Ellen Under The Stairs (13 page)

Beyond the city lay Xanthin harbor, at
that distance a mirrored glint of gold reflecting the egg-yoke sky.
Though poorly protected at the moment, peace had produced a harbor
crowded with merchantmen.

Later that morning, he must remember
to make his customary visit to the child-King Yarro II. Followed by
meetings with the king's tutors: the tutor Head, Haelb; Eidiz --
history and geography; Gera -- economics, trade; and Isab --
military.

Shutting the window, turning, he found
the room itself to be as he remembered: marble and dark wood, this
place the nerve center of the Mage of Stil-de-grain.

But not for long. Only until Ellen was
well enough to make the return trip to Hero Castle -- and
home.

As for Ellen, art historian that she
was, she'd wanted a morning's tour of the palace, John asking
around to find her a guide. Guards would accompany her, of course;
plus a troop of soldiers should she insist on venturing into the
city.

There was a knock on the door. Someone
of importance, the guards instructed to keep out the
run-of-the-mill flatterers, Mage worshipers, menus preparers,
Mage-robe seamstress, and office seekers. John needed his
privacy.

Leaving the window, sitting in the
large, ornately carved chair at the head of the table, John was
ready to impress.

"Enter."

A pause ... the door opening a crack,
an eye atop a short body peeking in.

Though half a face was not much to go
on, John recognized the man as Gagar, the messenger bird
handler.

Gagar -- spy master. Trainer of bird
groomers; the man responsible for shipping agents and their birds
to all bands, messenger birds the fastest way of long distance
communication.

"Come in, Gagar," John called, John
coming to have respect for the little man, Gagar far from the
mincing, head bobbing, sycophant he appeared to be on first
acquaintance. "I'm glad to see you."

And, after a moment -- a golden parrot
on his gloved arm -- the birdie man did as John commanded, Gagar
tripping along the side of the table on tiny, timid
feet.

As for the bird-on-glove, it was much
like a parrot, this one yellow, meaning it had been hatched in
Stil-de-grain, messenger birds the color of the Band from which
they came. Taken to other Bands, when released, they flew back to
their home Band, in this case, to the trainer, Gagar. In this way,
resembling homing pigeons.

The parrot side of their function was
to repeat whatever message they'd been taught to say. (When John
had suggested just tying a message to the bird's foot, Gagar had
been shocked at that suggestion, explaining that no self-respecting
bird would leave the ground until pecking off such an offensive
impediment!

Like the bird, Gagar had beady eyes, a
long, downward sloping beak of a nose, and head bobbing movements.
Talk about dogs resembling their owners!

Gagar and parrot arriving at John's
end of the table, pausing for a few eye blinks -- man and bird --
it was time to find out what was up.

"Where is this bird from?"

"I cannot tell, great Mage. Until I
hear a bird speak, I will be unable to divine its origin." Even
Gagar's voice was bird-shrill, no doubt an asset in the training
process.

"And you haven't heard the message,
yet?"

"Impossible, sir!" Gagar was taken
aback. "The message is for you to hear. Since the bird will forget
what it's learned as it speaks it, I know not what it will
say."

John had forgotten. The bird spoke,
then forgot what it said. Useful in the spy-bird business; no worry
about secret messages "shared" later with the wrong
people.

"Of course. I knew that. I've been
gone, as you know. Long enough to have forgotten a lot of little
things."

Gagar again looked offended. How could
any detail concerning his beloved birds slip the Mage's
mind?

"Now that you've brought it, make it
spill its guts."

"What, great Mage!?" Gagar shocked
again at even the thought of a bird's "guts" falling
out!

"I mean, make it talk," Gagar
breathing a sigh of relief at John's explanation.

Taking a hop forward, the man
transferred the bird from his wrist to the back of the chair
nearest John, the talking parrot close enough for John to smell it.
An observation John was careful to keep from Gagar -- who also
stunk of bird.

The spy man first waving to attract
the bird's attention, the creature's yellow eyes rotating, one eye
on the trainer, the other on John, Gagar made a convoluted movement
of thumb and forefinger -- the signal for the bird to
talk.

"The . Malachite . Navy . In . Sea .
throat,"

squawked the parrot in the unaccented
patter of all brainless, talking birds.

"Thank you, Gagar. As usual, you have
brought me interesting news."

Bowing his pleasure at being useful to
the Mage, Gagar motioned to the bird, the fowl (in more ways than
one) stepping back on the spy-man's arm, Gagar turning to
hippity-hop from the room.

The door closed, John had some
thinking to do about what he'd just heard.

Malachite War ships in Sea throat? No
reason for them to be there ... unless positioning themselves for
an attack on Stil-de-grain!

Jumping up, John hurried to the door,
opening it to call to the nearest guard. "I need Admiral Coluth
immediately. I don't know where he is at the moment, probably at
the harbor. So send runners everywhere he could be."

"Yes, sir!" the guard said, saluting
smartly, taking off at a run.

That course of action set in motion,
John had to consider the possibility that Malachite agents had
already been smuggled into Stil-de-grain.

"I have reason to believe we are under
threat. I want my personal bodyguard doubled, similar increases for
the rest of my party. My companion, Ellen, is on tour in the
building. Under no circumstance is she to leave the palace. I want
maximum protection for all important personages."

"Yes, sir."

At that, the other three guards didn't
know what to do. To accomplish the multiple tasks they had been
assigned, they would have to abandon their post, leaving John open
to assault. John could see it in their eyes. "I don't think any of
us is under immediate threat. You can leave for now. I'll bar the
door and be safe inside."

Still, they hesitated.

"Mage Magic will protect me, if
necessary.'

And they were off, magic the answer to
any vulnerability.

As for John, he was thankful Golden
had "relieved" John of John's Mage-Gem, hiding the dangerous disk
in the Palace before John's last return to earth, the Crystal so
dangerous to the sanity of its user it must never be activated for
any purpose short of a back-against-the-wall emergency.

Turning to enter the room, John bolted
the door, thinking that even if the Malachites had failed to
penetrated Stil-de-grain security, Pfnaravin was on the loose. No
reason to think he was on Xanthin island, however. Also no reason
to think he was not.

After that, the day went as John
structured it. Coluth arrived, the Admiral agreeing that a
Malachite attack was possible, Coluth as much in the dark about why
this should be as John. A naval strike conceivable, the two men
agreed that the harbor mouth should be blocked, John ordering that
to be done under Coluth's supervision, John and Coluth taking a
fast cart to the harbor, tugs soon struggling to drag the heavy,
blocking stones into position, enemy ships now unable to enter
Xanthin harbor without the risk of ripping out their bottoms on the
submerged boulders. (Though merchant ships were now trapped in the
harbor -- complaints sure to follow -- national security always
trumped commerce.)

John was going to have the blocking
stones moved after down-light -- in case spies were watching the
tugs at work. It would be difficult to get the sailors to work
after dark, he knew, everyone here afraid of night monsters:
leviathans unleashed by the dark. But as Mage, he could get that
job done, people more afraid of Mages-in-the-flesh than of nameless
terrors from the deep.

Leaving no "stone unturned," John
activated his secondary plan for harbor defense, another innovation
he'd put in place on his last cross-world journey. As a secondary
approach to harbor security, he'd installed rock throwing catapults
on the heights; calibrated to guarantee "can't miss" bombardments
on any ship "lucky" enough to get past the underwater
rocks.

The harbor secure, John called a war
council to meet in the Mage room -- Coluth, Leet, and the new army
Head, Yona, the old Head dying during John's absence, Yona looking
much like the last military leader -- stocky build, close cut hair,
slitted eyes -- all officers in white uniforms, yellow stripping,
gold sash of rank angled across their chests.

John thought about inviting Gagar and
several Head Seconds ... but decided not to, "the more the merrier"
a saying inappropriate to swift action.

Time to start the meeting. "Are we
ready at the harbor?"

"Yes, sir." Coluth. Seated to John's
left.

"What about the navy? How long until
it's up to strength?

"Though progress has been made ...."
Coluth need go no further.

"Are rams being built into the new
ships?" Rams had been another innovation John had brought to this
world, if by "innovation," you meant the introduction of the latest
weapon in naval warfare on the Mediterranean Sea -- in 600
BC.

"Yes, though our sailors are
ill-practiced in their use."

What Coluth meant was that there was
still resistance to any innovation in the service, even one that
had proved decisive when it had been tried. Nothing as hide bound
as a military man, as John had discovered to his grief.

"What we've got now will hold them.
How to break a Malachite blockade -- should there be one -- will be
a problem to be tackled later." John hoped he sounded more
confident than he felt.

"If, great Mage," said the new Army
Head, "their ships dare to block our exit, your Crystal-Magic will
...."

Same as always. If all else fails,
blast them with magic, much of John's authority here depending on
people thinking he possessed his Mage-Gem.

"We'll, see," John said, continuing
the fiction that he could use Crystal force any time he choose. "In
the meantime, everyone stay sharp." Nods all around.

"Admiral Coluth to remain, the rest of
the council, dismissed."

Crisp salutes from everyone, the rest
departing to supervise Stil-de-grain defense -- John
hoped.

With the chamber door closed, John
turned to Coluth, the Admiral stoically awaiting new
orders.

"I want you and your men, plus the tug
boat crews, back at the harbor just before down-light. We've got a
little night work to do."

Coluth didn't flinch. At the same
time, was unhappy.

"This is to fool potential spies who
might have been watching us plug the harbor this afternoon. I want
the blocking stones moved when no one is around to chart their new
locations. And don't worry," John added, Coluth continuing to
frown, "I'll be there, too. In my Mage rig."

"Rig?"

"Mage clothing. Pointed hat of magic,
all that. You don't have to force the crews to work at night. I'll
see to it that they do. Anyway, have you ever, in your life at sea,
seen what's frightening them -- these so-called monsters of the
deep that the darkness is supposed to set loose?"

"Ah ... no."

A hedged answer if ever John heard it.
"What do you mean by that?"

"Not seen, them."

"But?"

"In the long ago," -- the way time was
measured here -- "at a tie-up dock, a number of ships at the end of
their ropes ...."

Coluth paused to see if John
understood him, the admiral referring to the practice of sea-going
ships rowed to shore at the end of every day, to what were called
tie-up stations. Sailors would then tie one end of a long rope to
the wharf, row their boat away from land, then fasten the other end
of the rope to the boat. Since there was no tide, the boats
remained moored that way throughout the night. Far enough from land
to prevent attack by the night's land-monsters; close enough to
shore that the terrors of the deep couldn't reach them through the
shallows.

Every ship.

Every night.

John used to play down this monster
business as superstition -- until he'd seen night-activated
horror-creatures for himself.

"I've seen the Lxlop." Said to
encourage Coluth to continue his tale, the Lxlop a savage
combination of wolf and termite, these creatures of the night like
owls, with eyes useful for hunting in the dark, but reduced to
bat-blindness by the faintest light.

"One boat was not tied securely,"
Coluth continued, his rough, seaman's voice down to a whisper.
"Somehow, drifted out to sea. Perhaps rowed by drunker sailors not
knowing what they did. Out there, in the fog, I
heard...."