Chapter Ten
Waterfowl filled the salt marsh with their cries, and Beynor found himself unable to sleep, so he spent much of the undark night wind-searching. He had no luck finding Kilian, which made him wonder whether the alchymist’s lost talent might somehow have been restored. After a few hours he abandoned that effort and turned his attention to the two thieves, methodically scrying the villages along the eastern shore of Elk Lake, since only fools or lunatics would have risked travel on the Great North Road, and Kilian’s agents presumably were neither.
In time, he noticed the hue and cry going on in the vicinity of Pikeport and gave the place special scrutiny. Even so, he almost missed his quarry, who were dossed down on the village ferry dock together with a number of other sleeping travelers too frugal to take rooms for the night.
Something about the snoring knot of people seemed odd, yet Beynor felt disinclined to study them more closely—a fact that finally rang alarm bells in his head. He forced himself to intensify his oversight and finally detected the unusual spell of couverture. After some hard work, he unraveled it to his satisfaction.
There they lay, Scarth and Felmar, dressed as a countryman and his pregnant wife, sleeping like well-fed babes with their heads pillowed on a pack that might hold Darasilo’s Trove. Felmar looked rather peculiar because his linen coif was twisted awry—and so was the wig beneath it.
Beynor had to admit that the magic obscuring the scapegrace Brethren had been most cleverly wrought. There was none of the fuzziness that often betrayed the presence of cover spells, only a subtle hint of distortion that was easy to miss. It had to be Kilian’s work. None of the other Zeth Abbey alchymists possessed such expertise, which would have done credit to a member of Moss’s Glaumerie Guild. Cathran adepts were rather good windspeakers; but most of them were mediocre at best in the arcane arts of visualization and couverture, except for Kilian.
And one other…
Beynor very nearly cursed aloud as a long-forgotten name flashed into his memory: Deveron Austrey! He might be able to locate this well-concealed pair of thieves, just as he’d managed to track down and slay Beynor’s wizard-spy Iscannon a few years earlier. In addition, King Conrig’s wild-talented intelligencer was as unscriable as the moonstone sigils themselves. His total spectrum of arcane abilities was a mystery—apparently even to himself. One might almost suspect him of having Tarnian blood.
Beynor wondered why Austrey should pop suddenly into his mind unbidden. Was it a forewarning that the wretch was about to meddle in his affairs again?
Deveron Austrey had dared to steal Beynor’s own Concealer sigil from Iscannon. He had somehow penetrated Kilian’s inner sanctum while he was still Royal Alchymist of Cathra and had taken one of the three ancient books having moonstone disks fixed to their covers. He’d resisted Beynor’s dream-threats and refused to turn over Concealer and the book to Salka couriers sent to retrieve them. The book had been taken away by Ansel Piken to some unknown place, but not before the shaman had helped Deveron Austrey use its medallion to empower Concealer—with consequences that had proved disastrous to Beynor’s former allies in Didion.
It seemed certain to Beynor that King Conrig would send his intelligencer after the men who had stolen Darasilo’s Trove. Deveron could be closing in on Felmar and Scarth even as Beynor oversaw them. Was there some way to alert the pair, to get them out of harm’s way?
Reluctantly, Beynor decided that there was nothing useful he could do. Knowing their names and faces, he was now in a position to invade the thieves’ dreams, even if he couldn’t windspeak them directly without the necessary password. But if he suggested that they alter their chosen route to avoid Deveron Austrey, the Brothers would suspect a trick. Kilian had seen to that.
No, Felmar and Scarth’s best chance to evade capture was to get aboard a boat—as they obviously intended to do—and then flee over the Sinistral Range into Didion. The mountainous country at the head of Elk Lake was the worst sort of terrain for scrying, which tended to be inhibited by massive barriers of rock. He’d have to keep a close watch on the pair from now on. Once they were well into the highlands, they’d be almost impossible for any wind-searcher to find—including Beynor himself.
On the other hand, his plan for injecting a fatal temptation into their sleeping minds remained perfectly feasible. They must already be extremely curious about the nature of their arcane booty, since Kilian would never have dared tell them the truth about the things they’d stolen. They were thus predisposed to yield to his urging. It would be best if he began planting the impulse immediately, making it more imperative each time the fugitives closed their eyes. He’d compel them to do it just as soon as they reached a resting place that was suitably remote.
With luck, both of the thieves would succumb to his inducement and perish without a trace, leaving Darasilo’s Trove for him to retrieve at his leisure.
Raldo dozed uneasily on the deckhouse roof. His corpulent body was unable to find a comfortable recumbent position on the planks, so he slept sitting up, propped against a heap of saddlebags, a piece of tent canvas fending off most of the warm drizzle. Kilian’s half-jocular warning about rolling off was unnecessary, since the roof had a low railing around it. All the same, Raldo chose a sleeping spot well away from the edge.
So when the first noisy splash woke him, he didn’t immediately realize what had happened.
The twilit sky of early morning was covered by low rain-clouds that had swallowed the jagged tops of the mountains. Their looming expanse was black and featureless, seeming to close ominously around the lake like a great wall now that the boat approached the narrowing northern end. Overhead, the much-patched sail was filled by a moderate breeze. Raldo looked about with his befogged vision but saw only the shapes of his companions scattered among the baggage. They were all sleeping deeply, not even snoring.
A soft sound of footsteps came from the main-deck below. Horses snorted, whiffled, and stamped their hooves uneasily. Then there was a second splash.
Raldo lifted the canvas away and looked astern, squinting in the half-light. He saw the boat’s wake, partially obscured by the bellying sail. In the midst of the foam was a dark object resembling a piece of driftwood with twigs at one end. The object moved, extending itself up from the water before slowly sinking from sight.
Not driftwood. An arm, with fingers.
Another splash, this time on the opposite side of the boat. Raldo waited, and another black shape bobbed in the wake until it was lost to sight.
The fat man felt his skin crawl. His Brethren slept on. He wormed his way further aft so that he could peer down onto the deck where the horses were tied. The cockpit in the stern was empty and the tiller lashed tight with a length of rope to keep the rudder steady.
A noise, directly below him. Someone was emerging from the deckhouse. Raldo held his breath as the indistinct form of a naked man appeared. He was obscured by what was evidently a weak cover spell, dragging an inert body that had dark-stained clothing. The man heaved his burden over the side, then returned to the deckhouse. Moments later, he reappeared with another limp form and disposed of it, leaving obvious bloodstains on the rail.
God save me, Raldo prayed, he’s murdered the crew! There must have been something in the bottle of wine that rendered them senseless. By chance, he was the only one who didn’t drink any.
What will I do if he comes up here on the deckhouse roof?
Raldo saw the blurry naked man go to the boat’s waterbutt and pour several full dippers over his besmeared body. After washing himself thoroughly, he used a bucket to slosh more water over certain areas of the deck and the rail. Murky liquid disappeared into the scuppers. Then the man sluiced out the deckhouse as well. When he finished he went to the stern, dried himself with a rag, and donned clothing that lay neatly folded on the stern thwart. Bending over the tiller, he removed the line that had secured it and settled down to correct the boat’s course. His identity was still hidden by magic.
But Raldo knew that only one person among them was capable of weaving a cover spell. Kilian’s natural talents had yet to regain their full strength, but they were adequate to cloud his bodily form while he went about his pernicious work.
The fat man shrank back from the edge of the deckhouse roof, too petrified to move further. It seemed that he and the other Brothers were going to live—at least for a while longer—and he thought he knew why. If their pursuers caught up with them during the flight over the mountains, Kilian would require the combined magical abilities of all his companions to defend himself. Later, when the alchymist joined Prince Somarus and his band of warriors in Didion, the Brothers’ pitiful portions of talent would no longer be needed…
Raldo lay with his face pressed against the wet boards, tasting bile in his throat and feeling tears mingle with the soft rain trickling down his cheeks. His iron gammadion and its chain, which he’d hidden in his jerkin pocket and forgotten to toss overboard, pressed uncomfortably against his hip.
What am I going to do? he asked himself. But he could think of nothing except the giant black eels of Elk Lake, and what they were feeding upon this early morning.
Snudge and his men reached Pikeport at about the seventh hour after midnight, after riding all night. They stopped at the White Waterlily, the only tavern in town, where their perfectly genuine royal warrant and demand for free horse fodder, a meal, and a quiet place to catch a few hours’ sleep aroused the suspicions of the short-tempered landlord.
Inexplicably, he decided that the mud-splashed, well-armed strangers purporting to be king’s men had to be in league with the masquerading firebugs who had stopped at his establishment on the previous evening, victimized him with a fake warrant, and got him in trouble with the law. A wild commotion ensued, in which breakfasting tavern patrons happily took the aggrieved landlord’s part. Snudge’s party were forced to draw their swords and make a stand. Order was restored by the deputy reeve and the town watch only after the local windvoice bespoke Lord Northway’s castle and confirmed the legitimacy of those purporting to be the king’s men.
While the still-simmering landlord had his people lay out food and see to the needs of the horses, Snudge learned from the deputy that the ferry plying between Beech River and Elktor had called at Pikeport and left over an hour earlier. More than a dozen other commercial sailboats had also embarked ‘round about the same time, fishermen and transports of every sort, heading in all directions for various purposes. No persons bearing the slightest resemblance to Brothers Felmar and Scarth had been discovered yestereen in the vicinity of the village quay or anywhere in the surrounding countryside. The posse was preparing to set out again, but it seemed that the false dispatch riders had vanished without a trace, leaving only their abandoned mounts behind.
Without much hope, Snudge left his men eating a meal of scorched porridge, hard cheese, and flat beer, and retired to the grain store behind the stables. This was the only place the disgruntled landlord would let them use as sleeping quarters, but it was at least fairly quiet, while the inn itself was not.
Snudge composed himself and began to windsearch, trying to ignore his throbbing head as he closely scrutinized more than two score small boats sailing, rowing, or drifting about the southern half of Elk Lake. In the end, his debilitated talent was unable to detect anything at all, so he gratefully surrendered to sleep.
Somarus Mallburn, Prince of Didion and one-time general of its armies, soaked in a steaming hot spring in a bosky dell of the Elderwold while birds sang their morning songs, squirrels romped on the moss-hung branches of the venerable trees, and his shield-bearer Kaligaskus knelt by the pool and combed his master’s newly trimmed hair with a fine-toothed comb to banish lice and nits.
“Almost done, Highness,” the lad said cheerily. “Might be a good idea to give it a rinse of turpentine, though, to make sure none of the wee devils slipped past me.”
“No turpentine!” the prince barked. “You can rub in a dose of delphinium tincture if you think it necessary. At least it doesn’t stink so badly.”
“Yes, Highness.” The boy climbed to his feet and trotted back to camp to fetch a phial of the stuff from Tesk the wizard.
Somarus slowly submerged, closing his eyes against the slight sting of minerals in the water, and stayed under until his breath was gone. Then he rose up, inflated his lungs with sweet-smelling forest air, and let himself float. The water was less than three feet deep, but it was marvelous to lie there, warm and supported, gazing up at the leaf-framed sky, thinking about the wonderful things that might—just might—take place within the next few days.
Fring had warned him not to get his hopes too high. Both of them knew that Beynor of Moss was a vainglorious young blowhard, treacherous as a weasel and even more wily. But if there was any chance at all that the deposed Conjure-King could pull off the assassination of Honigalus and his heirs, Somarus would embrace him as his newfound brother—Beaconfolk curse and all.
For as long as it was expedient to do so.
Through Fring, Beynor had suggested that Somarus hold himself in readiness a day’s ride from Boarsden Castle. But why not move in closer and actually witness the fateful deed himself? Fring had known none of the details, only that the killing was supposed to take place at the Big Bend of the Malle three days from now, late in the afternoon.
He could ride out with a small party from the Lady Lakes camp, using only the simplest form of disguise, reach Castlemont Fortress in a couple of days and enjoy the hospitality of his friend Lord Shogadus, complete the journey easily by traveling the Boar Highroad—
And stand on the south dike of the river, watching the yellow-bellied traitor die!
True, Somarus wouldn’t fulfil his greatest dream. He’d never know the satisfaction of sinking his blade into the heart of the half brother who’d cravenly yielded Didion to Conrig Wincantor because he’d lacked the courage to die in battle. But what the hell! All that mattered was that the throne might come to him at last.
It was another cherished dream of his, one that seemed even more impossible than the first because Honigalus had begotten two sons and a daughter, who stood ahead of him in the line of succession, along with their mother, Bryse Vandragora, who might only inherit under special and unlikely circumstances. But if Beynor actually did manage to wipe out the entire viper’s nest, then he, Somarus, would become King of Didion.
And at that same hour, he vowed, though I must keep it secret in my heart until the time ripens, will I declare war on Conrig Wincantor’s Sovereignty, and dedicate my life to its destruction…
“Highness?”
He opened his eyes, let his body sink to the bottom of the pool, and knelt upright in the water. The wizard Tesk stood there in a dusty black robe, nervously licking his too-red lips and blinking shortsighted eyes that always watered in summer. He held out a little corked bottle.
“I brought the tincture myself, Highness, because I’ve just received a message on the wind for you, from High Queen Risalla.”
Yesterday, after first hearing of Beynor’s amazing intention, the prince had sent a carefully worded inquiry to his younger sister in Gala Palace, hoping that she would find a way to side with him if he rebelled against the Sovereignty. The two of them had always been devoted to one another, being the offspring of the valiant Queen Siry Boarsden, second wife of the late King Achardus. Both royal parents had died fighting Conrig in the Battle of Holt Mallburn.
“Tell me quickly what Risalla said!” Somarus demanded.
“Highness, she asked that her response be quoted verbatim: ‘Dearest Brother, my heart and soul will always be with you in every worthy undertaking. But my duty now lies with my husband and children. For the sake of my conscience, tell me nothing of your plans. Only know that I will always love you.’”
“Damn!” said Somarus. “She was ever a mild-tempered but stubborn lass, even as a girl. Having pledged her loyalty to Conrig at her marriage, she’ll remain steadfast to him. Duty is
everything to her. Do you recall how she came boldly before Conrig on the day he conquered Holt Mallburn, demanding the bodies of the king and queen for proper burial? Conrig could not withstand her. I suppose I knew how she would reply to my request, even before you gave me her message. But it’s a bitter draft to swallow.”
“I believe that those striving for high goals must be prepared to drain such cups rather often,” the wizard said sadly. “Shall I apply the delphinium tincture now, Highness? You might wish to return quickly to camp. The sentries have captured a Green Man.”
“What?! Great Starry Bear—is the whole world turning upside down? How did the slippery thing let himself be taken alive by a human?”
“Perhaps I should have said Green Woman, Highness. As to your question, I suggest you put it to the creature yourself. She’s asked to speak to you. Or to be more exact, she asked for an audience with King Somarus of Didion.”
“Well, well! Flattering—if a bit premature. Never mind the tincture, man. Fetch me my clothes.”
A light tunic and trews of fine linen had been laid out for him as undergarments, along with woolen stockings and new boots. The garb he intended to wear on the trip to civilization was still in a coffer in his pavilion. He dried his body with a homespun cloth, then dressed without assistance. Somarus was a man far more impressively built than his older brother the king, lean and hard-muscled as a result of years living in the open since his withdrawal from the court. His beard and brows were red and his long hair was a few shades lighter, like the dark gold of cloudberries. His face was weathered and high-colored, with eyes like blue flint, webbed with fine lines at the corners. He was one-and-thirty years of age.
The camp had been set up in a large forest clearing divided by a brook. The smallest of the three Lady Lakes was partially visible beyond a stand of trees downstream, sparkling in the sun. To the south, the steep rampart of the Sinistral Mountains rose with daunting abruptness from behind wooded hills, the loftiest peaks piercing a cap of white clouds. Northward lay the Elderwold, over five thousand square leagues of desolate heath, boglands, and dense primeval forest, where the ancient and beleaguered race of Green Men had retreated in a final stand against humanity.