The Swordsman's Oath

A letter found in the Receipt and Commonplace Book of

Sidra, Lady Metril,

Attar Bay, Caladhria,

dated to the 10th year of Emperor Leoril the Dullard.

My dearest Sidra,

I have the most exciting news imaginable! Herist is newly home from his voyage and he has done it! As I write, we have rows of little spice plants all flourishing in our glass houses. Is it not wonderful? Better still, our head gardener is confident he should be able to grow them outside once they are big enough. Herist is not sure how long it will be before the bushes will bear berries, but once they do we will be able to sell all manner of spices and make our fortunes. I am sure people will much rather deal with us; after all, we will be happy to take properly minted gold and silver and not bother with endless arguments over barter and exchange. As long as the island savages cannot understand the concept of coin, I do not see how they can hope to compete, not when we have no shipping costs, neither.

Herist has a wondrous store of tales about his adventures among the barbarians. He traveled widely and was welcomed most warmly; they seem to be quite naive, almost child-like in some ways. Since Misaen in his unfathomable wisdom has seen fit to grant their islands vast riches in gemstones, fine jewels are to be seen on all the men and women, even those of quite inferior status. Yet they swap such things among themselves, in the manner of children exchanging baubles at a Solstice fair. Herist has brought me home pearls that will make you quite sick with envy, my dear, and acquired merely for a couple of old swords and a bag of nails.

Their rulers are all old men, gross from indulgence in every luxury of life. When I pressed him, Herist acknowledged their appetites are not merely for food and wine. Each has a flock of women kept at hand; they call themselves wives but I would rather describe them as concubines, from all Herist says. They dress themselves in the most scandalous style, all paint and adornments, and they have no other purpose in life than satisfying the lusts of whatever men will have them, it would seem. One can only assume they know no better, untutored and ungodly as they are. Herist assures me he did not succumb to temptation, though it seems the more depraved customarily offer travelers the choice of their doxies.

They seem to have no idea of kingship or proper government; each Warlord simply holds whatever islands he can seize by force of arms. They set great store in skills with sword and bow, knowing no other means of solving disputes beyond the exercise of brute strength. Accordingly, Herist had to be most circumspect in obtaining the seeds for the spice plants, since his life would not have been worth a penny’s purchase if the poor ignorant barbarians had had an inkling of his plans. Still, as he says, a bull is only dangerous if you rouse it, so he was quite able to elude their slower wits.

You must come and pay a lengthy visit, my dear. I long to show you my new jewels and all the other things Herist brought back for me, silks, curios and some carvings, that I swear will bring a blush to the most liberal cheek.

Written the 11th day of Aft-Spring, at our Derret Chase lodge.

Trini, Lady Arbel

The galley of Shek Kill, sailing the Gulf of Lescar, 33rd of Aft-Spring

I walked obediently behind the swordsman, who led me to a cabin at the stern of the ship. Faint sympathy flared in his eyes as he opened the door and gestured me through. I entered warily, ducking my head and trying to look as harmless as possible, not difficult given my bruises and prison-stained rags. My mind, meanwhile, was racing furiously; what was happening on the dockside?

The woman responsible for my present predicament was sitting on a heap of bright cushions, a complex embroidery in her hands as she matched silks with a critical eye. She glanced up and I didn’t trust the expression of malicious amusement on her sharp face for a moment. She called out something in a sweetly inviting tone and a younger woman swept through a second door, her expression of excitement turning rapidly to one of horror when she saw me.

The first woman was studying an intricate flower with a serene expression as the other girl gave me a scathing glance of contempt and stormed over to her. I watched with intense frustration as the woman sewing calmly replied to the newcomer’s tirade in tones of sweet unconcern. Finally the combination of rage and injured pride overcame the girl and she burst into furious tears as she flounced out of the cabin.

Left standing there without any idea what I should do, I forced myself to put aside the question of Shiv and the Elietimm, to lock it away in that box in the back of my mind. The others would have to look after themselves; they were together, they had allies in Relshaz, above all Livak was no fool. My first duty was to myself now; I had to concentrate on staying alive here until I could somehow return to the mainland. I was on my own and, I judged, in no little danger.

I looked at the woman but she was concentrating on her embroidery, a slight curve to her carefully painted lips and satisfaction in her almond-shaped eyes. A gesture from the swordsman caught my eye. Watching his mistress warily, he pointed to the door through which the weeping girl had fled. Keeping my face carefully expressionless, I went through the slatted door, which was still swinging on its pins from the fury of the girl’s passage.

I found myself in a large airy cabin whose long shutters opened on to a small private deck at the rear of the ship. The girl was no longer weeping but the hot tears were still wet on her face, ruining her intricate makeup. A blush swept up her cheeks and her lips narrowed. Embarrassment warred with fury in her stormy brown eyes as she took a deep breath. I judged it prudent to keep my expression as noncommittal as I could.

After a few minutes the girl shrugged with an enigmatic sigh, pushed a long curl of black hair off her face and sat on a pile of cushions, her elegant amber gown hitched above jewel-clasped ankles. They were nice ankles, though I noticed she had incongruously toughened feet. In fact she was a luscious blossom all together, about as tall as my chin, rounded hips and a plump bosom barely concealed by the loose, sleeveless silk. Her angry frown looked inappropriate on her round face but I could believe her full lips were used to pouting prettily. She pointed to the floor with a curt instruction, hitching her dress back on to one smooth brown shoulder.

It seemed the Aldabreshi didn’t believe in chairs, so I sat on the floor and tried for an ingratiating smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the Aldabreshi tongue.”

The girl frowned and tried again in Relshazri; I shrugged in mute apology. This was a new problem for me; in those few instances when I find myself dealing with a backwoods peasant who has no Tormalin, I have enough Caladhrian and Dalasorian to fall back on if pressed. I had never imagined I would need to learn the language of the Archipelago. I couldn’t even think of anyone I knew who could have taught me.

“You are Tormalin?” the girl asked after a few moments, her words hesitant and thickened by a strong Aldabreshi accent.

I bowed awkwardly from the waist, not knowing what else to do. “My name is Ryshad.”

She repeated it a few times to herself, splitting the syllables and coloring them with an Aldabreshi intonation. “Rhya Shad.”

I’d better get used to answering to that then, until I found some way out of this maze.

The girl nodded with satisfaction and then pointed to herself.

“I am Laio Shek, fourth wife to Shek Kul and manager of his weavers.”

I bowed again, making as low a reverence as I could; I know precisely the etiquette required when meeting the Sieur of a House, his heirs and ladies, how to address a Lescari Duke or an Ensaimin Lord, but I had absolutely no idea of the courtesies usual between owner and slave. I had imagined any exchanges were largely made with the tongue of a whip and had no desire to have her resort to that; I’d rather look an idiot and scrape my nose on the floorboards. I’d have no chance of getting away if I were to be injured.

There was an awkward silence, so I looked around the cabin. The wooden walls were painted in a pale yellow and furnished with delicate, silken embroideries. The floor was polished and a low bed was set against the far wall, heaped with silken quilts. Several dresses were tossed carelessly on it and a tray of makeup perched perilously close to the edge.

“You stink,” Laio said abruptly. “You will wash before you attend to your duties.”

“What exactly are my duties?” I asked cautiously.

Laio’s lips narrowed and she drew a swift breath of irritation in through her finely shaped nostrils.

“Pour me wine.” She pointing to a flagon on a low side-table by the shutters. I fetched a glassful, looking around in vain for a tray or a salver. Laio nodded approvingly but a faint frown still wrinkled her forehead.

“Take some yourself and be seated,” she said unexpectedly.

As I did so, unimpressed by its thin taste and weakness, she finished her own drink and sat twirling the narrow-stemmed glass in her hands, the nails brightly varnished. “You are a mainlander from the lands of the east, is that correct?”

“Yes, from Zyoutessela, in southern Tormalin.”

Laio dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “A mainlander, you know nothing of our islands?”

Not much, other than there were supposed to be about a hundred bloodthirsty Warlords, each ruling one major island and any number of smaller ones with an iron fist, blood and terror. I thought of the various lurid tales I’d heard over the years.

“No, nothing,” I lied firmly.

Laio looked at me with speculative eyes. “I see. How long have you been a slave?”

“Shek Kul is my first owner,” I coughed as the words threatened to stick in my throat.

Laio frowned again and muttered something petulant in Aldabreshi but I got the impression her anger was not directed at me.

“I do not know how Gar Shek managed to persuade Shek Kul to buy you, but I am sure she expects you to make a poor slave. Since the quality of a body slave reflects on his owner, she hopes you will humiliate me. I am not going to let that happen, I have already given her too much satisfaction with my reaction.”

She gestured with her glass and I hastened to refill it. “What do you think your duties here are?”

I ran through the various rumors I’d heard about the personal slaves of Aldabreshi women and opted for the least lewd.

“I am to protect you from other men, to keep you safe for your husband?” I hazarded.

A faint look of distaste flickered across Laio’s face. “Do your mainlander women submit to being guarded like fowl in a garden? You are not my husband’s slave, you are mine, do you understand?”

I nodded, understanding almost nothing so far.

“You are to defend me, that is true,” continued Laio, “not for my husband’s sake, but for mine. If I order it, you will fight whomsoever I say, even Shek Kul. In the Islands, no husband has rights over his wife’s body.”

It would be truly astounding if that were true, I thought sarcastically. The Toremal law codes are the only ones I know that will deny a man his marriage bed, and that only happens when the wife can bring three independent witnesses to the Justiciary to swear they’ve seen him abusing her. However I schooled my face to an impassive blank as I listened to Laio’s clipped accents.

“Now, listen to me; you must learn fast and I am not going to instruct you a second time. In Aldabreshi, a wife has both status and duties in her own right; we manage our husband’s property and give him children, if we so choose, in return for his protection and favor. Profitable wives are a credit to a man, marriage is a binding alliance and alliances mean power in the Archipelago. Shek Kul has alliances with his neighbors and with two of the central Lords through his wives; he is considered a powerful man. His domain is in the south of the Archipelago.”

That meant I was going even further south than the Cape of Winds; I thought with some distaste of the Archipelago’s reputedly hot and sticky climate. Laio was speaking slowly now, to make sure I understood her and I listened obediently. The more I knew about the set-up, the sooner I could work out how to get clear of this mess. I realized with a sudden, inappropriate surge of relief that at least I was on my own here; without wizards to obey or someone else’s plans to take into account. Certainly Messire would have no means of sending me aid, even if it occurred to Planir to warn him of my plight. The House of D’Olbriot’s only dealings with the Archipelago are to chase off the occasional raiders who risk the storm-tossed eastern crossing to prey on the ships that ply the Gulf coast.

“Shek Kul’s First Wife manages his gems and his household. She is called Kaeska Shek, born Kaeska Danak. The Second Wife is Mahli Shek, born Mahli Kaasik, and she has charge of the farms on Shek Kul’s islands, dealing with the overseers and the free Islanders as well as trading the produce. The Third Wife is Gar Shek who was born Gar Gaska, from the northwest; she has developed a trade in fine embroideries. It has given her great status and that reflects well on Shek Kul, which is why she gets her own way so often at the moment.”

A rather smug smile lit up Laio’s face for an instant. “That won’t last for much longer; Mahli is pregnant and when her baby is born she will become First Wife and keep Gar in her place. I am Fourth Wife, I was born Laio Sazac in the west-central islands and married Shek Kul just over a year ago. As the most junior wife at present, I have charge of the cotton weavers, I oversee their work and trade the finished cloth. I travel all over Shek Kul’s islands and to those of Kaasik Rai at least three times a year. I also receive visitors and agents from other domains. You will see to all my needs and those of my guests when I meet with them. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear, my lady.”

So it was looking as if all those lurid tales of Aldabreshi ladies kept isolated and caged like decorative birds, waiting only to satisfy their husbands’ exotic lusts, were more than a little inaccurate.

“You will obey my orders without question in public. You will not argue with me and you will not answer back. If you do not understand something, wait until we are alone and then ask, but I will not answer any questions in front of Shek Kul or Gar. You may take orders from Mahli but not from Gar or Kaeska. They have no right to get you to do things for them and they know it.”

I couldn’t see the haughty Gar Shek taking kindly to defiance but it was clear from Laio’s scowl that this was not open to debate. I also realized Gar would be easily able to hear Laio’s words from the next room and the girl was telling the other woman just where the runes lay as well as me.

“I will arrange for you to spend as much time as we can spare with Grival, who belongs to Mahli; you will learn everything he has to tell you about a body slave’s duties. Sezarre is Gar’s body slave; he is an excellent swordsman so he can train you to an acceptable standard. You can also use your time with him to learn what you can about Gar’s plans. You will have to learn to speak Aldabreshi; I cannot be doing with your barbarian tongue all the time. You will be fluent by the end of the season.”

This was also clearly not open to debate and I wondered uneasily how hard it would be. All the Aldabreshi I’d heard sounded as if they were trying to spit while chewing nails.

Laio wiped a hand across her face and frowned at the smear of rouge.

“Fetch me some cream to clean all this off.” She gestured to a heavily inlaid coffer standing in a corner.

I rose and opened it to find a tray holding rough scraps of cloth, a fine porcelain, lidded bowl of thin lotion and a blue bottle of Relshazri glass that contained something smelling faintly astringent. Laio nodded approvingly and I knelt, feeling quite superfluous, as she stripped the cosmetics from her lips, eyes and cheeks. Looking at her naked face, I was startled to realize that she was no more than seventeen or eighteen years old; given her poise and evident ease with her status as a Warlord’s wife, I’d have put at least five years on that.

A knock on the door made Laio pause; at her impatient gesture, I opened it to reveal a heavily pregnant woman in a plain cream robe, much my own height, who leaned against the door-post and smiled at Laio. She asked something in Aldabreshi, her low husky voice softening the harsh language. Laio laughed and pointed at me with a dramatic gesture of helplessness. That decided me; I was going to learn this tongue, even if it did make me sound like a dog being sick. No chit of a girl nearly half my age was going to be able to make jokes at my expense without me understanding them.

I studied the newcomer as the women talked. She was tall and, even allowing for her condition, was a heavily built woman. Where Laio had long black tresses tumbling down her back, this lady had short hair, growing in strange, tight curls that dotted her head like peppercorns. Her skin was the darkest I’d seen yet, an unnerving reminder of how different the Aldabreshi could be. I was somewhat reassured by the good nature in her wide, deep-brown eyes, set above broad cheekbones with laughter lines at their corners. Laio said something that made Mahli burst into peals of laughter and then stood up, a smile brightening her own expression.

“I will spend some time with Mahli now,” she announced. “Clear up in here and then go and find Sezarre. We will talk again later.”

She left the room in a perfumed rustle of silk and I stood up, rubbing my knees. I was certainly not looking forward to spending so much time scrambling around on the floor and wondered if the Aldabreshi went in for more furniture when they were on dry land. I looked around at the chaos it seemed Laio habitually created and recalled my mother threatening to drill Kitria into neatness with a willow switch. Some things were common to all young girls, it would seem.

Something in me rebelled as I reached for a slippery, silk gown and looked around for a coffer or somesuch to stow it in. Incandescent with instant rage, I hovered on a knife edge of temptation, longing to rip the flimsy thing to shreds and see how the bossy little blossom liked that. My grip tightened on the delicate cloth but I suddenly found myself laughing instead at such uncharacteristic and ill-considered anger. I was certainly adrift with no hope of wind at the moment, but I had to stay calm if I was going to paddle my way out of this.

“From sworn man to maidservant! Well, Ryshad, you’ve certainly done well for yourself.”

Laio could call me a slave all she wanted; no one could make me think of myself as one. I could play the part though, the same way I’d played the half-wit with no more sense than his dung fork for half a season in order to unravel a fraud in Messire’s shearing sheds. I gathered up the discarded dresses and found their allotted chest, rapidly restoring the room to order before going in search of the man who’d escorted me to the ship—Sezarre, that was his name, I remembered.

I found him on deck, conferring with an impressively muscled man with a shaven head and hard, black eyes. They were both stripped to the waist and sweating freely, a blunted blade in each hand. Nodding agreement, they resumed their contest and I stepped back hurriedly out of their way. The other tales I’d heard of the Archipelago might turn out to be false, but it soon looked as if the reputation of their swordsmen was if anything underestimated. The swords might be a hand’s width or so shorter than I was accustomed to, but using them in pairs, rather than with a dagger or shield for the off hand, any Aldabreshin was going to make up in damage for anything he lacked in reach. I whistled soundlessly as the two of them went at each other with a flurry of strokes, blades clashing and smacking together, only breaking when Sezarre took a stinging slice to one shoulder.

I winced as I saw the red line darkened to an instant bruise; his eyes caught mine and he rubbed at it with a rueful grin. The other one said something and picked up the practice blades, sliding them into a canvas bag. He had to be Grival.

“We wash,” Sezarre said in halting Tormalin.

I nodded and followed him to the side of the ship where Grival was already hauling up buckets of sea water. Both the other body slaves stripped naked, unconcerned and attracting no notice from the sailors busy about the business of ship. I joined them, happy to discard the memories of the Relshaz lock-up along with the rags and relishing the sting of the clean, clear water. I started slightly when Grival took a washcloth to my back but reminded myself of all the times Aiten and I had done each other such a service. I shut my eyes on the sting of sudden grief, all the more searing in my present uncertainty.

“Here.” Sezarre handed me a bowl of thin, liquid soap and I scrubbed myself clean eagerly.

Grival said something and rummaged in a bag, passing me a small pot of ointment. I wondered if he spoke any Tormalin at all.

“For the skin.” Sezarre took the pot and rubbed a fingerful on to his own bruise.

I nodded and began the lengthy task of anointing all my own scrapes and swellings. The stuff stung but smelled wholesome enough and the simple fact of being clean again and tending my injuries did wonders for my spirits.

Grival made a comment to Sezarre that had both of them laughing as they looked at me; I smiled and swallowed my indignation. I needed allies here, it was time to start making myself one of the lads.

“He says you look like a dog he once owned, all patches of brown and white,” Sezarre explained with a wide smile.

I looked down at myself and saw the lines marking my sun-darkened arms and face from the paler skin of my chest and thighs. Nodding and forcing a smile to show I understood the joke, I realized that I was the lightest-skinned person on the ship, as far as I could tell. Grival was the color of old leather from head to toe, and while Sezarre’s arms were about the same shade as mine it was evidently the natural tone of his skin, not the touch of the sun. It felt distinctly strange to stand out like this; going north for Messire, I am more used to people commenting on the darkness of my hair and complexion. The deck rocked beneath my feet, reminding me of my uncertain footing here.

I mimed scraping my face with a blade. “Razor?”

Sezarre frowned and said something to Grival who looked startled.

“No.” Sezarre shook his head emphatically. “Not now you are an Islander.”

I looked around the boat and realized that I couldn’t see a clean chin anywhere. I smiled and nodded to Sezarre, sighing inwardly at the prospect of having to wear a beard. I’ve done it a few times, by way of a disguise, and as far as I’m concerned there are few pleasures to compare with shaving the cursed thing off. Unfortunately, from what I’d already seen of my so-called mistress, I couldn’t see her agreeing to let me ignore a current fashion for hairy faces.

Grival passed me a clean if well-worn shirt while Sezarre found a spare pair of trousers, both of soft, unbleached cotton. Fingering the unfamiliar cloth, I couldn’t restrain a smile; this was expensive stuff, back home. I looked around for some footwear.

“Boots?” I inquired hopefully.

Sezarre shook his head. “Not in the Islands. Feet will rot.”

That explained the puzzle of the fine ladies with their calloused feet.

Grival muttered something to Sezarre, not looking at me.

“He says you are not born a slave?” asked Sezarre, hesitation warring with curiosity in his voice.

“No.” I gave him a friendly smile; one of these men might have that crucial piece of information that would get me out of here; the most compelling reason I could think of to learn to speak their language.

“What do you do, before?”

I could see the questions hovering in his eyes and I couldn’t blame him; I’d be wary if someone suddenly foisted a potential criminal on my watch roster.

“I was a sworn man to a great lord, a swordsman, a man at arms.” I’d been a lot more than that but this was hardly the time to try explaining notions of oath and duty to these people.

“Now you serve the wife of Shek Kul, our Great Lord,” Sezarre smiled broadly at me, apparently expecting me to share in his delight at the prospect.

I nodded and remembered an Aldabreshi carving Lady Channis kept in her salon; look at it one way, and it was a tree, but from another angle, it was a face. That would be a good enough way to cope with my situation, for the time being at least, looking at slavery as another form of service. I couldn’t change what was done, so I had to concentrate on making things go my way in future.

Before I could pursue that thought, Grival clapped a hand to his forehead with a sudden exclamation and rapidly crossed the deck to a pile of bundles. He tossed something to me and I caught it in a reflex action, wondering what it could be.

It was my sword. I stared stupidly at the gleaming green leather of the scabbard.

“Good blade,” said Sezarre approvingly, face expectant as he held out a hand.

So, buyers at the Relshaz slave markets got their stock complete with harness, I thought sardonically. Well, well; how civilized. I passed the sword over and watched as he sent the shining steel whirling around his head and shoulders in a glittering series of arcs and passes that made me glad I hadn’t tried my luck against him earlier.

Still, it would be good to have the blade with me, a constant reminder of my true master, my service given freely, the oaths that protected my honor. Those oaths meant Messire would be doing all he could to trace me too, as long as those cursed wizards let him know I’d been taken. I’d rather get myself out of this mess but the remembrance that others would be busy on my behalf was a comforting one.

A bell rang. Sezarre and Grival hastily packed their gear and I followed their lead to the galley. It seemed we were to serve the ladies their lunch; I copied the others as they each loaded a tray with plates of a pale yellow, steamed meal and things chopped up in bowls and covered with a wide variety of sauces. From the amount Grival took from the galley, the woman Mahli must be eating for a litter of six, never mind one baby. Sezarre seemed to think Gar must have hollow legs.

I soon discovered my mistake when I realized that a body slave’s meals were his lady’s leavings. I couldn’t follow the women’s conversation but from the tone of it and their expressions, you would have thought they were all the closest of friends. Watching gloomily, my stomach protesting, I saw that Laio’s curves stemmed from a hearty appetite. We served more of the weak wine and fruit and eventually Mahli took herself off for a rest, Gar returned to her embroideries and I was surprised to see Laio ensconce herself on some cushions with a writing case and a stack of correspondence, close-written on fine reed paper.

“We eat.” Sezarre nodded to the door and I followed him and Grival to what appeared to be our accustomed spot on deck.

Grival laughed, not unkindly, and passed me a couple of bowls from his own, largely untouched tray. I smiled my thanks and looked cautiously at their contents. I passed over something that looked like a nest of tiny innards and poked a finger at a heap of wilted green leaves.

“Called ‘Turil’. ” Sezarre passed me a strange sort of spoon; it had a flattened bowl and two prongs at the end of the handle, like a tiny hayfork. I watched as he mimed scooping and spearing food and understood why everything was cut into such small pieces.

“No hands, very bad.” He shook his head firmly. “Not clean, mainlander habits.”

I sighed and forked up a mouthful of the leaves. For one appalling moment, I thought I’d bitten a wasp; given I could see flowers in several dishes, it was the only answer I could imagine for the searing pain in my mouth.

“Mountain plant,” Sezarre passed me some fruit juice, “very hot.”

Eyes watering, I washed away the worst of the taste and played safe with a mouthful of the creamy cereal. It was a little gritty in texture, the tiny grains tending to stick to my teeth and palette, but while it had a strange, sour quality, it was not unpleasant.

Grival offered me a little plate with pieces of dark meat in a dark red sauce.

“Very good,” Sezarre nodded approvingly.

I managed a weak smile and touched a little of the sauce to my lips. To my surprise, it was sweet, almost honeyed with a hint of aromatic spices. At least I wouldn’t starve here, I thought as I emptied the dish hungrily.

“What became of my lady’s slave before me?” I asked.

Sezarre shrugged with an air of resignation. “Bone fever, very bad.”

I looked at my plate. I might not starve but there were a myriad other dangers that could leave me dead in the Archipelago.

A narrow strait between two steeply forested islands set in the heart of the far ocean.

Temar woke with a sudden start, disorientation clouding his senses, dense blackness pressing down on him. He shoved the stifling blanket off his head in a convulsive heave, blinked and the world returned to normal, the lantern of the unhurried sentry circling the camp a swinging pin-prick of light, soft noises of other sleepers all around him. Temar sat up and put his hands on the cool grass either side of him, taking a deep breath as the sensation of still being aboard a swaying ship gradually faded. He looked up at the increasingly unfamiliar stars and wondered how long it would be before dawn broke.

“Not long enough, at any rate,” he smiled to himself and rolled himself up to get as much rest as he could before facing the demands of another busy day. This was certainly no pleasure cruise, he mused as he drifted easily off to sleep.

The clatter of cooking pots and a rising murmur of conversation stirred him next. The sun was climbing over the dense trees on a spit of land at the far end of the strait and the camp was busying itself with breakfast, fires dotted across the grassy strip separating the water from the dense scrub. Temar sniffed appreciatively at the smell of biscuits on griddles mingling with the lush-green scents of the anchorage.

“Good morning.” Vahil shoved his head out of a tangle of blankets, wiry hair sticking up in all directions, a thick crease printed across one ruddy cheek.

Temar yawned and reached for his boots, checking them for opportunist crawlers before putting them on, wincing at the clammy touch of the damp leather. “I’m going for a wash,” he announced, heading for the brook that wound its way across the sward down to the shingle beach.

Cold water did much to drive the lingering sleep out of Temar’s eyes and he began to take in some of the details of the scene around him. His gaze fixed on Guinalle as she sat braiding her hair in front of a tent, face pink from her own ablutions, a thick shawl over her crisp linen shift.

“Feeling better for a night on dry land?” inquired Temar, pausing to clip back his own hair with his father’s silver clasp, now tarnished from salt and spray.

Guinalle managed a faint smile. “Yes, thank you. I must admit, I didn’t think it would take me so long to get my sea legs.”

“Do you know how long we’ll be stopping here?” he asked.

“We need to take on water, any fresh food we can find, make some repairs,” Guinalle grimaced. “I’d say we’ll be here just long enough for me to get used to being ashore again, so I can spend another handful of days with my head in a bowl once we set sail again, Larasion grant me strength.”

Temar smiled at her, thinking how even more attractive she was with her enviable self-possession just a little dented like this. “Shall we find some breakfast?”

“Not just at the moment.” Guinalle shook her head with a theatrical shudder. She pushed her braid back over her shoulder and reached for her gown, laid ready on a stool. “Could you lace me up? Elsire’s not up yet and the maids are busy.”

Temar watched with carefully concealed appreciation as Guinalle pulled the sensible brown gown over her head and settled it on her hips before turning her back to him. He pulled the laces tight and breathed in the scent of the pennymint she used in her linen as he tied them off securely.

“Do you know where Messire Den Fellaemion is?” Guinalle was all business now, dignity put on along with her clothes.

“Let’s see.” Temar scanned the camp. “There, by that stack of water casks.”

Guinalle stood on tiptoe and squinted uncertainly. “Oh yes, I see him.”

With a touch of regret Temar watched her go and then turned to look for some food, waving off a tenant who was heading his way with a disgruntled expression and a waterskin clutched in one hand.

Breakfast was all too soon over and Temar found himself scooping the last of his porridge out of his bowl as he took a seat at a rough trestle table where his ship’s steward was waiting with an array of ledgers and wax tablets. The sun had climbed high over the glassy waters of the strait, burning the morning mists from the trees, by the time Temar had an up-to-date record of stores remaining, water required and all the various minor injuries and disputes on the five ships that were carrying D’Alsennin tenants to their new home.

“Do you have a report for me?”

Temar looked up to see Messire Den Fellaemion pulling up a stool. The commander had a definite touch of color on his thin cheeks and his eyes were bright, the rough clothes of a sailor suiting him far more than the elegant dress he had worn in Zyoutessela.

“I should have it written up in a chime or so.” Temar hastily drew his scribbled notes together and reached for an ink-pot.

“That will be fine,” Den Fellaemion nodded easily. “After that, if you’ve no other calls on your time, you might like to see what game you can find for the cook-pots tonight. Take young Den Rannion with you.”

Temar couldn’t restrain a surprised smile and the older man laughed. “I think you’ve both earned a little recreation and since we’re going to be here for a handful of days, everyone would appreciate some fresh meat.”

“How long is the second half of the crossing?” Temar looked up, pen poised.

“With good winds, another twenty days or so.” Den Fellaemion rose. “We’ve done the worst of it.”

Temar nodded at the memory of some of the foul weather the ships had had to contend with.

“These islands are certainly a blessing from Dastennin, Messire,” he commented a little hesitantly. “I don’t recall you mentioning them before we set sail.”

Den Fellaemion grinned down at the younger man. “No, I didn’t. I’d rather any other would-be explorers continued to put my ability to cross the ocean down to my consummate seamanship and Dastennin’s particular favor. Once we have got the colony established, we can set up a permanent settlement here; that’ll be time enough to let the secret be known.”

“My compliments on your wisdom, Messire.” Temar sketched a ceremonious bow and the commander chuckled.

“My gratitude for your appreciation, Esquire,” he replied in the same mock formal tone before striding off to consult with the captain of one of the other vessels.

Temar bent to his notes with renewed zeal and finished his report in less time than he had anticipated. Carefully sanding the document and checking the ink was dry, he folded it neatly and tucked it in the breast of his jerkin before going in search of Den Fellaemion. The commander was standing by the stack of water casks again, deep in conversation with Guinalle and two of the ships’ captains.

“Thank you, Temar,” he said as he reached for the proffered parchment. “I think that’s all we need, Guinalle; why don’t you take some time for yourself this afternoon? You’ve been so busy lately, what with taking sightings and keeping the charts. Make the most of the stop, before we take ship again.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” Guinalle looked a little surprised. “I’ll just see to that milch cow, though.”

“Anything I can do to help?” asked Temar quickly.

“Perhaps; come on.” Guinalle led the way to a sturdy corral on the far side of the camp where the expedition’s precious livestock was securely confined.

“There you are, my lady.” One of the stockmen bustled up, relief palpable on his blunt face. “We’re all ready for you.”

Temar followed Guinalle to a pen of rough hurdles set some distance from the other beasts, his curiosity rising. A brindled cow with a white stripe down her back was lying there, eyes glazed and jaw slack, flanks heaving. One of her forelegs was crudely splinted with canvas and a broken spar.

“Give a hand on the ropes, lad.” The stockman evidently didn’t recognize Temar, giving him a gentle shove toward the waiting gang on the far side of a sturdy frame, lashed up of rough-cut green wood.

“Are you ready?” A faint frown creased Guinalle’s brow as she concentrated on the cow, starting a soft incantation that raised the hairs on the back of Temar’s neck.

The cow’s eyes rolled up in her head and her labored breathing rattled harshly.

“Quickly!” The gang hauled on the ropes to raise the beast on the frame as the stockman rapidly sliced through the great vessels on either side of her neck, the rich blood gushing into a cauldron waiting ready with oatmeal, herbs and dry fat.

Guinalle sighed and turned away as the men waiting to butcher the carcass moved in with gleaming knives; nothing was going to go to waste, not if they could help it.

“Are you all right?” asked Temar with some concern at the sadness in Guinalle’s eyes.

“Oh, yes.” Guinalle rubbed a hand over her eyes. “It’s just that I could have mended that leg, given the chance, but I didn’t have the time to spare, not with keeping track of the currents and the winds. I can’t say I liked just keeping the poor beast alive and insensible until she could be slaughtered here.”

“Oh.” Temar couldn’t really think of anything to say to that, but Guinalle didn’t seem to notice. He tried to stifle his own guilty pleasure at the thought of blood sausage, something he had developed quite a taste for, even if it was peasant food.

“The problem is that we just don’t have enough people with skills in Artifice, at least not beyond the very basic levels.” Guinalle shook her head determinedly. “That’s going to be one of the first things I remedy when we land.”

“Good,” nodded Temar. Guinalle looked up at him, a touch of humor returning to her expression.

“I’m glad that meets with your approval, Esquire.”

Temar swept a florid bow. “Your wisdom is only excelled by your beauty, Demoiselle.”

Guinalle laughed with a little more amusement than Temar would have liked, but at least the sadness lifted from her eyes.

“So what are you going to do with your afternoon?” he asked genially.

Guinalle let slip a look of slight disdain. “Probably listen to Elsire complaining about the effect of sea water on her hair and lamenting the limited space she has for her wardrobe.”

Temar chuckled. “That sounds about right.”

Guinalle looked at him consideringly. “Do you think you could find an excuse to show her around one of your ships, let her see how most people are spending their time on this voyage?”

“Why?”

“She seems to think she’s being terribly brave and is really suffering nobly, having to share a cabin and a maid with me. With Messire and her mother aboard with their personal servants, we are enjoying rather better treatment than I imagine you are. I certainly can’t make Elsire understand that everyone else on the other ships is packed in like herring in a barrel, that a lot of them are out on deck in all weathers and she’s cursed lucky to have room for more than a couple of changes of linen.”

“All right.” Temar had always had a soft spot for Elsire. “Her airs and graces don’t fool me, you know, I remember her when she was a gap-toothed nuisance with torn petticoats and muddy shoes.” Besides, if he got Elsire on her own, there was always the chance of stealing a taste of honey from her petal-soft lips. She was a girl who knew exactly where to step in the dances.

“Temar!” Vahil’s hearty shout echoed around the steep heights on either side of the inlet. Temar stifled a touch of irritation as his friend loped across the grass, a crossbow in one hand and a hunting bag slung over his shoulder.

“Den Fellaemion said we had leave to see what kind of game’s hiding in these woods.” Vahil slapped Temar on the back. “That’s the kind of order I’m happy to take. Go on, man, get your bow and let’s get out of here before someone thinks up some real work for us to do.”

Temar hesitated, tempted but equally unwilling to pass up the chance of some free time with Guinalle.

“Can I come?”

“I’m sorry?” Her question took him by surprise.

“I’d like to see some more of these islands and I’m quite a good shot with a shortbow.” Guinalle’s eyes were wide with mute appeal.

“Absolutely,” said Temar emphatically. “Of course, we’d be glad to have you along.”

“I’ll get changed.” Guinalle ran over to her tent and Vahil groaned.

“I’ll allow she’s a pretty flower, Temar, but she’s not exactly ripe for plucking, is she? Now we’ll be hanging around for the best part of a chime while she decides which dress will go most tastefully with the undergrowth.”

“She’s not Elsire,” Temar shook his head. “Half a Mark says she’s back here before I am.”

He didn’t exactly tarry over finding his short bow and quiver but the boots he had been wearing would probably have been sufficiently stout for the hillsides, though he decided to change them anyway. At any rate, Temar was pleased to see Guinalle heading for the waiting Vahil at much the same time as he finished lacing the tops of his hunting boots. She was wearing a close-cut divided skirt in a dull green and a long-sleeved tan jerkin and her own flat-heeled boots had clearly seen plenty of wear. A long knife was belted at her neat waist and she carried a short bow with the ease of familiarity.

“There should be a game trail coming down to the water.” Vahil led the way, his usual good humor well in evidence once more.

Temar and Guinalle followed him, the sounds of the camp soon fading as they climbed into the dense green of the moist forest, where the clouds clung to the high trees. Temar paused to give her a hand over a rocky stretch of path, the stones slick and damp with the warm mist.

“Isn’t it nice to get away!” he commented appreciatively. “No one asking you to sort out their tenth quarrel over baggage space or expecting you to have the answers to everything from homesickness to colicky babies.”

“That’s what you’ve been doing, is it?” Vahil was clearly amused.

“That and consoling the cook, who’s been planning something with eggs but the hens have gone off lay, convincing people they can manage on their water ration if they don’t use it for laundering their linen and dealing with a handful of petty disputes a day.” Guinalle shared a rueful glance with Temar.

“I leave that kind of thing to my father,” laughed Vahil. “My main problem’s boredom.”

Temar was not displeased to see faint vexation in Guinalle’s eyes, but felt honor bound to support his friend to some extent.

“I know I’ll be glad when we make a landfall and we can get on with the business of setting up the colony. You’ll have plenty to do then, Vahil.”

“True enough,” groaned Vahil with mock dread. “Look, there’s a trail heading through that dip; with any luck the noise of the camp won’t have spooked the game through there.”

“You’d better go in the middle.” Temar gestured to Guinalle. “I don’t suppose there are beasts of any size on a place like this but we might as well be careful.”

“Thank you, Esquire,” she said demurely, pushing carefully through the bushes after Vahil who was showing just how quietly he could move when he chose to.

Temar followed, his shirt soon damp from the moisture on the leaves and with sweat from the warmth of the day. They passed through the dip and began a careful descent into a shallow valley, rich with strange, glossy-leafed plants in a myriad shades of green and dotted with a few spicily scented blooms.

“There’s a clearing ahead.” Vahil paused to speak softly to Guinalle, who passed the word back.

Temar had to restrain an impulse to brush a sticky tendril from her damp forehead but happily answered Guinalle’s smile of frank enjoyment with one of his own.

“There!” Guinalle froze and sank down, taking an arrow from her quiver and nocking it carefully.

Temar and Vahil followed her gaze and saw a scatter of furry creatures grazing peaceably on the long grass in the center of the clearing. They exchanged a nod and moved stealthily to take up positions for themselves. Temar glanced across to Guinalle and, when she gave the nod, let fly. His second arrow found its target as well, but by then all the animals had vanished into the concealing forest, a few shaking leaves the only sign of their panicked flight. They rose and crossed to see what quarry they had taken.

‘What do you suppose these are?“ Vahil shook his head in mystification as he expertly removed his quarrel from the expiring creature.

Temar used his knife to open the mouth of his kill, cautious in case it was not quite dead. “It’s got teeth for grass and fruit, I’d say, so it should be good eating.”

“It’s certainly heavy enough, for the size of it.” Guinalle had pulled back the blunt-nosed, squarish head to slit the throat of the one that Temar’s second arrow had not quite killed clean. “I’d say it’s a hare that has ambitions to be a deer.”

Temar laughed. “That sounds about right.”

“Let’s find somewhere else to gut them,” Vahil suggested. “We could try waiting for the rest of them again tomorrow, if we don’t leave too much blood.”

Five of the densely muscled beasts between them was no slight burden and Temar was glad to let the two he carried slide from his shoulders when Guinalle sat down on a scatter of rocks a little way above the stream running through the base of the valley.

“I’ll cut some poles.” Vahil headed for a stand of springy young growth and Temar began gutting his animals, pleasantly surprised to see Guinalle doing the same with reasonable skill, if not the speed of any long practice. They worked in companionable silence until all the prey was cleaned, the entrails buried to baffle the flies and Vahil had uncorked the wineskin he had thoughtfully picked up before leaving the camp. Temar coughed at the smell of blood clogging his nostrils and picked some sprigs of a low growing, purple-tinged thyme. He handed one to Guinalle, who accepted it with a composed smile, faint color kissing her cheeks.

“Den Fellaemion said he’ll be looking to set up a permanent anchorage on these islands, you know, when the colony’s established,” Temar observed, looking idly around to stop himself gazing too obviously at Guinalle.

“I can think of worse places to live,” commented Vahil. “Nice climate, plenty of timber, game for hunting and room for farming.”

“You won’t be the first, if you do settle here,” said Guinalle unexpectedly.

“No, there are no people here.” Vahil shook his head. “Den Fellaemion told me; they checked all five of the islands when they first found them and they’ve been back several times since. There’s been no sign of anyone living here; he wouldn’t have let us go off like this, if he wasn’t certain.”

“Yes, I know.” Guinalle’s tone betrayed a certain irritation. “I spent most of yesterday using Artifice to make absolutely sure. What I’m saying is that there were people here once.”

Vahil opened his mouth to argue but Temar waved him down. “How do you know?”

“Look around you.” Guinalle rose from her seat on a boulder and swept round, arm outstretched. “There were huts here; can’t you see the circles, where the hearths were?”

Temar looked but with the best will in the world couldn’t see what she was indicating.

“Here.” Guinalle paced around a wide circle and suddenly Temar saw it, an almost invisible depression in the rough grasses with a clump of spite-nettle in the center.

“Yes, I see.” He looked at her, a little daunted but still impressed. “You have good eyes!”

Guinalle shook her head with a deprecating smile. “Well, I did get a clue from this.”

She held up a shard of crude pottery and tossed it to Temar. He turned it in his hands; black on one side from use in a fire, it was coarse and gritty stuff, still bearing the thumbprints of its maker.

“They were an uncultured people, I think. They hunted in the forests, gathered fruit in season, that kind of thing, not farmers in any real sense, as we understand it. They had music though, pipes and drums and storytellers; they weren’t complete savages.”

“A bit of broken pot can’t tell you that much, surely.” Vahil was trying politely to hide his skepticism, Temar could tell, but merely sounded patronizing.

“Artifice can.” Guinalle’s eyes were distant as she turned another potsherd over and over in her hands. “I can pick up echoes, sort of, from things like this. It was a long time ago, though.”

“What happened to them?” Temar was fascinated.

“I can’t tell.” Guinalle frowned slightly. “There are flames in the destruction of this pot, distress too.”

“That could just mean some woman dropped it in the fire and ruined the dinner,” laughed Vahil. “Either that or she threw it at her husband and missed!”

“It’s more than that.” Guinalle looked more than a little piqued but Vahil seemed oblivious as he finished the wine.

“Just what sort of things can you tell from something like this?” Temar held out a hand and tried to fit the two pieces of weathered crock together without success.

“It depends on many different factors—on how old something is, how valued it was by its owner, the strength of emotions involved.” Guinalle’s tone became slightly didactic. “Of course Artifice can be used to deliberately instill memories in an item as well, visions that an Adept can retrieve.”

“Saedrin’s stones,” said Temar without thinking, wondering what possible use that sort of thing could have.

Guinalle didn’t seem to notice the vulgarism. “It’s a difficult thing to achieve, and it’s something that has been subject to misuse in the past. It can have rather unexpected effects on some people,” she sighed. “I’m afraid certain Masters of Artifice haven’t always been as scrupulous about the use they have made of their talents.”

“I bet they haven’t!” Vahil grinned with inappropriate humor as he reached for the carrying pole. “Come on, let’s get this meat back to camp in time for dinner. Even if there’s no time to hang it properly, no one will thank us for it if it gets flyblown.”

Guinalle followed closely behind Temar as they followed the narrow game trail back down to the shore, but carrying the laden pole made it impossible for him to talk to her.

“You know, I would like to know more about Artifice,” he puffed when they reached the camp and he was able to hand over his load. “Could you tell me about it?”

“I could, if you are serious in your interest.” Guinalle’s expression was one of good-humored skepticism.

“Oh, I am. I think it could be very valuable for the colony.” Temar realized somewhat to his surprise that he meant what he said. Not that the thought of spending time alone with Guinalle wasn’t a considerable inducement, but if he was going to be responsible for a crowd of clients he would need all the resources he could muster.

“I am a little surprised that you haven’t had some basic instruction,” commented Guinalle, her eyes softening a little.

Temar shrugged. “My family was very hard hit by the Crusted Pox,” he said shortly. “My grandfather rather lost any confidence he might have had in healers and acolytes after that.”

“I am so sorry.” Guinalle laid a gentle hand on Temar’s arm, her face concerned.

He slapped his hands together briskly. “Look, I stink of blood and dirt. I must get a bath before dinner. I’ll see you later.”