my every move. I could feel an eagerness, a resolution, a youthful energy and above all an implacable hatred of the Elietimm and all his kind, but somehow I was isolated from it, as if I were lost in a fever dream.

The priest went down, stumbling on a sticky patch of sand, weakened by the punishment he had taken. I watched from some distant corner of my mind as the long hands sent blow after hammering blow down on the Elietimm’s back, head and shoulders as he rolled, this way and that, feet kicking, mace flailing, trying to evade the razor-sharp blade as it gouged into his armor, his skin and the raw red flesh beneath, his blood running freely. A voice that was not my own came from my lips, Tormalin words ringing with an archaic cadence I had only ever heard in poetry and law courts.

“Go back to your master and tell him this land is ours. We will hold what we have won from the wilderness to the last man!”

The priest looked up in startled horror, his face paling beneath the mask of blood and sweat. He gabbled an incantation and was suddenly no longer there, leaving only a welter of blood-stained sand before my eyes.

The place erupted with noise, but all I could hear was the frantic shouting inside my head.

“What is this? Who are you? Where am I?”

I sank to my knees, ripping off my helm, my gauntlets, clutching my head as I summoned every measure of strength I possessed to force that panic-stricken presence out of my mind. With a suddenness that left me gasping, it was gone, leaving my skull echoing with a hollow silence in the midst of the deafening uproar. I looked at my hands; they were my own again, no shadows blurring them, but I saw that I bore a pale mark and a dent in the flesh around the long finger of my sword hand. Anyone would say that I habitually wore a broad ring with one central stone, now somehow lost.

“Ry-shad, where are you hurt?” I looked up to see the captain of the guard peering at me with wide-eyed concern.

“I’m bruised but I’ll be fine.” I turned my head to try and find Grival and Sezarre, wondering why they had not been first to my side. I was more than satisfied with what I saw. Grival had Kaeska face down in the dirt, kneeling on her thighs as he tied her hands securely behind her back. Sezarre was using that cursed veil of hers to gag her securely, pulling her head up at a cruel angle with a hand twisted hard in her hair. The bitch, the whoring, murderous bitch; that poisonous enchantment had to have been her work. No wonder she’d been veiled. Too bad her tame sorcerer had fled his fate, leaving her condemned before all the Islanders to suffer who only knew what fate.

“Ryshad!” Shek Kul’s abrupt summons silenced the assembled Islanders so thoroughly I could hear the heedless chirping of the birds in a distant tree. Getting to my feet, stumbling slightly as my knees still seemed to be looking for someone else to give their instructions, I crossed the bloody sand to stand before him.

“The truth condemns the woman Kaeska and she will pay the price,” said the Warlord in an unemotional voice. “You are vindicated, but I find much to trouble me in this matter. This magician has singled you out and you say there has been much strife between his people and those that were yours before you came to this place.” Shek Kul’s voice grew a little louder, to carry his words unmistakably to the outer reaches of the avid crowd. “I truly believe that you are innocent of any taint of magic, the omen of Rek-a-nul declares this. However there is a very real danger that these men will seek you out, to avenge their comrade. I cannot keep you here, to risk bringing such pollution to the domain.”

Laio stirred in her seat, subsiding as Shek Kul’s head moved as if about to turn and look at her. I stared at the man, wondering what in Dastennin’s name he was saying. Shek Kul folded his arms as he studied me. “You will leave this place as soon as the execution is complete.”

Turning on his heel, the Warlord strode from the practice ground, Gar catching Laio under the elbow to force her along, Grival and Sezarre hauling Kaeska between them, cruel hands gripping her shoulders, not even allowing her to regain her feet when she stumbled, but dragging her along to score her knees on the gravel of the path. A hand from somewhere thrust a waterskin at me and I emptied it in a handful of parched gulps before taking a cup of thin wine from the steward whose wide smile was belied by the fear in his eyes.

“Come.” I followed the captain of the guard numbly to the barracks, where I stripped and washed in a quiet corner, my mind in turmoil at this unexpected turn of events. Finding everyone else keeping a constant arm’s length away from me, I was anointing my various bruises and scrapes with a selection of Sezarre’s ointments when a murmur of surprise made me look round. I turned to find that the guards had all melted away. Shek Kul was standing there, looking at me thoughtfully.

“Let me.” He held out a hand and I gave him the pot of salve, not knowing what else to do. Obeying his gesture, I turned and felt him rubbing the pungent balm into a vicious bruise on my shoulder.

“You have done me a great service, in many ways, by ridding me of Kaeska,” he remarked. “I always knew she would become ever more dangerous when her brother was killed. Once I no longer needed the alliance of her marriage she knew I would get the domain an heir and stop indulging her nonsense. In many ways, you are a very good slave. I know Laio thinks so and there would be much you could teach her, given time. Yet you remind me of a hawk I once had, taken wild too late and only trained with harshness. He was a fine bird, brave and fearless, swift to fly but always slow to return to the lure.” Shek Kul handed the little jar over my shoulder and I turned to face him.

“I could always see that bird looking for the mountain heights,” said the Warlord simply, “even when he was hooded and leashed in the mews. In the end, I untied his jesses myself and let him fly. I think this is the only reward I can give you that would mean anything to you.”

I opened my mouth but he silenced me with an upraised hand. “That would not be enough in itself to persuade me but there is the magic to consider.” His eyes were hard, searching my own. “There was something wrong in that fight, something ill omened hanging around you. I cannot say what it was, but were you any other man, had the great serpent not appeared when you stood alone on the sands, I would have you killed under suspicion of sorcery. As it is I am content to let you go, provided you swear on whatever you consider most holy that you will not return.”

I swallowed on a suddenly dry mouth. “I swear; may Dastennin drown me to cast me naked on the shore if I prove false.”

Shek Kul nodded, apparently satisfied. “This token will guarantee you safe passage across the Archipelago.” He handed me a gold and jeweled medallion that would pretty much guarantee me a safe retirement if I ever brought it home.

“My thanks,” I said, quite unable to think of anything else.

“Now dress and we will deal with the traitor,” the Warlord said grimly. “As her accuser, your responsibility only ends with her death.”

I dragged on my clothes and followed obediently at his heels, wondering with a sick sensation exactly what I was about to witness as we left the compound and headed for the foreshore. Kaeska was lying on a wide wooden platform fixed to stakes at the high-tide mark, her hands and feet spread and tied. I tried hard not to react when I saw her eyes and mouth had been sealed with wax, burns scoring her skin. Her nostrils flared as she drew what frantic breaths she could. Shek Kul regarded her impassively for a moment then picked a large stone from the black sand of the beach and placed it firmly on Kaeska’s breast bone. She flinched as if it had been a burning coal but could not dislodge it, pinioned as she was. As Shek Kul nodded to me, I reluctantly found a fist-sized rock and laid it next to his, averting my eyes from Kaeska’s blind grimaces.

“You stay until she is dead.” Shek Kul strode away without a backward glance and I found myself standing there as a succession of Islanders came to add their weight to Kaeska’s punishment, some in tears, some openly gloating, but all adding to the load that was slowly pressing her to death.

Gar came toward the middle of the afternoon as Kaeska was laboring to draw every breath, her color sickly.

“Are you all right?” she asked, coming to stand next to me in the shade of the shoreline after laying her own middling sized stone with a somber face.

I nodded. “Tell me, what is the purpose of all this?” I was struggling with the measured cruelty of the execution. “Why not just let me cut her head off.”

“Her blood would pollute the ground,” Gar shook her head soberly. “Her mouth is closed so that she cannot curse anyone and her eyes are shut so that her gaze cannot contaminate anything it falls upon. Kaeska has committed a high crime against the domain, against the people and the land, and in this execution all share in her death. When she is dead, all her belongings will be piled on the corpse and burned, to destroy everything that has ever linked her to this place. The sea will carry away the ashes and the defilement with them.” She sighed. “I know how you mainlanders speak of us, as bloodthirsty savages, always at war with each other. In truth, we value life, we value it highly, so when we have to take a life like this, we make sure the nature of that death makes its own statement.”

Gar, like Shek, did not look back as she left the beach, making her way back to the residence through the Islanders who continued to come to share in this incomprehensible rite. Laio came some while later as the line was thinning out somewhat. She was carrying a large stone that took her all her strength and both hands and it must have come from somewhere in the residence. Panting as she raised it in front of her chest, she dropped it hard on the heap now covering Kaeska’s torso. A feeble whimper escaped the tormented woman and Laio leaped backward as if she’d been bitten by a snake, looking around wildly. Seeing me, she came to sit on the dry sand beneath the fringed trees.

“I wanted to end it for her,” she murmured softly.

“That will have helped,” I assured her.

“Where will you go?” Laio’s voice shook. I reached for her little hand; giving it a comforting squeeze, not caring if this was inappropriate.

“I’ll be fine, once I’m out of the Islands, I’ll go back to my old master.” I managed a rather bleak smile.

Laio pointed at the harbor where several large galleys were swinging at anchor, more heading in down the channel between the islands. “That crimson pennant, that is the mark of Sazac Joa. If I speak to the captain, he’ll give you passage. I will make sure that all your belongings are loaded aboard.” Laio lifted her chin to quell a trembling lip.

“That’s very good of you.”

“Not really,” admitted Laio with a shadow of her old manner. “Shek Kul told me to make sure you left nothing behind that might taint the domain.”

That made sense. Laio rose to her feet and brushed sand from her dress. “I’ll send Sezarre down with some food,” she promised over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” I called as I steeled myself to check the pulse in Kaeska’s neck again. Her skin was clammy to the touch but the faint beat of her life still pushed against my fingers. I sighed and sat down again to wait out this grim vigil.

Kaeska took three long days and nights to die.

The coast east of the settlement, Kel Ar’Ayen, 34th of Aft-Spring, Year Two of the Colony

“How’s the river bed, captain?” Temar looked up from making painstaking notations in his journal as the weather-beaten seaman stood before him, wide stance secure on the deck as the ship rode the gentle swell.

“Sound enough, the anchor will hold. The old Eagle will nest safe enough here for a while.” The thick-set sailor patted the mast with affectionate satisfaction, a smile creasing his leathery face and softening the scowl molded from his bushy brows by a lifetime squinting in the sun and wind. “I’ve set Meig to keep an eye on the tide and the run of the river.”

“Good.” Temar got up from his seat beside the lateen rigged aft-mast and stretched his cramped shoulders, half inclined to shed his stout hide jerkin in the strengthening sunshine. He looked around the broad estuary, thickly forested hills dropping sharply to an open beach of shingle and scrub, winding away inland on the banks of a wide, brownish river that offered tempting access to the mysteries of the hidden interior. The fitful breeze brought an alluring fragrance from the burgeoning woodlands. Temar took a deep breath of the scent of spring. “They would surely have put in here to take on supplies, wouldn’t they, Master Grethist?”

The captain nodded. “They had fair copies of the Sieur’s charts, just the same as us, the ones he made when he was exploring the coastline with the Seafarer and they’re good for another six days’ sailing beyond here. This place is marked clear enough as a good anchorage with game and fresh water to be had.”

Temar moved and leaned over the rail of the stern, sighing. “So where are they? Could they have come to grief? I suppose things will have changed, sandbars and the like, those charts must be what, eighteen or nineteen years old by now.”

“I know Master Halowis.” The mariner folded his arms as he too gazed at the shoreline. “He knows to take care sailing in strange waters. In any case, if they’d come to grief, we’d have seen sign of it. We found the wreck of the Windchime and she was lost on the crossing last year, wasn’t she? That was still plain enough, even after a whole winter of high seas tearing it up—her cargo was scattered all along the strand.”

“I suppose a storm could have hit them,” mused Temar. “They did set out barely halfway through For-Spring, but no one was prepared to wait until the Equinox, given the weather seemed set fair.”

“It would have to be some storm for all three ships to founder without at least one making it to land and no survivors washed ashore.” Grethist shook his head stubbornly. “We’d have seen sign of weather that severe as well, uprooted trees and the like.”

Temar shrugged. “So what do you suppose befell them? Sickness, disease, falling prey to beasts when they put ashore? We’re talking about eighty-some men, Dastennin help them!”

“I’ll get the longboat launched.” The captain set his square, gray-bearded jaw. “If they made landfall here, there’ll be fire-pits and such, some sign, and we should be able to get some idea of when they landed, how many they were. That should give us something to work on. Maybe they’ve headed up this river, it looks as if it should be navigable a fair way inland. Wasn’t that something they were supposed to be doing?”

“You’re probably right.” Temar nodded, the tension in the back of his mind easing at this eminently reasonable suggestion. “Still, we don’t know what’s prowling these forests, do we? Make sure the rowers take weapons with them, swords for those that have them and the ship’s axes for those that don’t. Let’s not take any chances.”

He stood with Grethist and watched as the crew lowered the shallow ship’s boat down to the glassy surface of the estuary, oars hitting the water with a crack that echoed back from the distant hills.

“Can I speak with you for a moment, Temar?”

“Demoiselle.” Temar turned and bowed to Guinalle with precisely calculated courtesy.

She ignored the faint provocation in his greeting but swept him an ironic curtsey more suited to a silken robe than the practical gray woollen dress she was wearing. “There’s something wrong,” she stated abruptly. “I can feel something peculiar, just hovering beyond my comprehension, a threat of some kind.”

“Quietly, please.” Temar looked around to see if anyone had overheard this unnerving pronouncement, relieved to see the remaining sailors absorbed in watching the longboat make its slow way inshore. “What exactly are you telling me?”

“I don’t exactly know,” admitted Guinalle, her frustration plain to see as she tucked her hands inelegantly through her braided leather girdle. “I can’t put my finger on it but something’s wrong. Avila and I have been reaching out to see if we can find anyone to contact; the expedition may have been lost, but I can’t believe no one survived.”

“But you can’t find anyone?” interrupted Temar.

“It’s not that, exactly.” Guinalle frowned. “It’s more as if I’m trying to look through a fog. Avila says it’s like trying to shout when you’re wearing a veil.”

“You were saying yourself that working Artifice from a ship was causing some odd effects,” Temar reminded her, a suspicion of satisfaction in his voice. “Perhaps things work differently on this side of the ocean. There was that business when the far-seeing to the mines went all wrong, wasn’t there?”

“That was seldom-used Artifice in barely trained hands,” insisted Guinalle. “I am arguably one of the best practitioners anywhere in the Empire and this is a skill I mastered long ago. This is different, Temar, you have to believe me. There’s a danger out there and everyone needs to be alert for a sign of it. Avila feels it too, just a little but enough to convince me it’s real.”

Temar raised a hand to silence her, frowning. “All right, I take your word for it. What do you want me to do? You say we’re in peril, but you can’t tell me how or why. Look around you, these men are tense enough; they had friends, brothers aboard the ships we’re searching for. They’re already worried enough about getting so far along the coast and still failing to find them.” He realized his words were sounding harder than he intended and tried to soften his tone. “Please understand me; it’s not that I don’t believe you, I do, honestly. It’s just that I’m simply not prepared to make a potentially bad situation worse by giving out some vague warning of danger when I can’t answer the first question that anyone puts to me about it. When you have something definite to tell me, something I can explain to the crew, I will act. Until then, please keep this quiet; we have enough problems to handle without adding unfounded fears.”

Guinalle’s lips were thin with irritation and a faint flush of anger reddened her cheeks. “Of course, Esquire, my duty to you. I’ll do what I can.” She turned on her heel and strode briskly away, neck and shoulders stiff with annoyance, soft shoes hissing across the polished decking.

Temar watched her go with a sinking feeling compounded of contrition and exasperation. When would he be able to have a conversation with Guinalle without one or other of them giving or taking offense in some way? He was doing his best to avoid her, since she’d made it clear she wanted no part of him, Saedrin curse it, but given the seriousness of this situation, Den Fellaemion had insisted on putting Guinalle and her deftest pupils aboard.

“Did the Demoiselle have some word for you?” Master Grethist’s curt enquiry pushed Temar’s personal turmoil aside.

“Not as such, nothing important.” Temar smiled in what he hoped was a convincing manner.

The sailor took a pouch from the pocket of his rough, sailcloth tunic, helping himself to chewing leaf before offering Temar some as an afterthought. “Coming all this way, finding no answers, the lads are starting to ask questions. Have you heard how the other expedition fared, the one that headed south?”

“Yes, of course.” Temar shook his head at the offer of leaf and at his own stupidity for not sharing his news. “I should have told you, I’m sorry. From what they’ve reported, it seems that coast runs pretty well due south for a hundred and sixty leagues or so, and then it curves around back to run east and north, up a long sound fed by a massive river, about eighty, ninety leagues inland overall. It’s excellent land for running cattle on by all accounts, not nearly so much timber as these northern and eastern reaches.”

The captain’s eyes brightened. “That sounds promising, somewhere to think about taking the young stock calved this year.”

“It’s looking very good,” agreed Temar. “Messire Den Rannion is already talking about founding a new settlement there before the turn of the year. As far as he can judge, it’ll be only a scant hundred leagues from the port overland, less from the mines.”

“Maybe so, but that’ll be over some vicious, steep ground, won’t it?” Grethist laughed nevertheless. “I’ll take sail to see it, until they build a decent high road.”

Temar smiled. “I’ll hitch a ride with you, Master.”

A shout from above turned the mariner’s head and Temar turned his attention back to his journal, leafing through it to find the news of the southern expedition that Guinalle had relayed to him just after they had set out on this voyage. That had come from one of Guinalle’s most recently trained adepts, hadn’t it? Artifice had kept that other flotilla firmly linked to the port, information passed back every second or third day. What had befallen this northern expedition, what had happened to the ships they were now seeking, that they had vanished so thoroughly without even a hint from the Adepts aboard? What sort of things might have affected the use of Artifice? How well skilled had the Adepts been who had joined the expedition? Temar stifled a regret at his ill-tempered decision to abandon his own studies of Artifice during the winter seasons, unable to stand being in such close contact with Guinalle on a daily basis.

“Sail ho!”

Temar’s head snapped around at the look-out’s bellow, jaw dropping in disbelief. Jostled by eager sailors, he forced his way to the rail to see a three-masted ship around the far headland, a full load of sail rigged.

“Who is it?” a voice rang out from behind, frustrated at not being able to see.

“Looks like the Salmon!” came the reply, supported by noises of agreement and delight all round. Temar squinted at the fast approaching vessel, looking for the rune at its bow, all but obscured by flying foam, cheers all around as the sailors waved and whistled.

“Temar! Temar!” Guinalle’s frantic shout dragged Temar back away from the side of the ship. He pushed his way up the steps to the stern where Guinalle stood wringing her hands next to the captain. The sailor was starting to frown, a hand shading his deep-set eyes as he peered at the rapidly closing ship.

“They’re not flying any flag at all, not even their pennant. I’d expect a signal too, given the situation.” Grethist murmured, doubt coloring his tone.

“I can’t reach them, Temar,” Guinalle caught at his sleeve, “something’s desperately wrong on board that ship!”

Temar looked past her toward the captain. “I can see our lads, plain enough,” Grethist went on slowly, “but they’re not working the lines, nor managing their sail.”

“Every mind on that ship is closed to me, Temar,” Guinalle insisted. “I know some of that crew, I should be able to reach them from here!”

“Run a signal, Meig!” bellowed the captain suddenly. “Can’t they see we’re at anchor?”

A flurry of disquiet ran through the waiting crew as the long looked-for ship continued to come up the estuary at a reckless pace.

“Temar!” Guinalle shook his arm, a gesture of fear and frustration in equal measure.

“They’re going to broadside us, if they—” The mariner shook his grizzled head in disbelief. “Meig, cut the anchor! All of you, get some sail aloft, we’ve got to get underway— brace yourself, my lady.”

The captain jumped down from the aftcastle as the crew scrambled to get their ship moving, the second vessel swooping down on her with predatory intent. Temar grabbed at the rail with one hand, reaching for Guinalle with the other as the ships collided with a shattering crash. Guinalle was knocked clean off her feet and Temar to his knees, and several men went plummeting from the rigging into the foaming waters, yells of shock lost in the mounting clamor in deck. Temar struggled to his feet as the boats swung apart, tossing wildly, sails flapping in confusion. As he looked for any explanation of this turn of events he saw the men of the Salmon dropping like clubbed beasts, other forms leaping up from the waist of the ship to cast grapnels and ropes across the gap, hauling the vessels together. A sailor clinging desperately to the rail was crushed between the tall wooden walls, his scream of agony lost as howling figures in black leather leaped across the rails, short swords and axes naked in their hands. The sailors grabbed whatever was at hand to defend themselves with, belaying pins and rope spikes, belt knives raised in desperation.

Temar vaulted over the rail of the aftcastle, drawing his long sword and catching several of the invaders unawares, their blood making the decking treacherous beneath his feet as they fell beneath his wrathful blade. The others drew back a little, cold blue eyes assessing him as Temar looked for his own opening, glaring at flaxen heads pale above studded leather armor. These were soldiers, Temar realized belatedly. Where were they from?

“Cut the ropes!” Grethist’s bellow lifted above the tumult, a roar to rise above the direst of storms. Temar darted forward to protect a handful of sailors as they sawed desperately at the taut hemp holding the clinging irons fast, jumping to avoid an attacker falling at his feet in agony, a rope spike embedded in one eye. Temar sent the metal deep into the man’s skull with a heavy stamp of his boot and kicked the corpse aside. As more assailants pressed on over the rail, Temar dodged and weaved, skills born of long practice saving him from anything worse than a stinging scratch to one arm as a blade ripped through the linen of his sleeve. That reminder of his lack of protection sobered Temar a little, though with his leather jerkin and buff breeches, he was still better off than the sailors in their sailcloth tunics and trews. Even a spent blow could rip through the fabric and every bleeding cut would weaken.

He hacked at a questing axe, shoving the haft aside to open the man’s defenses. With a deft thrust he caught the unbalanced soldier at the angle of neck and shoulder, the keen blade contemptuous of studded leather, biting deep into bone and flesh. The axe fell to the deck, the clatter lost in the uproar as the man stumbled blindly to fall over the side.

“Ware feet!” Temar yelled as he kicked the loose weapon backward to arm any sailor who could grab it. As his next victim fell away in a flurry of gore, legs cut from beneath him, two more came at Temar abreast but he had the reach on them with his longer blade and soon felled them for an eager pair of sailors to finish with their belt knives. Further assault broke and faltered on a rapidly improvised barrier of spars and captured weapons as the crew rallied to support Temar, bringing all the savagery of dockside brawls to bear in the battle, kicking, gouging, spitting, biting as the sailors dodged to get inside the reach of swords and axes and bring their own crude weapons to bear with devastating effect. A shudder ran through the vessels as the Eagle fought to pull free.

A yell from behind hauled Temar’s head round. One sailor had managed to free a grapnel, gouging his hand grievously in the process. Now he dropped to his knees, screaming as he clutched at his head, eyes stark with terror and pain. A second fell, convulsing, howling. Temar spared them a horrified glance before looking around wildly for any explanation of this unexpected turn of events.

“Temar!” Guinalle’s shout tore through the chaos. He found her instantly, on her knees on the stern deck, skirts all stained and bloodied to the elbows as she tried to help a dying sailor. Temar looked frantically for any black-clad figure threatening her but could see none.

“It’s him, that man, up in the prow. He’s the one with the Artifice!” Guinalle shouted, her voice hoarse with effort. She shrieked abruptly, her own hands rising to claw at her eyes before she managed to control them. Falling forward, she lay there, panting for a moment that seemed an eternity to Temar before dragging herself upright again, jaw set, eyes huge in her white face. “Kill him!” she screamed, shrill as a stricken hawk.

Temar looked at the motionless figure high in the prow of the entangled Salmon and took a breath to assess their situation. The crew of the Eagle were holding their line, the air thick with curses. A flutter of color overhead caught Temar’s eye. Aloft in the rigging, Meig and a couple of others were raising a signal to bring the longboat back with reinforcements and weapons. The bastards, Temar realized with sudden, impotent fury; they had been standing off behind that headland, waiting until the Eagle was weakened by the departure of half her complement. Guinalle might not have been able to see them but somehow that bastard in the long cloak had been spying on the Tormalin ship as he held the strings of the marionettes he had made of the innocent colonists. Just as Temar thought this a hapless figure fell headlong from the ropes above his head, Meig making no move to save himself with nerveless hands as he crashed to the deck to lie motionless in a broken huddle.

Temar lifted one foot on to the swaying rail, one hand reaching up for a rope as the ships struggled against each other, planks splintering, lines creaking under the strain, canvas snapping overhead. His sword was ready in his other hand, the razor-sharp edge showing silver through the clotting blood choking the fuller.

“Who’s with me?” he yelled, all the while judging the narrowing gap as the Salmon swung back into the battered side of the Eagle. Satisfied with the bloodthirsty howls at his back, Temar leaped, putting every effort he possessed into his jump, falling to his hands and knees on the far deck, sword nevertheless poised and ready. Thuds behind him announced the arrival of a handful of the Eagle’s crew, eager to make use of their captured weaponry.

“Ramsen!” Temar saw one of his men drop his guard as he gaped at a figure rolled this way and that by the plunging motion of the trapped vessels. “They’re lost!” Temar shouted harshly, his own stomach hollow as he recognized a face slack and white among the fallen crew of the Salmon. “Watch yourselves!”

The enemy were quick to react to this unexpected counterattack and a close-knit detachment was making its way down the deck, blades raised. Temar steadied himself, his longer sword at the ready to defend and to rend, but half an eye spared for the tall figure in the forecastle, blond hair blowing in the breeze, a gold gorget bright at his throat as he focused all his attention and skills on the attack on the other ship.

An axe came scything in at Temar’s head but he blocked the blow with ease, following up to force the man backward. Taking a pace forward but careful not to outstrip the others behind him, Temar cut and sliced, feinted and parried, less to kill than to gradually force those opposing him into a gradual retreat up the ship. He focused all his efforts on the men before him, trusting the sailors at his back and the stout defense of the ship’s rail to his off hand. Step by step, Temar and his men drew closer to the enemy Artificer, who abruptly turned to face them, arms raised, hands spread, hatred twisting his face as he spat at them in an unknown, harsh-accented tongue.

The air before Temar seemed to shimmer and ripple, the faces before him distorted as if seen through poor glass. The deck beneath his feet suddenly felt rough and broken, like a rocky road. Temar took a pace forward but his footing shifted and slipped, snarls as of wild beasts echoing all around him, greedy and eager for blood. The hair on Temar’s neck rose as every instinct told him to flee and he heard cries of dismay and terror from the men behind him. Temar shook his head in frenzied denial and furiously ransacked his memory for the wards and defenses that Guinalle had been teaching him before their friendship had foundered.

“Tur ryal myn ammel,” he yelled, screwing his eyes shut for a scant breath to put every effort he could summon into throwing the Artificer’s touch from his mind. Panting, he opened his eyes and found his gaze was clear again, more than that, the sailors at his back seemed to have recovered. Temar spared a moment to wonder just what the incantation he had half remembered was actually supposed to do.

The shouts of the enemy back aboard the Eagle grew suddenly louder, but now they were ringing with consternation rather than victory. A dull tremor shivered through the deck and rolled the lifeless body of another crewman at Temar’s feet, threatening to trip him until he steeled himself to kick it aside. Tormalin voices suddenly rose in shouts of triumph from the other ship, taunts mingled with obscenities and curses. Temar spared a glance to see several of the black-clad invaders dropping their weapons to struggle, screaming, with some unseen threat, scrambling backward to escape some horror only they could see, one tumbling over the rail to vanish into the turbid waters as the ships swung apart and crashed back together. The soldiers facing Temar and his men fell back to the steps leading up to the aft castle, weapons now ready to defend rather than to attack.

Temar looked back to the enemy Artificer and saw consternation mingled with hatred on the thin, lined face as the man stared at Guinalle, now standing on the aft deck, a circle of sailors defending her as she wrought unseen destruction on the attackers. As Temar watched a handful hurled themselves yelling toward her, felled even before they could bring blade to bear on the ring of wood and iron. The Artificer raised a hand, the threat in the gesture unmistakable, but a sudden lurch of the deck threw him off balance. Temar grabbed at the rail himself but a bark of humorless laughter escaped him nevertheless.

“The longboat!” One of the sailors shook Temar’s shoulder and he nodded with grim satisfaction as he saw the returning crew of the rowing-boat scrambling up over the distant rail of the Eagle, weapons raised, fresh wrath pouring over the attackers like a breaking sea, sweeping the black-clad figures aside like so much flotsam. The deck swung beneath Temar’s feet again and he realized nearly all of the grappling irons had been unhooked.

“We need to get back to the Eagle!” he shouted over his shoulder, loud agreement coming from the sailors. They retreated, slowly, weapons raised, alert for any sudden rush from the enemy. Several of the black-clad assailants paced them down the deck, just out of reach, taunts clear in their unintelligible tongue. “Ignore them.” Temar shook his head at a sailor whose backward steps had halted, captured axe eager to rejoin the fray.

Temar felt inside the breast of his jerkin for his throwing dagger. Retreating like this was all very well, but it was too slow. As the ships writhed in the snapping toils of the ropes, he could hear the snap and whistle of breaking hemp, every movement as the wind tugged at the Eagle’s sails putting intolerable strain on the remaining lines. He palmed the dagger as they drew level with the remaining grapnels, relieved to hear eager shouts from the Eagle’s deck, hands and ropes offering assistance.

“Make ready to go,” he commanded sternly, judging distance and wind, wondering if he could do this.

“When?” demanded a sailor at his elbow.

“Now!” yelled Temar. He took a pace forward and brought his hand up and back in one fluid movement, sending the bright blade shooting the length of the vessel, a flash of silver in the sunlight as it buried itself in the Artificer’s chest. His yell of agony halted the troops on deck who were just about to fling themselves on the sailors desperately scrambling back over the rails of the two ships, unable to defend themselves adequately. As blond heads turned this way and that, Temar and his men seized the moment of indecision to escape to the Eagle, where waiting knives hacked through the last fibers of the entangling ropes to free the vessel.

“Make sail and head for open water!” Captain Grethist roared, his voice sending sailors scrambling into the rigging, hands still sticky with gore, clothing stained with their own blood and that of others. The Eagle moved on rising wings of white canvas to pull away from the Salmon, now drifting away at the mercy of wind and current as dark figures struggled with her ropes.

“We can’t just abandon the Salmon!” a voice protested.

“How do we go about retaking her?” demanded Grethist scornfully, but his own outrage was plain on his twisted face as he moved to instruct the helmsman. “No, we’ll let those bastards look after her for a little while, just as long as it takes us to get back to port, raise a flotilla and come back to send every last fancy whore’s son straight to Dastennin’s feet!”

This prediction raised a general shout of agreement and defiance, insults hurled from every side as the Salmon finally got under way and lurched toward the distant headland.

“D’Alsennin!”

Temar looked toward the stern of the ship, trying to place the unfamiliar voice. He saw the tall, spare figure of Avila For Arrial on the aft-deck, struggling to support a fainting Guinalle.

“Here, let me,” Temar shoved his way through to the aft-castle and swept Guinalle up in his arms, alarmed by her extreme pallor.

“Let’s get her to our cabin.” Avila silenced the startled questions of the sailors with an imperious look and hurried to open the doors to the accommodation in the rear of the ship. Temar laid Guinalle gently down on the narrow cot and clenched his hands in unconscious dismay as Avila deftly untied Guinalle’s girdle, unlacing the high neck of her gown to check the pulse in her neck. The older woman bent her head close to Guinalle’s, a grunt of satisfaction as she felt the girl’s breath on her cheek.

“She’ll do well enough. She’s just exhausted herself.” Avila laid a fond hand on Guinalle’s forehead, herb-stained fingers brown against the white skin.

Temar didn’t know whether to be more relieved or furious with Guinalle for giving him such a fright. “She always thinks she can do everything herself,” he burst out. “Is this the first time she’s over-reached herself like this? Why can’t she pace herself better?”

Avila was pouring water into a shallow bowl and paused, a linen cloth in her hand. “The reason Guinalle has to do so much is the lack of other trained hands to lift the burden from her,” she said crisply. “If enough people would come forward to be trained in Artifice, her life would be a great deal easier. The problem is that so many of those that start give up as soon as the studies become at all demanding.” She didn’t bother concealing the contempt in her voice or in her eyes as she looked across the cramped cabin at Temar, brushing a wisp of graying hair back from her broad brow with the back of her hand.

“I had my reasons and I have my own duties,” Temar snapped. He looked at Guinalle again, a faint flush of pink starting to soften her cheeks again. “Messire Den Fellaemion asks too much of her,” he said reluctantly, hating himself for the disloyalty.

“Messire Den Fellaemion is ill.” Avila sprinkled an aromatic oil from a tiny bottle and laid the dampened cloth across Guinalle’s forehead. “Guinalle’s Artifice is just about the only thing keeping him on his feet some days.”

Temar gaped at her. “You’re not serious?”

“As plague spots, Esquire!” snapped Avila, wiping her hands heedlessly on her plain brown gown. “If it weren’t for Guinalle, he wouldn’t see out the year. So she has to spend her time and strength on him as well as on all the other duties laid on her.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Temar demanded, more to defend himself than expecting any answer.

Avila gave him one nevertheless. “Stop finding every excuse to leave the port to take your sulks about Guinalle off with you,” she glared at him. “You’re Den Fellaemion’s obvious successor, boy! Stay and learn from him, take over some of the real work of the colony, stop gallivanting off up river and inland whenever someone offers you the chance. If Den Fellaemion has less to do, he will need to demand less of Guinalle, and she might have a chance to stop spending from the bottom of her purse all the time. Get yourself in hand, D’Alsennin! I’ve been watching how you behave toward Guinalle. Drianon save me, you’re not the only boy who ever got turned down. Guinalle’s not the first woman to see more important paths lying before her than just being a wife and mother!”

Pent-up grievance escaped Temar before he could restrain his tongue. “And I have got you to thank that she’s taken them, haven’t I? Guinalle kept mentioning your name when I was trying to find out what turned her against me. Just because you chose not to wed, I don’t see you have the right to meddle in other people’s happiness.”

Avila regarded him steadily, but her blue eyes were bright with a suspicion of tears. “I would have wed, D’Alsennin, had my betrothed not died of that same Crusted Pox that took so many of your House to the Otherworld. My father died too and my mother was left an invalid; it fell to me to nurse her for the next four years, youngest and unlooked for daughter as I was. By then, with so many dead, any chance I had to marry had passed me by. But you’re right, I did advise Guinalle to think very carefully before hampering herself with a husband, children and all the expectations of society. It’s not as if there is any middle way, not now, not here. Guinalle has had education and opportunities I could only have ever dreamed of, and I would hate to see her cast them aside for a self-centered boy who has so much growing up left to do!”

Guinalle stirred in the bunk, a vague hand reaching for her forehead. Temar looked at her for a long moment, then, not trusting himself to speak, turned on his heel and slammed out of the cabin.

A trading islet in the domain of Sazac Joa, Aldabreshin Archipelago, 20th of For-Summer

I stepped out of the skiff on to the sand, hauling my baggage out without any hand raised to help me. “My thanks,” I said curtly, but no one responded and I walked away without a backward glance. It was hard to feel angry with the Aldabreshi though, despite their lack of courtesy. However they sent their messages with their flags and beacons, word of Kaeska’s fate had spread through the Archipelago like fire through dry brush and Shek Kul’s token, while securing me passage on whatever vessel I wanted, also clearly identified me as the mainlander who’d started the whole business. It was no real surprise that wherever I went I found myself about as welcome as someone who’s lost their nose and half their fingers to creeping scab. I walked slowly along the beach, looking at the signal pennants flying at each masthead, trying find the yellow and crimson pattern the last galley-master had grudgingly shown me, identifying the next domain I needed to cross on this painfully slow progress up the Archipelago. I sighed. The sun was sinking behind a rocky island to the west and I didn’t fancy another night sleeping fitfully in a hollow of sand, hoping no one would rob or knife me before I woke.

“You’re a long way from home, Tormalin man.” This unexpected greeting was sufficiently friendly that I didn’t reach instantly for my sword. In any case, given my recent experiences, I was starting to feel rather wary of using that blade for anything short of outright assault by a full detachment of Elietimm. I turned to see a short, coppery-skinned man in a shabby tunic grinning at me. He was beardless and bald as an egg, pate gleaming in the afternoon sun, but with the right clothes and some hair he could have stepped off any dock anywhere along the coast of the Gulf of Lescar. There was a distinctly Lescari touch to his mongrel Tormalin as well.

“I could say the same of you, couldn’t I?” I watched his dark eyes to judge the sincerity of his reply.

“Perhaps but I don’t really have a home these days, not beyond my ship, anyway. That’s her, the Amigal!” He waved a proud arm at one of the smaller vessels anchored in the narrow strait. Despite the Aldabreshin rigging and unfamiliar arrangement of mast and sail, it looked about the same size as the boats that ply the rivers and coasts on the Gulf coast of Tormalin, carrying a good weight of cargo but only needing a couple of men to manage it. That was interesting in itself, given the preponderance of massive galleys all around us, but more intriguing still was the array of white-bordered pennants strung down a long line from the top of the mast. This little ship and its unknown master had permission to trade their way through a double handful of domains.

I looked down impassively at the man, whose broad smile did not falter, and folded my arms. “What do you want with me?” I demanded with just enough challenge to deter casual conversation.

“I’d have thought you’d be looking to do some business with me,” he replied with an engaging grin. “I know who you are, Tormalin man. You’re the slave to young Laio Shek, that helped her put that bitch Kaeska out to sea in ashes.” He wiped a hand over his mouth in an unconscious gesture I’d seen all too often lately, as people around me realized who I was. “I’d say you’d pay handsomely for a quick passage home, instead of spending the next season hopping from galley to galley and hoping no one tips you overboard, just in case you’re really tainted with magic.”

I wondered how he made a living, if this was his idea of negotiation. Sadly, he was essentially correct. “Where could you take me?” I demanded, no smile to answer his as yet.

“Close enough to the mainland for you to get a passage with a Caladhrian port, to Attar or Claithe, choose how you will.”

I considered this. The most northerly Aldabreshi Warlord had pushed the Caladhrians out of the coastal islands nearly a generation previously and, from all I’d heard, reasonably peaceful trade had resumed a handful or so years ago. Attar or Claithe were entirely the wrong end of the Gulf of Lescar, as far as I was concerned, but did I really want to try and cross the width of the Archipelago in this haphazard fashion and then hunt around for one of the few ships that risked the perilous, if profitable crossing to Zyoutessela, beating against the winds and currents that coiled around the Cape? If I reached Caladhria it would be a long way home, especially now the fighting season in Lescar would be in full bloody flow. Still, I would at least be able to send a letter to Messire via the Despatch and there was always the chance of a direct passage across the Gulf from Relshaz to Toremal. I remembered the haul of gems I had found at the bottom of my kit bag, a parting gift from Laio. I could buy my own cursed galley if only I wanted to, if I could only get back to somewhere civilized.

I looked at the little man and wondered what his idea of me paying handsomely might be. “What’s your name?” I asked, relaxing my stance a little.

“Dev,” he held out his hand palm up, an unmistakably Lescari gesture, that being a country where proving you’ve not got a dagger up your sleeve is reckoned a courtesy.

I shook his hand. “Glad to meet you, Dev. I’m Ryshad.” I looked around the beach, thronged with people and goods as the little skiffs ferried cargo and passengers to and from the waiting galleys. The scent of cooking came from little fires and braziers set up at intervals along the tree line and my stomach rumbled.

“I’m also hungry, that bastard of a captain insisted on putting me ashore before the crew ate.” That had happened to me all too often on this uncomfortable trip, and, with no one in this benighted society understanding the notion of simply paying for a service, I had had no way of purchasing a meal, no matter how much food was being prepared around me, the wealth in my bag a taunting irrelevance.

“Come on then, you can eat with me.” Dev led the way to a shelter woven of tree fronds where a fat woman was deftly pouring batter on a sizzling skillet, folding the resulting pancakes around a spoonful of whatever mixture was requested from a row of pots bubbling on the rim of her broad brazier.

“Which is least spiced?” I asked Dev cautiously, watching as he asked for a helping of meat laced with what I now knew to be scorching red pods. Wherever he’d come from, he’d obviously been in and around the Archipelago long enough to have his tongue tanned like old leather.

“The fish, I’d say.” Dev laughed, not unkindly. He told the woman the name of his ship and she nodded with satisfaction as she noted the pennants at the masthead.

“So what’s an amigal?” I asked, biting cautiously into my meal and finding it reasonably edible to my relief, though I still couldn’t understand why the Aldabreshi couldn’t just eat fish plain.

“It’s a bird of the islands,” replied Dev, mouth full as he ate in rapid bites. “Spends half the year heading south and the rest of the time coming back again, daft creature.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Pretty much, though I don’t go much beyond the domain of Neku Riss.” Dev swallowed his last mouthful and signalled to the woman for another pancake. “So, how did you end up solving Shek Kul’s oldest problem for him then?”

That raised heads all around us, people recognizing the name and enough having sufficient Tormalin to get the gist of Dev’s enquiry. Leaves on the ground rustled as those closest edged away, a reaction I was also well used to by now. I started to give him a concise account of events, thinking it would be no bad thing to spread as much suspicion and fear of the Elietimm throughout the Archipelago as I could. As I mentioned Kaeska for the first time, Dev laid a hand on my wrist.

“Wipe the taint from your lips when you mention that name,” he warned me in an undertone, “and never call her Kaeska Shek; she has no link to any domain now.”

I nodded and complied, wondering angrily how much additional offense and suspicion had gathered around me on my journey so far simply because I hadn’t known any of this. That made up my mind for me; whatever Dev wanted by way of payment, if I had it, it was his. I wanted to be free of these unholy islands and their merciless people as soon as I could.

“So how did you end up in a Relshazri slave auction any-way?” inquired Dev, eyes keen as I finished my tale.

“I was in Relshaz on business for my patron,” I replied with a shrug of bemusement. “I was set upon, street robbers I suppose they must have been. One of them managed to fell me from behind and I woke up in the lock-up, witnesses all swearing to Saedrin that I’d robbed some poxed merchant I’d never even seen. The greedy bastards can’t have been satisfied with what I had in my purse and thought they’d see what my hide would fetch.”

“I wouldn’t have thought a sworn man would get caught like that,” Dev shook his head with a chuckle.

“You’re not the only one.” I had no difficulty feigning disgust with myself. “The patron might be prepared to overlook it but the rest of the barracks will be reminding me about it till I’m old and gray.”

“Come on.” Dev got to his feet and we headed for a little boat drawn up on the shore, a lad leaning on its single oar, rammed into the sand to hold it fast. Dev turned to me and shoved his hands through the frayed length of rope that was serving him for a belt.

“What are you offering for your passage then, Tormalin man?” he asked, head cocked to one side.

“What are you asking?” I countered.

“What about that little bauble?” His eyes fixed greedily on the gold and emerald token that Shek Kul had given me, prominently displayed on my chest as I had soon discovered was only prudent if I wanted to keep my hide intact.

I scowled and hissed sharply through my teeth. “This is my only safeguard as long as I’m in the islands,” I protested. “My life’s not worth a spent candle without it.”

“You’ll be safe enough with me,” insisted Dev, his eyes not wavering from the gleaming gemstone.

“How about I give it to you once I’m safely ashore or aboard a Caladhrian ship?” I offered reluctantly after a lengthy pause.

Dev grimaced as he considered this. “Your word on it?” he demanded eventually.

“My word on it, Dastennin drown me if I break it,” I confirmed. “And if Dastennin doesn’t work his vengeance on me, my patron is Messire D’Olbriot. You know of him, don’t you? I’m hardly going to risk playing you false and having to answer to him, am I?”

Dev’s expression cleared. “True enough. Come on then.”

I was glad that we were both satisfied; Dev that he would get what he assumed was my only possession of value, myself that I had not had to reveal the existence of the random trawl through her jewel cases that Laio had rolled inside an old tunic when she’d been packing my kit-bag for me. We reached Dev’s ship and I followed him over the rail, looking around in vain for any other crew.

Dev laughed. “It’s just you and me, Tormalin man. My partner got himself knifed in a fight a while back. You’ll be working your passage home; you must know your way around a boat if you’re from Zyoutessela.”

“Doesn’t that mean you should be paying me?” I protested with a half-smile.

“The deal’s done now, no going back on it.”

I let him enjoy his little triumph. “If you say so.”

“Let’s get a drink.” Dev lifted a hatch in the prow of the ship to reveal a cramped storage space packed with small barrels. Dropping down a ladder, he lifted one up to me and we made our way to an equally confined cabin at the stern of the ship where I rolled my bag inside the hammock Dev indicated. This ship was evidently fitted out to carry the maximum amount of cargo and if I was going to help sail her, it didn’t look as if I was going to have much time to spare.

Dev dragged a stool out from beneath the folded-down table as he tapped the little cask with a practiced hand. I took the cup he offered and emptied it thirstily, choking as it proved to contain something like dark brandy rather than the feeble Aldabreshin wine I had been expecting.

“I’ll wager it’s been a good while since you had a real drink,” laughed Dev as I wiped the tears from my eyes.

“What is this stuff?” I gasped, trying not to cough and taking a more cautious sip.

“It’s made from honeycane.” Dev poured himself a second drink but I waved his hand away from my cup. There are precious few people I trust enough to get drunk with, and Dev wasn’t even close to making the bottom of the list. Still, it was undeniably pleasant to feel the bite of real liquor again.

“I thought all the Aldabreshi drank was that horse-piss they call wine.”

“There’s always a market for what’s forbidden,” chuckled Dev but I can’t say I saw the joke particularly, none too keen to find myself on a boat laden with what could only be called contraband.

“Aren’t you treading a rather fine line?” I asked.

“I watch my footing,” he replied airily.

I took another drink; I’d just have to hope he didn’t make a misstep while I was on board. If he did, well, I still had Shek Kul’s token and I’d be off this little ship at the first sign of trouble to take my chances on my own.

“Right, you can keep watch. I’m off ashore to do a little trading,” said Dev briskly.

I followed him up on deck and looked for a comfortable spot in the shelter of the mast as he hailed a ferry-boy.

“When should I expect you back?” I called as the lad worked his oar to turn his cockleshell boat around.

Dev looked at the stars beginning to shine in the darkening sky. “Midnight or thereabouts.”

I waved and settled myself on the deck. I wasn’t about to relax, but my spirits were certainly rising and not only because of the encouragement from the liquor. Wrapping my arms around my knees, I sat and watched the business of the anchorage all around me, lamps casting long yellow fingers across the dark waters, voices sounding from the various ships, in debate, dispute and as the night drew in, more frequently in song. The stars turned slowly above my head, the moons carried themselves on their stately progress, greater waxing behind lesser, which was scant days off the full. Gradually the galleys fell dark and silent, fires on the shore left to burn down to dim red embers and most of the ferrymen finally hauling their little boats up above the tide line.

I caught my breath as I heard a low noise beneath my feet. I listened and it came again, a scrape and a knock, not from the hold but from the rear cabin. On any other ship I’d have dismissed it as rats but I’d seen the extreme measures the Aldabreshi took to keep vermin from getting on to their islands and didn’t think Dev would still be trading, liquor or no liquor, if a rat showed so much as a whisker over his rails. The next sound made up my mind for me; rats may be cursed intelligent for scaly-tailed rodents but I’ll wager none have yet worked out how to open a drawer. I slipped my sandals off my feet and moved to the hatch, silent as a hunting cat. Drawing a thin Aldabreshi dagger from my belt, I gripped the rope handle of the trap door, ripping it open and dropping into the cabin in one movement.

I had been ready for grappling whoever it was in darkness but a feeble candle stub showed me a girl, all skin and bone, eyes like great dark bruises in her pale face, unwashed hair straggling over her narrow shoulders in dark rats’ tails. I gripped her by the throat all the same; the bitch had my bag open at her feet, various of my possessions strewn on the floor. I raised my dagger so she could see it and shook her hard.

“Dast seize you, what are you at?”

Her eyes focused on the bright blade with difficulty and followed it, her expression blank, slack-mouthed, the taint of thassin bitter on her breath. I frowned and waved the knife deliberately to and fro. Her muddy, bloodshot eyes rolled as she tried to keep up with the rapid movement. I let her go and wondered just what her addled mind was making of this, what phantasms her imagination was conjuring up in my place, hoping she didn’t suddenly decide I was a two-headed dog and start screaming.

“Don’t worry about Repi, she’s harmless enough. She’s looking for thassin, tahn, anything, chewing leaf if you’ve got it.” Dev’s voice startled me and I scowled up the hatch at his unconcerned face. “She hasn’t the wit to think about robbing you of anything else.”

“Curse it, Dev, you should have said something,” I protested. “I could have killed her.”

“I don’t suppose she’d have noticed for a while.” Dev slid down the ladder and snapped his fingers in front of the girl’s vacant face. “Bed,” he snapped, opening the door to the main hold, manner and tone much as I would have used to an errant hound. The girl made it through the doorway on the second attempt, clumsily rubbing her arm where she had banged it cruelly on the jamb. Dev’s expression remained contemptuous as Repi stumbled into a tangle of blankets against the far bulkhead.

“What’s she? An advertisement for your other wares?” I snapped at Dev.

“Something like that.” He pulled off his tunic and climbed deftly into his hammock, unconcerned. “She’s quite good on her back as well, as long as you give her some sapsalt to wake her up a bit. Help yourself if you like, she’ll do anything you want if she thinks there’s a trip to the shades in it for her.”

I couldn’t even begin to reply to that, so I thrust my belongings back in my bag, tying the lace at the neck in a secure knot before hanging the whole thing on the high hook of my hammock. Settling myself to sleep, I forced myself to concentrate on the fact that this unsavory vessel was still my fastest hope of leaving these pestilential islands.

We weighed anchor just after dawn and Dev steered us expertly through the crowded strait into more open waters. Whatever I might think of him, he was certainly a proficient sailor. I worked the ropes as instructed and took over what cooking there was to be done when I realized Dev’s taste for hot spices extended to even the simplest of meals and Repi was rarely in a state to be trusted near a naked flame. I rolled up my mail and stowed it at the bottom of my kit, my gems securely tied in the middle of the metal. Dressed in simple cotton, I kept my head down and concentrated on looking as unremarkable as I could, Shek Kul’s token hidden beneath my tunic, as much to ensure Dev didn’t get his hands on it too early as anything else. I didn’t figure it would take too many reminders of temptation for him to decide to slit my throat one night. As it was, I always waited for him to sleep before I did and woke myself early with the tricks of a soldier’s training.

As we worked our way up the long chain of the Archipelago, we made landfall in various anchorages, some the busy trading straits like the one where I had met Dev, others secluded coves where furtive men in shallow rowing boats drew alongside to bargain with Dev. I stayed out of it all, only going ashore to eat when necessary and on the not infrequent occasions when Dev brought one or more eager men aboard to get Repi below decks and take their pleasure with her.

All in all, I was seeing a very different picture of life in the Archipelago to the one Laio had painted for me. Well, her advice hadn’t exactly proved entirely trustworthy, had it? Every so often, I wondered how she was, her and Gar, Mahli and the baby. Having spent ten years and more in Messire’s service, I have had to get used to visiting places and making friends, only to leave them after a season or so, often never to see them again. Still, I knew I would always remember Laio with fondness, and not only for the gifts of her body and her jewelry. I wondered idly if she had any idea of the real worth of the trinkets she had bestowed on me. Different though her beliefs might be, I reckoned I’d be burning incense at a shrine to Drianon for Laio, to keep her safe through child-bed; for Grival and Sezarre too, though I couldn’t quite decide whether Trimon or Talagrin would be the most appropriate deity to watch over them.

I turned my thoughts to such considerations whenever life on the little ship threatened to be too distasteful, slamming a firm door on any impulse to try and shelter Repi from Dev’s abuses. Some days this was harder than others, especially when some islander who’d paid for a turn with her had shown a taste for violence.

“Why don’t you give the poor bitch a chance to recover?” I snapped one day as Dev knelt beside her, lifting her unresponsive head to blow some smoke into her nostrils, a great bruise purpling one side of her face. The smell of the smoldering leaves was making me edgy as well; I was more than a little concerned that catching too much of it might let those voices loose inside my head again. I was finding I was having enough trouble with the increasingly vivid and powerful dreams I was having about young D’Alsennin. I’d be cursed if I’d unleash him into my waking mind again, having finally recognized his as the voice I had heard when fighting the Ice Islander priest. If I’d thought I had any chance of picking up another decent blade, I’d have been sorely tempted to drop D’Alsennin’s sword into the sea some night and face answering to the Sieur for so dishonoring his gift. Unfortunately, common sense reminded me that the Archipelago was no place to be traveling without a weapon.

Dev scowled and dropped Repi’s head to the deck with a sickening thud. “Silly poult, she’s been mixing tahn and liquor again. No wonder Ful lost his temper with her; it must have been like ramming a rag doll.”

I bit down hard on the words that were hammering at the inside of my teeth and stared over the rail at the shoreline. We were anchored in a secure cove with no other ships and I noticed the trees were sparser here, more akin to the ones you’d see in southern Caladhria. With any luck I’d be off this ship in a few days if my rough calculations as to our course were anything like correct.

“Smoke? I can’t rouse Repi and I don’t fancy spitting dead meat, so we might as well get glazed.” Dev blew on the embers of his censer and added a few more leaves, taking a deep breath before offering me the little metal bowl in its horn holder.

I shook my head abruptly, moving out of the way of the drifting scent.

“You want it, though, don’t you?” Dev laughed, his own eyes growing wide and dark as the intoxication spread through him.

I didn’t bother replying. In any case it was true. Catching the scent so often lately had reawakened all the cravings that I thought I’d left so far behind me. I kept catching myself finding justifications for just a little smoke, taking a little thassin to chew or some leaf, there was plenty on offer after all. The notion of losing myself just for a little while was just so tempting, stealing an evening free of the memories of Kaeska’s appalling death, my apprehension over how Messire was going to judge my recent experiences, my struggle to decide whether I would admit to these dreams of D’Alsennin and his lost colony and sink myself deeper into some wizards’ plotting or lie through my teeth and deny it all, forfeiting my oath though none but me would know it. Some nights just about the only thing holding me back was the fear that relinquishing control like that would let loose whatever shade of D’Alsennin remained tied to his sword and was currently locked firmly away in the back of my mind, for the moment at least.

Dev showed no after effects of the smoke the following day and got us moving in a high good humor. “We’re heading out away into open waters today,” he announced over breakfast. “It’ll be rougher and we’ll need to watch the winds.”

“Keep Repi below decks then,” I said shortly, “or tie a line to her.”

Dev laughed as if I had just made an excellent jest, so I turned my back on him and addressed myself to the business of sailing the little ship, which was not really built for the seas we faced as we left the shelter of the Archipelago, alone on the empty expanse of the water.

“Take the tiller and turn her into the wind!” Dev shouted to me. I hurried to comply as he left the stern and the ship rocked alarmingly. I grabbed for the arm of the rudder but missed as I saw a complex tangle of red light swirl around his fingers, the ruby glow sparking arcane reflections in his dark eyes.

“You’re a pissing wizard!” I gasped, reaching for the tiller and just managing to grab it this time to steady the ship.

“Reporting to the Archmage and a seat on the Council any time I want it,” Dev confirmed as he spread his hands and sent a column of fire high into the sky above our heads. “Not that I do want it, not just yet. Sailing the islands like this, in my line of trade, it’s a fine life. If I can earn some credit in Hadrumal with what I discover, so much the better. I’ll be wintering there this year, though. You’re a fine prize for me to bring in.” He laughed at my shocked expression. “I’ve been hunting for you ever since Shek Kul set sail from Relshaz. What did you think? The Archmage was going to let you loose in the Archipelago and forget about you? Not with what I think you’ve got in your head, not when those Elietimm are spending so much time and trouble to get their hands on you and that sword.”

He was openly gloating now. If we’d been within sight of land, I’d have been over the rail and swimming for shore to take my chances with whatever lurked beneath the waters. As it was I took a step toward the smirking man before the lurch of the ship brought me to my senses.

“I’m a Tormalin sworn man, I answer to my patron and no one else, you bastard,” I told Dev in no uncertain terms. “If Planir wants me, he’ll answer to Messire D’Olbriot first!”

“Already signed and sealed,” Dev laughed. “You’ve been handed over as surely as when you were sold in Relshaz!”

I might really have hit him then had a sail not appeared on the horizon. Square-rigged and three-masted, it was a Tormalin ship, the type I had seen all my life in the oceanside harbor at Zyoutessela. Squinting into the sun, I struggled to identify the flag at the masthead, desperately hoping to see the D’Olbriot insignia. Let the mages try and get me off one of Messire’s ships against my will; I couldn’t believe Dev’s tale, that the patron would transfer me to another’s orders without my consent, especially not to the Archmage.

The three-master closed with us rapidly with the winds at her stern. I ignored Dev’s protests as I abandoned the rudder to him and collected my gear. I was ready to catch a line thrown from the taller ship as soon as she drew alongside and tied my kit-bag securely to it, waving a hand to the sailor who hauled it aboard for me. A rope ladder snaked down to me and I looked for the right moment to catch it.

“Don’t you owe me for your passage?” Dev shouted, half angry, half taunting. I looped my arm through the ladder and got my feet on to it before turning to glare at him.

“You really think so?”

“I can do a lot for the Archmage with a token like that,” he insisted, face serious for once. “Besides, you swore it to me.”

And I wasn’t about to forswear myself, just for the sake of poking this little filth in the eye. I spat on to his deck before ripping the medallion from my neck and tossing it over, watching with contempt as Dev scrambled for the shining disc. Fury goading me to unexpected violence, I decided it would be best to leave before I killed him and climbed rapidly aboard the three-master. A genial mariner helped me over the rail, the master of the ship by his dress and manner.

“You and Dev not the best of friends then?” he inquired, evidently amused.

“The man’s privy slime!” I wasn’t about to change my mind on that in a hurry.

“You know the legend about the masquerader whose mask stuck to his face when he abused Ostrin’s hospitality without knowing it?” The sailor nodded toward Dev’s retreating boat. “That’s Dev’s problem; he’s spent so long playing the part to keep himself from being skinned alive for magecraft.”

I watched the little vessel move swiftly away in defiance of wind and wave. No need for concealment excused Repi’s plight, as far as I was concerned. Still, there was nothing I or anyone could do to help her and at least I was free of Dev now. I turned to the captain.

“Where are we headed? Relshaz or Col? I’m not quite clear which side of the Cape of Caladhria we are.”

The sailor laughed. “Sorry, friend, we’re bound for Hadrumal, full sail and best speed.”

“Hadrumal can wait; I’m a sworn man to Messire D’Olbriot, my duty is to him.” I thought about the fortune I had concealed in my gear. “I can make it worth your while to set me ashore on the mainland, I’ll pay a full charter fee.”

“I’m not crossing the Archmage for all the gems in Aldabreshi.” The mariner shook his head firmly. “You’re going to Hadrumal, friend, like it or not.”