Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (35 page)

 
          
"And
the only spell I know is the one he taught us," Calandryll said earnestly,
"I swear it. Perhaps the magic of the stone reacted with Azumandias's
magic. I swear I know not how it happened."

 
          
"Was
Azumandias on that warboat?" Bracht's eyes narrowed. "Who was that
woman?"

 
          
"Lord
Varent said Azumandias is a man. Who the woman might be, I have no idea."

 
          
Calandryll
spread his hands, indicating incomprehension. Bracht stared at him thoughtfully.

 
          
"If
Varent uses us, perhaps Azumandias uses the woman."

 
          
"Perhaps,"
Calandryll agreed, "and if so, she's far behind us now. Or sunk."

 
          
Bracht
nodded. Then: "But why use the woman? Varent's excuse for our employment
was the fear of discovery, that Azumandias might uncover his plan. Azumandias
needs no. such delicacy."

 
          
"Dera!"
Calandryll shook his head. "I've no better notion than you why he should.
But surely he must—she was no ordinary corsair: she knew we were on board;
asked ek'Jemm to hand us over. Who else would send her? She must be the agent
of Azumandias."

 
          
"Likely
she is," Bracht agreed, "and followed us out of Aldarin. But still I
do not understand why Azumandias himself does not pursue us."

 
          
"Nor
I," said Calandryll. "Save that Lord Varent holds him in Lysse by
some means."

 
          
Bracht's
fingers drummed briefly on the falchion's hilt as he ducked ms head.
"Perhaps," he allowed.

 
          
"At
least we escaped her," said Calandryll.

 
          
'Through
use of sorcery." The Kem's face grew dark again. "I've no love of
magic."

 
          
"You
were the one suggested I employ such means!" Calandryll protested.

 
          
Bracht
shrugged, and grinned as he recognized his own inconsistency. "As a last
resort," he said. "To save you from a watery death."

 
          
"Whatever
the reason, it saved us all."

 
          
"Aye,
there's that," the Kem admitted, his grin becoming a full-fledged smile.
"And ek'Jemm accords us more respect now. But still I wonder who the woman
was."

 
          
"Likely
we'll never know," Calandryll said.

 
          
He
was wrong, but then, basking in the relief of their escape, he could not know
that both their destinies were inextricably linked with the mysterious woman.

 
         
Twilight
hung a curtain of soft, velvet blue over the coastline of
Kandahar
as the
Dancer
entered the harbor at
Mherut'yi. The sun was dropped behind the barrier of the central mountains, the
rimrock marked by a swath of fiery orange, and the sky to the east darkened
with the advancement of night. The town huddled low along the flat shore,
obscure save for random pinpricks of brilliance that cut through the drapery of
the dusk where lanterns burned in scattered windows. Calandryll, accustomed to
the walled cities of Lysse, was surprised to see no fortifications other than a
fortalice illuminated by the beacons that flared along the mole protecting the
anchorage, no ramparts or watchtowers, or any other sign of defensive
construction. He had known that Mherut'yi was no metropolis, but the settlement
he saw as they drifted past the mole was tiny by the standards of Secca or
Aldarin, little more than an outpost on the edge of the
Shann
Desert
. He heard Rahamman ek'Jemm shout orders and
anchors splashed at bow and stem, the merchantman easing leisurely to a halt
and swaying gently at her moorings. The favorable wind that had carried them
steadily across the
Narrow
Sea
since the encounter with the warboat
straggled briefly with the breeze off the desert and gave up, tne masthead
pennants hanging listless, the ship creaking softly. With that cessation of
movement the air grew hot and dry, redolent of the sand that spread wide to the
north. Calandryll paid the captain and, Bracht close behind, followed him down
a ladder to the boat that came out to meet them.

           
"You have lodgings?" the
Kand inquired as they were rowed to the dock. "I can recommend a decent
inn—the Sailor's Rest has clean beds and sets a fair table."

 
          
"Thank
you."

 
          
Calandryll
glanced at Bracht, who frowned a silent negative and stared ashore as if
entranced with the prospect of once again finding himself on dry land.

 
          
"I
stay there myself when I'm in Mherut'yi," said ek'Jemm, affable to the
point of deference since witnessing Calandryll's apparent display of magical
talent. "I can promise you the finest quarters available."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded absently. He had no intention of using the inn: better, he and Bracht
had decided, to conceal their tracks from the start. Ek'Jemm went ashore alone
only to clear his vessel with the harbor authorities,- once that formality was
dispensed, his crew would come off, and within the hour they would be talking
about their adventures. Before long, word of the two mysterious travelers would
be out on the waterfront, and soon spread through the town. They would find
some discreet hostelry to spend the night and in the morning purchase horses
and take the Tyrant's road inland to Nhur-jabal.

 
          
"Thank
you," he repeated, "but we have ... plans."

 
          
Ek'Jemm
shrugged, plump features tom between the desire to please and curiosity.

 
          
"As
you wish. Your business is in Mherut'yi? Or elsewhere? I sail for Ghombalar
with the morning tide should that be convenient."

 
          
Bracht
spoke from the bow without turning his head. "Our business is private,
Captain. And we'd have it remain so."

 
          
The
Kand's face stiffened at the rebuke, then reformed an obsequious smile.

 
          
"Of
course. You can rely on me.."

 
          
Bracht
grunted. Calandryll said, "The contracts we negotiate on Lord Varent's
behalf are delicate, Captain. The fewer who know of our arrival, the
better."

 
          
"Yes,
of course." Ek'Jemm nodded eagerly. "I understand."

 
          
Calandryll
suppressed a smile and watched the dockside loom from the shadows.

 
          
The
boatman sprang to the wharf, mooring the dinghy, and they climbed stone steps
to the quayside. Bracht sighed as he trod solid ground again, turning as a
squad of soldiers in leathery armor marched from the nearby fortalice.

 
          
"Allow
me," murmured ek'Jemm, pushing past to present himself to the officer in
command. "They know me here."

 
          
"I
am Rahamman ek'Jemm, master of the merchant ship
Sea Dancer,"
he
declared formally, "en route to Ghombalar with a cargo of
Aldan
wine. These gentlemen took passage with me.
They come to negotiate trade agreements on behalf of Lord Varent den Tarl of
Aldarin."

 
          
The
officer took the papers ek'Jemm offered and gave them a cursory glance before
turning his gaze on Calandryll and Bracht. He was tall and thin, his face dark
beneath a scarlet puggaree wound about a conical helm. He wore a breastplate
and greaves of hard red leather, and a curved sword was sheathed at his side.
His men carried hooked pikes.

 
          
"You
are?"

 
          
Calandryll
recalled the protocol demanded when greeting a minor functionary: he ducked his
head briefly, hands spread, asuming a businesslike manner.

 
          
"I
am Calandryll, factor to Lord Varent. This is my bodyguard."

 
          
The
officer glanced at Bracht, then returned his attention to ek'Jemm.

 
          
"You
vouch for them?"

 
          
"Most
certainly," said the captain.

 
          
The
officer eyed them with bored disinterest and nodded. "Very well, you may
go."

 
          
"Thank
you." Calandryll bowed again, and smiled in ek'Jemm's direction. "Our
thanks, Captain. I'll recommend Lord Varent use you again."

 
          
"Thank
you," beamed the Kand, bowing deeply. "And remember—should you decide
to favor the Sailor's Rest you need only mention my name."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded and led the way past the soldiers, mildly confused by a footing that no
longer rolled and shifted beneath him. Ahead lay a barrier of pale stone
warehouses. Indeed, it seemed that Mherut'yi was built exclusively of the same
yellowish stone, save for the docks and the mole and the fortalice, which were
of harder-looking grey stone. The buildings were low, with shallow, shingled
roofs, their windows shuttered against the oppressive wind, set square on to a
geometric pattern of right-angled dirt streets. The lights they had seen as
they approached were hidden now and they wandered for a little while among the
warehouses before emerging on a plaza where stunted trees stood dusty at the
center, their arrival greeted by a desultory yapping from five lean- flanked
dogs stretched beneath the trees. The lanterns and the sounds of music coming
from the surrounding buildings suggested they had found Mherut'yi's taverns,
and the few folk they saw were mostly sailors or fishermen from their dress,
studying the travelers incuriously, as though foreigners were no strangers
here. There was no sign that the town mounted any watch patrols and the streets
were lampless: they decided to inquire in a tavern about hostelries.

 
          
The
place they chose was called The Mermaid and had sawdust on the floor and
sweet-smelling smoke
hanging
thick
in the air, drifting from numerous pipes to hang beneath the low ceiling in a
haze of swirling blue, the smokers smiling indolently as the narcotic took
effect. Several gaudily dressed women, their hair and necks and wrists heavy
with beaten gold jewelery, eyed them speculatively as they approached the plank
counter, reminding Calandryll of the doxy whose irritation had first brought
him to Bracht's attention.

 
          
The
Kern, too, was reminded, because he grinned and murmured, "This time pick
your company more carefully."

 
          
Calandryll's
only answer was a shamefaced smile.

 
          
"Friends,
what's your pleasure?"

 
          
The
innkeeper was stouter than ek'Jemm, but taller, his scalp glistening sweatily
through a thin layer of oiled black hair. He wiped thick-fingered hands on a
bright yellow shirt, displaying stained teeth as he beamed, using the pidgin
tongue called the Envah that was the lingua franca of the
Narrow
Sea
.

 
          
"Ale,"
said Bracht in the same dialect. "And information."

 
          
The
man nodded and drew two pots of dark beer. Calandryll noticed that the pots
were fashioned of the same leathery material as the soldiers' armor. He guessed
it was swamp dragon hide.

 
          
"This'll
cut the dust." The innkeeper slapped foam from the pots. "The
gaheen's started blowing, and that makes a man thirsty."

 
          
Calandryll
realized he spoke of the hot, dry wind coming off the Shann. Both Medith and
Samium mentioned that in spring northern
Kandahar
was plagued with the gaheen. He sipped the
ale: it was warm.

 
          
"You're
not Kands," the man declared amiably. "What are you? From
Lysse?"

 
          
Calandryll
nodded. Bracht said, "Cuan na'For."

 
          
"Kern?"
the innkeeper's smile grew wider. "We don't see many Kerns here. You
merchants?"

 
          
Bracht
grunted an affirmative and asked, "Where's a good place to stay?"

 
          
"Depends
what you want," the man shrugged.

 
          
"Clean
sheets. No bugs."

 
          
"One
thing about the gaheen, it kills the bugs," the innkeeper chuckled.
"Gives us other problems, but it does kill the bugs. Now—someplace to
sleep. You have money?"

 
          
Bracht
nodded. The man pursed his lips and said, "Mother Raimi's got soft beds,
and she's a devil for washing. Good cook, too. Tell her Hammadrar sent you.
You'll find her place three streets across and one left. The Sign of the
Peacock. You want another pot?"

 
          
Bracht
shook his head and Calandryll saw that he had emptied his mug: he swallowed his
own ale and set the pot down.

 
          
"Remember—tell
her Hammadrar sent you," the innkeeper called as they walked out.

 
          
The
wind was stronger as they recrossed the plaza, and very dry, tingling on their
skin, skirling dust along the narrow streets in miniature whirlwinds.
Calandryll spat grit, a passage from Medith springing to mind: "The
gaheen
(the 'devil wind') is said to drive men mad, and certainly it is a most
irritating breeze, bringing as it does, a material taste of the Shann Desert.
Fortunately, it afflicts only the northern parts of
Kandahar
."