Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (59 page)

 
          
Within
a week they came to Kharasul and the next stage of their perilous journey.

 
          
The
city lay on a headland, banded to north and south by the inlets of the Ty
and the Shemme. The final thrust- ings of the Kharm-rhanna ended a half day
east of the , settlement, the land between the hills and the ocean flat, j the
river that had carried them there broadening to an estuary in which floated a
variety of craft. Merchantmen the kin of Rahamman ek'Jemm's
Sea Dancer
lay at anchor alongside caravels out of Lysse and the sleek war-boats favored
by the Kand pirates, fishing boats were drawn up along the shoreline, and small
craft made the anchorage busy, cutting close to the dinghy as Calandryll used
the last of the Shemme's current to bring them in to the wide stone wharf. The
air was sultry, redolent of the jungles that lay across the Ty, in Gash; the
sun, close now to its setting, burnished the ocean, painting Khara-sul with
hues of gold and orange, and sea gulls wheeled screaming about the boat as they
moored. They climbed steps slippery with tide-tossed seaweed to the wharf and
passed between warehouses into the center of the city.

 
          
Kharasul
was not unlike Secca, being walled in defense against the strange inhabitants
of the jungles who from time to time attempted raids, but rowdier, and
seemingly without a city watch; its buildings, crammed together on the
headland, stood taller, and the soldiers they saw offered no hindrance to their
passing. It was smaller, but no less bustling, and it was soon clear that its
districts echoed those of Calandryll's home. To the east lay the mansions of
whatever nobility Kharasul boasted, while the emporiums of the merchants were
located close to the estuary, behind them the taverns and inns; the poorer
quarters huddled closest to the Ty, as did the city garrison, and between, at
the center, were the bazaars. It lacked the organization of the cities of
Lysse, its streets random in their direction, running hither and thither so
that the newcomers soon found themselves wandering a narrow way overhung by
tall, shuttered buildings that by day's light were likely trading houses, but
that seemed, as the shadows lengthened, menacing, reminding them that they
walked the streets of an unknown city. Calandryll thought of the warboats lying
at anchor, and of the Chaipaku, and set a hand to his sword's hilt as they
paced the cobbled alley, nostrils pinching, after the clean river air, at the
thick, sweet odors that came from gutters and the jungles.

 
          
This
far to the south the sun set fast and it was suddenly full dark as they emerged
on a square where palm trees grew and a low building surmounted by a slender
tower threw light from windows of multicolored glass across the plaza.
Calandryll recognized the edifice as a temple of Burash and called Bracht away,
urging a change in direction.

 
          
"I
thought you wished to propitiate the god," the Kem said, and Calandryll
shook his head vigorously, thinking of what Medith said: that some believed the
priests of Burash agents of the Chaipaku.

 
          
"I
gave offering on the
Sea Dancer,"
he replied. "Let that be
sufficient. I've no wish to call attention to our presence."

 
          
Bracht
shrugged his acceptance and they turned from the square, finding their way
between more overhanging buildings to where hospitality was offered in the
tavern quarter.

 
          
They
found an inn called the Waterboy, tall and narrow as all the buildings of
Kharasul, the "common room and kitchen filling all the lowest floor, the
remaining rooms piled one upon another, towerlike, with creaking stairways and
small balconies linking the chambers. Their room was on the third floor, not
spacious, but comfortable enough, with two beds and a little space between, a window
there, and a single cupboard. They bathed, the water transported by panting
servants to the bathhouse on the first floor, and then descended to the common
room to eat.

 
          
Other
Lyssians took their dinner there, but none gave sign of recognizing Calandryll,
keeping largely to themselves among the swarthy Kands and a sprinkling of
nearblack folk, with huge, yellowish eyes and wide noses that he took to be out
of Gash, or half-breeds. All, he saw, went well-armed, which might be expected
of the sailors and mercenaries, but even the merchants who dined there wore
swords, and several times he caught the glint of mail beneath parted robes. He
and Bracht found a place where a pillar warded their flank, aside from the main
art of the room, and as they ate they listened to the abble of conversation,
seeking news of events beyond their ken.

 
          
Sathoman
ek'Hennem, they heard, had taken Mherut'yi, just as Anomius had said, and swore
to seize all the eastern coast. The lictor of Kharasul commandeered merchant
vessels to the Tyrant's service and an army marched on the Fayne, but as yet no
word had come of its success or failure. Secca and Aldarin founded a war fleet
in the shipyards of Eryn and vowed to render the sea-lanes safe from corsairs,
to which purpose the Tyrant gave his blessing—this met with much laughter from
the Kands, the general opinion being that the Tyrant bestowed equal blessing on
the pirates, whose gold was spent in Kandahar and thus found its way,
eventually, into his coffers. A Lyssian seaman objected to this, expressing his
displeasure in a loud condemnation of double-dealing rulers and Kands at large.
He was carried from the room with a broken nose and an ugly knife wound in his
side, that not seeming to merit more than casual interest once the fight was
done. Of Gessyth there was little said, except that it was early in the year to
venture in that direction and, for all the danger of seeing their craft seized
by the lictor, the merchants would wait until the summer was more advanced and
the winds consequently more favorable.

 
          
This
last boded ill for their quest: a speedy departure seemed advisable were they
to beat Azumandias to Tezin- dar, and if Anomius had somehow survived he would
doubtless come fast on their heels, him or the Tyrant's warlocks. And
Calandryll was unpleasantly aware that Chaipaku likely inhabited Kharasul,
desirous of his death—and Bracht's, too, for the slaying of Mehemmed. They
cleared their plates, emptying a flagon of wine, and retired to discuss the
future where prying ears might go frustrated.

 
          
The
room was warm; not like the skin-prickling heat brought by the gaheen in the
north, but thick, vapid with the rank odors of jungle vegetation. What breeze
there was, stirring from the sea, did little to clear the heavy air and they
discarded their leathers, wiping sweat from chests and brows. Outside, the city
showed no sign of sleeping, noise rising from the streets below, the inns ablaze
with light. Calandryll stared from the window, seeing the jungles across the Ty
River gleam with a strange phosphorescence, the sea sparkling beneath a gibbous
moon.

 
          
"Come
morning we'd best seek a boat," he murmured.

 
          
"If
such can be found," Bracht stretched on the bed. "From what we heard,
I doubt there's a merchantman going north."

 
          
"The
warboats need not wait on the winds," Calandryll replied. "They've
oarsmen."

 
          
"And
are likely pirates," said the Kem, "willing to cut our throats for
the coin we carry."

 
          
"We'd
need go wary," Calandryll agreed. "But we've blades to defend
ourselves."

 
          
Bracht
chuckled morosely: "I'd best secure more of ek'Jemm's nostrum, then—should
that sickness afflict me again I'll be of little use."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, turning from the window.

 
          
What
other choice is there?" He answered his own question as Bracht shrugged.
"Do we wait for the winds to shift, one mage or the other may overtake us.
And if we linger here, we may face the Chaipaku again."

 
          
"There's
that," Bracht agreed. "A warboat, then,- if we've no other
choice."

 
          
They
slept then, as best they could on beds rapidly damp with sweat, the night alive
with the sound of revelry and the stranger cries that drifted from the jungles,
finding little respite with the sun's rising, for that brought only a brief
freshening of the breeze before the cloying heat descended again. They repaired
to the common room where they broke their fast with bread and fruit and cheese,
then found their way to the harbor.

 
          
Two
merchantmen departed as they watched, sails bellying to carry the vessels clear
of the estuary, their course southeastward, three warboats, each flying the
Tyrant's flag, moving in escort.

 
          
"Conscripted
to the Tyrant's cause. Folk say that civil war stirs in the north."

 
          
They
turned to find a grizzled man, a carved wood stump where his left leg had been,
grinning at them from a bollard. A pipe jutted from his bearded lips, emitting
a faint aroma of the narcotic tobacco favored by the Kands. He nodded
pleasantly, removing the pipe to knock dottle loose.

 
          
"Sathoman
ek'Hennem moves on Mhazomul, it seems, and the Tyrant looks to reinforce the
garrison there. Poor news for traders, that—they'll find their craft taken for
supply ships and transport, and little enough reward for their loss."

 
          
"What
do they lose?" Calandryll asked. "Surely their cargoes are
discharged?"

 
          
"Surely,"
the old man agreed, "but it's the habit of the captains who venture the
early passage round Cape Vis- hat'yi to lie up here until the winds shift and
return with dragon hides. Those sail empty—to Ghombalar, at least; and what they'll
get from the Tyrant for that service is poor recompense for an empty
hold."

 
          
"And
when," Calandryll inquired casually, "will the winds shift?"

 
          
The
old man sniffed, as if tasting the breeze. "A month j at least. Perhaps
longer."

 
          
"And
no vessel sails north before?"

 
          
"Not
into the swamp winds," declared the ancient, tamping fresh tobacco into
his pipe.

 
          
Calandryll
surveyed the sleek hulls of the warboats rocking on the changing tide.
"Those can surely brave the winds?" he asked.

 
          
The
old man struck a flint, lighting the pipe, puffin? vigorously before he
replied.

 
          
"You're
from Lysse?" And when Calandryll nodded, "Most of those sea wolves
fly the Tyrant's standard— they're come to bring the merchants safely up the
coast. And persuade the more reluctant captains of their duty

 
          
The
rest are corsairs, looking to pick off likely craft. There's no profit for them
in Gessyth. Nor would any sane man venture to that godforsaken place. See
this?" He slapped his wooden leg. "Was a dragon did this to me. I
sailed with Johannen ek'Leman on the
Wind’s Piide.
A hold full of hides,
he promised, and a share for every man of the crew—I paid for my share with my
leg! A Burash-damned dragon came after our longboat and put seven of us in the
water. Four died and the cursed beast took my leg before Johannen drove it
off." He shook his head, i sucking deep on his pipe, calming as the
narcotic took effect. "No, no man in possession of his wits would sail
¹
for Gessyth unless there's guaranteed profit."

 
          
"Suppose,"
Calandryll said, "that reward was offered?"

 
          
"You'd
hire a boat to reach that hell? Why?"

 
          
Calandryll
smiled, shrugging, offering no explanation. The old man spat, staring at him as
if judging his sanity and finding it wanting. "You'll find none to take
you," he said, weather-beaten face solemn, "and if you flaunt such a
purse as a sea rover would demand, you'll find a knife between your shoulders
and your coin taken. You want to sail to Gessyth? Wait for the wind to shift
and travel with a merchant—if any are left."

 
          
"It
would seem none will be," Calandryll said.