Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (27 page)

 
          
"I
think not." Varent shook his head. "At this time of year there are
few captains will risk
Cape
Vishat'yi
, so I'll book you passage to Mherut'yi.
From there you'll travel overland to Nhur-jabal, and on to Kharasul. The Kands
maintain a trade route between Kharasul and Gessyth—there's a settlement built
on a headland from which you can strike into the swamps."

 
          
He
paused to peel an orange, fastidious; then glanced at Bracht with the comers of
his wide mouth rising a little.

           
"I'll provide you with coin to
buy your way. And when you reach the outpost you can likely hire men to ferry
you inland."

 
          
"Who
lives there?" the Kem asked.

 
          
"Hide
hunters," Varent returned. "They trap the swamp dragons and sell the
hides to the Kand traders. The skins make excellent armor."

 
          
Bracht
frowned and asked, "Are they men?"

 
          
"Some,"
Varent informed him. "Outcast Kands, mostly."

 
          
"And
the rest?"

 
          
"Halflings."

 
          
Calandryll
had never seen a halfling. "What are they like?" he wondered.

 
          
"Strange,
I believe," said Varent. "Some are quite human in appearance, but
others ..."

 
          
He
shrugged.

 
          
"The
makings of the younger gods," grunted Bracht.

 
          
"Exactly."
Varent nodded. "But doubtless you can deal with them."

 
          
"Doubtless,"
Bracht said, as if there were no doubt. He pushed his plate away. "Now,
shall we examine these maps?"

 
          
Varent
smiled his agreement. "But first your payment—I'd see you satisfied on
that score."

 
          
"Good,"
Bracht said, grinning for the first time.

 
          
Varent
led them from the dining hall to a wood-paneled chamber with a single window
set high in the wall shedding light on a cluttered desk at which sat a bald man
in the blue and gold tunic of a household servant. He looked up as they
entered, blinking shortsightedly over the rims or large spectacles.

 
          
"Two
thousand, four hundred varre, Symeon," Varent said.

 
          
The
bald man's nose twitched. Calandryll saw that the quill he held had splattered
ink over the tip.

 
          
"In
single coins, or decuris?"

 
          
Varent
glanced at Bracht, who said, "Decuris."

 
          
Symeon
studied the mercenary for a moment, as if debating whether or not to obey the
order, then wiped an ink-stained hand on his tunic and rose slowly from his chair
to kneel before a metal door set into the wall. He brought a key from his
breeches and swung the door open, dragging out a chest that he deposited on the
floor. Hiding it with his body, he began to count the heavy gold coins into a
leather sack.

 
          
Ponderously,
he relocked the chest and returned it to the recess, locked that door, and then
straightened, wheezing slightly, the sack in his hands.

 
          
"Twenty-four
decuris. Count them if you like."

 
          
He
passed the sack to Bracht, who shook his head.

 
          
"I
have no reason to mistrust you."

 
          
Calandryll
felt the comment was addressed to Varent. And that it lacked one word:
yet.

 
          
If
Varent sensed it he gave no sign. "Now," he said, "let us
examine the maps."

 
          
They
left Symeon with his accounts and went to the library. There, Varent latched
the door and took several books from a shelf. It seemed that he exposed only a
section of the wall, but when he fumed a knob carved on the facing of the
shelves, a panel sprang open and he brought out a packet of waxed paper bound
with scarlet ribbon.

 
          
He
brought the packet to the table and tugged the ribbon loose. Inside was a sheet
akin to the chart Calandryll had taken from the archives in Secca, but finer,
virtually transparent, marked with a delicate, spidery script, Or- wen's seal
bright scarlet at the foot. Varent pushed the protective wrapping aside and
smoothed the map, his touch reverential, looking to Calandryll with brows
raised in silent question.

 
          
Calandryll
unlaced his shirt and withdrew the matching chart, handing it to Varent. The
ambassador set one over the other, weighting the comers, and smiled
triumphantly.

 
          
"Dera's
blood, my friends, we have it!"

 
          
Calandryll
and Bracht drew close, studying the map. One overlaying the other, the combined
charts showed Gessyth in greater detail than anything in Medith or Sar- nium,
in greater detail than any map Calandryll had seen. Orwen had been painstaking
in his depiction of the coastline of the
Western
Ocean
and the interior of Gessyth, marking those
places along the coast of
Gash
where
a boat might find anchorage and fresh water, the sweeping bays that scalloped
the perimeter of the swamplands; the promontory containing the hide hunters'
settlement was marked. It was a chart of minute detail, scribed with
annotations in the antique language of the Old Tongue: Calandryll studied it in
awe.

 
          
"It
is
there," he murmured, touching the scarlet blemish marked
Tezin-dar.

 
          
"Did
you doubt it?" Varent tapped the charts. "See? As I promised, he
shows the route to take. And warns of the dangers."

 
          
Calandryll
stared, struck as much by the maps' antiquity as the details the long-dead
chartographer had included. It was a thing of wonder, a priceless treasure in
its own right. And it showed the way to legendary Tezin- dar.

 
          
"Dera,"
he whispered, touching a nervous fingertip to a line of script, "He warns
of dangers enough."

 
          
"Do
you translate them?"

 
          
Bracht's
question interrupted his amazement and he said, "Flesh-eating trees,"
absently, ignoring the Kem's snort as he continued, rapt, to study the wondrous
document, "Swamp dragons; insects of some kind; poisonous flowers;
flesh-eating fish."

 
          
The
Kem grunted, less impressed with the age of the charts than the information
they imparted. "Useful," he agreed. "Do we take these with
us?"

 
          
"Best
transcribe them onto a single sheet," said Varent. "Calandryll, do
you undertake that task? While I find you a ship?"

 
          
Calandryll
nodded without speaking, still caught in the mysteries of the fabulous map.

 
          
"I'll
find you paper and pens," Varent promised.

 
          
For
the next three days Calandryll was engrossed in his task. Varent provided
him with materials and ensured that he was left alone in the library, whilst
Bracht wandered fretfully about the mansion or amused himself with the
compliant Rytha, and Calandryll devoted himself whole-heartedly to the copying
of the charts. It was far more complex than he had anticipated, and several
times he destroyed his efforts, deeming his transcription insufficiently
accurate. His life and Bracht's might well depend on the precision of his work
and he was determined to recreate Orwen's fabulous maps in the minutest detail.
His hand and eye, however, lacked the ancient chartog- rapher's skill and just
as he thought he had succeeded, he would notice some line drawn slightly out of
true and, with a groan of frustration, consign his efforts to the hearth and
start over. Finally he hit on the notion of obtaining paper so fine he was able
to read the charts through it, tracing their details to his satisfaction. Then
he used a blunted quill to inscribe the minutiae on a thicker sheet, inking in
the faint impressions and adding Orwen's notes after.

 
          
At
last he was satisfied with the accuracy of his copy, and though his head
throbbed and his eyes ached with the effort of poring over the map, he felt
triumphant. That evening he showed his work to Varent.

 
          
The
ambassador sat staring at the original charts and the copy, eyes flicking from
one to the other before he nodded, smiling.

 
          
"Superb!
You've captured it all."

 
          
Calandryll
sighed with relief. Bracht, ever pragmatic, asked, "Is there news of a
ship?"

 
          
"A
Kand merchantman docked yesterday," Varent nodded. "I've spoken with
her captain and tonight we meet again. If he's willing, you'll sail when he
leaves."

 
          
"How
long?" the Kem demanded, anxious to be gone.

 
          
"Three
days, perhaps." Varent shrugged. "He's a cargo to sell and goods to
buy. Can you curb your impatience until then?"

 
          
Bracht
grunted an affirmative, staring at the ambassador with a quizzical expression
on his swarthy features.

 
          
"So,"
he said thoughtfully, "we likely have a ship. We have the map, and you'll
provide us with the means to purchase our passage across
Kandahar
and on to Gessyth. If the halflings or the
swamp dragons or those sundry other perils the map mentions don't kill us,
we'll likely find Tezin-dar. What then?"

 
          
"Then
you locate the Arcanum," Varent said, "And bring it out."

 
          
Bracht
snorted cynical laughter. "And shall such a thing lie unguarded?" he
asked. "Simply for us to take?"

 
          
Varent's
face grew serious. He leaned forward in his chair, dark eyes solemn as they met
the Kem's.

 
          
"I
do not know," he said. "I know nothing of Tezin-dar beyond that
knowledge already given you. I cannot say what awaits you there, or how
difficult it may be to take the book. I only know that if you fail, Azumandias
will eventually locate it and seize it. And if he does .. ."

 
          
He
broke off, shaking his head as though the very thought appalled him.

 
          
"You
must use your wits," he continued at last. "I can offer you no more
advice than that."

 
          
"Should
we be opposed," Bracht said, "our situation will likely be
parlous."

 
          
"Dera
knows, you speak true," Varent said softly, seriously, "But I see no
alternative. Should Azumandias lay hands on the Arcanum he'll raise the Mad God
and bring the world down in ruin."

 
          
"We
must attempt it," Calandryll urged. "Can you stand by and watch the
world destroyed?"

 
          
Bracht
glanced at him, a tight smile curving his mouth. He shook his head: "I do
not say we give up. I say only that we may not succeed."

 
          
"We
must do our best," Calandryll said. "Let us face the problems when
they arise."

 
          
"Do
you recall that first bout we fought?" Bracht asked mildly. "I told
you then that a good fighter seeks to leam his opponent's limitations, not simply
charge him."