Love And War (21 page)

“Has someone attacked your town?” asked Sturm.

Radiz squinted into the morning glare. “No, boy. Those are signal towers. Fires were
burned up there to mark the entrance for passing ships,” he said.

“Don't they use them anymore?” Sturm asked. Radiz was silent.

Artavash ordered message pennants sent as the galley churned to its haven. They passed
large numbers of fishing smacks moored to buoys. They were waterlogged from neglect. In
the main dockyard, large merchant ships swung untended at anchor, their rigging ragged and
their main yards lying rotten on their decks.

“Strange,” said Lady Ilys. “Everything looks abandoned. I thought this would be a teeming
port.”

“Not a soul in sight,” agreed Mistress Carin.

That changed when a light ketch skimmed out to meet the SEA RAVEN. A Kernaffi stood in the
boat and called to the galley in his native tongue. Radiz replied at length.

“What do they say?” asked Sturm.

“Merely the greetings of our great lord to his returning ship,” said Artavash. The man in
the boat did not look so very pleased to Sturm.

SEA RAVEN dropped anchors fore and aft. The oars were run in. The pilot ketch put about
and tacked back to a long stone pier. Radiz shouted orders, and all hands except slaves
assembled on the main deck.

A squat barge rowed out to the galley's bow. Sturm, his mother, and Carin followed
Artavash to a ramp that led down to the bobbing barge. Sturm stopped short of the ramp's end. “What about Sergeant Soren?” he said. “He will come ashore with the other
rowers,” said Radiz. Sturm appealed to Artavash. “He must come with us,”

he said. She seemed willing to accommodate the boy's wishes, so she sent for the sergeant.
Soren was half-carried from the hold and dumped on the ramp by Kernaffi sailors.

“You see, my lady, how four days with an oar tames the boldest warrior,” Radiz said.
Artavash laughed all the way down to the barge.

Sturm helped his friend stand. “Are you well, Soren?” he said.

“Well enough, my lord.” His quilted tunic was in tat ters, and red welts streaked his
back. The rowing master had not spared Soren the whip. The guardsman's hands were also raw
from gripping the heavy oar.

The barge glided in to the pier. An honour guard awaited them. Brass horns blared as
Artavash led the group up some steps to the street. A parade formed:

the warrior woman leading Sturm by the hand, followed by a grim Lady Ilys and Carin.
Soren, Radiz, and the Kernaffi guard brought up the rear. Fifes shrilled and drums rumbled
as they began to march.

The streets of the city were as empty as the harbor. A few people peered out their
windows, and some curious loafers filled open doorways. As soon as they caught sight of
Artavash, doors closed and shutters shut.

“Passing strange,” Sturm said. “Harbours without ships, streets without people.”

“The natives seldom venture out this time of day,” Artavash replied. “They think it's too
hot.”

The parade turned a comer. Ahead rose an imposing facade, a palace of some sort. Before
the palace was a high wooden platform covered with a golden canopy. Artavash halted Sturm
ten paces from the foot of the platform. The guards ran ahead, forming a double line from
Artavash to the bottom of the steps. Javelins clanked on shoulders in salute, and the
music stopped.

“Hail, Lord of the Sea!” Artavash cried. “KAI! NAM KAMAY DURAT!” echoed the guards. Sturm
shaded his eyes. How warm it was here! The afternoon sun glared over him, making sweat break out on his face. Maybe the natives had
the right idea!

Something stirred on the platform. A thin shape, black against the dazzling light, came to
the front of the platform.

Two hands rose, spread in greeting. “Welcome, beloved Artavash. Who have you brought to me?“ said a high, reedy voice. ”Noble guests, my lord.” She introduced Lady Ilys Carin, and Soren. Then she pushed Sturm forward. “And this, Master, is Sturm, Angriff's
son, of the house of Brightblade.”

A thin, gurgling sound emanated from the platform. “So? Come closer, young fellow, that I
may see you better.”

Sturm cast a glance back at his mother for guidance. Artavash didn't wait; she put a hand
to his back and steered him up the wooden steps. When the shade of the gilded canopy fell
across his face, he saw the man known as the Lord of the Sea.

He was tall, and so thin his back bowed under the weight of his large head. The black robe
he wore hung loosely from his shoulders. Long, smooth fingers were clasped together at the
Sea Lord's waist. And his face - Sturm would long remember that face! Two black eyes
glittered on either side of a sharp nose. The skin of his beardless face was gray and dry
as autumn leaves . . . strange that his hands, though bony, were pink and unwrinkled. The
Lord of the Sea had only a few wisps of black hair clinging to his globular skull.

“My name is Mukhari Ras,” he said. His voice was like a creaking door. “I am so pleased to
meet you.” He extended a hand to the boy. Sturm took it uncertainly. It was dry and hot,
almost feverish.

“Have I done well?” asked Artavash.

“Oh, very well, far better than I expected,” said Mukhari Ras. “And you shall be rewarded.
All my loyal subjects will be rewarded.”

He picked up a large canvas sack, grunting from the obvious weight. Shuffling to the front
of the platform, Mukhari said, “Loyal men of Kernaf! I am pleased with the guests you have
brought me. Taste the gratitude of Mukhari Ras!” So saying, he dipped his hand in the sack
and flung a handful of the contents into the air. A shower of gold coins fell on the
soldiers below. The men broke ranks and scrambled after the money, which rang and rolled
on the paving stones.

Sturm blinked. He saw coins hit the ground, but it was sand, common sand, that Mukhari
threw by fistfuls from the sack.

“You - you're a magician!” he said. “No, boy. I am no crude conjurer, but a humble acolyte of the mysteries of cosmic matter. My alchemical art has made me master of this island.
Soon I shall command all the Inland Sea.“ Mukhari threw another handful of sand to the
Kernaffi. ”More! Take more! All the gold in the world is yours if you serve me!” The men
dropped their weapons and crawled on all fours in the dirt. They filled their helmets with
gold and laughingly chased each new coin as it struck the ground.

The sack emptied, Mukhari Ras tossed it aside. “That's done,” he said, showing blackened
teeth in his smile. “Artavash, my dear, bring the boy and his noble companions to the
palace. I shall receive them for dinner.”

Sturm, Lady Ilys, and Carin were taken to an airy suite of rooms on the east side of the
palace. There, amid billowing sheets of gauze, the smell of incense, and the ever-present
tinkling of wind chimes, bowls of scented water were brought for their bathing. Vested
servants stood by with towels, even presuming to pat dry the Solamnians' faces and hands
for them. “What odd people they are,” said Carin. “That Mukhari Ras is the oddest of them
all. Who could imagine a quacksalving alchemist as the ruler of an island? It's - it's
contrary to nature, that's what it is,” said Lady Ilys.

“Mother, what will become of us?” Sturm said once the towel was taken away from his face.

“I cannot guess,” she confessed. “A man who throws gold in the street cannot desire ransom
money. In truth, were it not for the violence of our being brought here, I would believe
we were honoured guests.”

Sturm was uneasy. Why had no one else noticed that Mukhari's gold was only sand? He opened
his mouth to mention it to his mother, but before he could say a word, Artavash appeared
at their door.

“The table of my master is laden. Let us eat,” she said.

Dinner in the palace was a major event, presented in an elaborate style. Sturm enjoyed
sitting on the floor at the low table, though Lady Ilys provoked a minor crisis by
insisting that a proper chair be provided for her. It was not decent, she said, for a
well-born lady to squat on her haunches like the family wolfhound.

As the diners - including Sir Radiz, Artavash, and Soren - were busy hacking open their
first course of melon, Lady Ilys said, “Lord Mukhari, may I ask how you came to rule this
country? Your servant,” she gestured to Artavash, “admits not being native to Kernaf.”

The alchemist, who sat by a plate heaped with fruit, replied, “I was marooned on the south
coast of Kernaf by men of my own land.”

“What land is that?” asked Sturm. “Moranoco, or as you call it, the Plains of Dust.” “You
were exiled then?” said Lady Ilys. Without looking, she handed a napkin to Sturm. The boy blotted melon juice from his chin.

“Indeed, lady; as you are now, so was I once a hard- pressed refugee. By my skill in the
Art, I won the loyalty and affection of the people of Kernaf. I know the straits you are
in, which is why I make you welcome.”

“Your servants have not always been so kind,” Soren said, giving Artavash a caustic
glance. The warrior woman plunged a blunt table knife into her melon and split the fruit
in two.

“Ah, well! It has been explained to me that your ship refused the SEA RAVEN'S summons and
resisted with blood when boarded. Is it surprising that my good Artavash resorted to stern
measures to bring you here? If murder and plunder were our aims, you would not be dining
with us now,” Mukhari said.

Carin looked confused. Lady Ilys said, “Why do your ships stop free traders on the open
sea?”

“Tribute is necessary for the maintenance of Kernaf's position,” said Artavash. She popped
a sliver of melon in her mouth. Sturm watched her every move with fascination.

There was silence around the table for a moment. Everyone was eating except Mukhari. Sturm
wondered why he had the choicest fruit on his plate if he weren't going to eat any of it.

The alchemist fixed his black eyes on Lady Ilys. “Where were you bound, Lady?”

“Solace, in Abanasinia,” she replied.

Mukhari wiped his mouth on a linen napkin, though no food had touched his lips. “Shall I
put one of my ships at your disposal?”

“That would be wonderful!” said Mistress Carin. “It is gracious of you to offer,” said
Lady Ilys. Radiz interjected, “Only SEA RAVEN is on hand, Lord.” “When can it be ready for
sea?” “Not for nine days, Lord. The hull was strained when we rammed the roundship. The seams should be re-caulked,“ Artavash said. Radiz opened his
mouth to say something but was cut off by her harsh glance. ”No other vessel is expected
back in less than a fortnight,” she said.

“It seems you must be my guests for nine more days,” Mukhari said. “So that you will be
comfortable, please feel free to roam my palace at will.” He stood to leave, though the
second course had yet to be served. “And now I retire to my nightly studies. Good health
to you, my friends.”

He waved a hand through the air. A slim glass vial appeared in his fingers. Mukhari hurled
the vial to the floor. It shattered, and a coil of rose-colored smoke snaked out. The
smoke enveloped Mukhari Ras. The last thing Sturm saw was the alchemist's face. In a halo
of pink smoke he looked quite benign.

The cloud dispersed, and Mukhari was gone. “Oh!” said Carin. “Tricks,” muttered Radiz.

It was hot. Sturm rolled over and pushed back the slick satin sheets. Currents of air
stirred the filmy curtains, but the heat in the room was stifling. He got up, pulled on
his Kernaffi-style pants and vest, and checked on his mother. Lady Ilys was sleeping
soundly. Her cheek was cool and her forehead dry. So why am I sweating so? wondered Sturm.

He tip-toed through the colonnade to the main room. The cool tiles felt good under his
feet. Beyond the columns was an atrium. Stars glittered overhead. As Sturm stood searching
for familiar constellations, he heard footsteps and muffled voices. He went to the door
and lifted the latch.

Two Kernaffi soldiers flanked a third, taller man. Chains clinked faintly from the middle
man's wrists and feet. Sturm cracked the door wider. The men passed a wall torch. The
fettered man was Sergeant Soren - and he was gagged, too.

Sturm shut the door quickly. His mind raced in tan dem with his heart. Why was Soren in
chains? Where were they taking him? When the footsteps faded around the corner, Sturm knew
he had to follow.

The massive suite door swung back without a whisper. Sturm saw the hinges were made of
ruby. There seemed no limit to the wealth of the alchemist-lord. He slipped down the hall,
straining to hear the last word of the Kernaffi guards and Soren. The palace was still.

He kept close to the wall, just as he did when he played 'Storm the Citadel' in Castle
Brightblade. His damp palms moved stickily over the glossy wood panels. A strange,
irresistible smell came to Sturm's nostrils, an odor of spice such as he had never known
before. Where the corridor crossed another he stopped, uncertain which way to go. A fresh waft of spice drew him to the right. Down the hall a high, curving staircase of
black marble spiraled up, following the sweep of the palace wall. Midway up, a single
torch burned in an iron bracket.

Sturm mounted the steps. The odor was stronger and more compelling with every rising step.
As he passed under the torch, Sturm heard a peculiar sound - the gurgle of slow- moving
liquid. The steps ended at a black door studded with silver spikes. It was ajar.

Sturm's hand reached out, wavered ... He could not resist. He touched the door with one
finger, and it opened wide for him.

Even yellow light filled the room beyond. It was a workshop of some sort, filled with all
sorts of strange things: tables laden with crystals of odd color and shape; stuffed
animals with glass-bead eyes that stared knowingly back at Sturm. Shelves lined with fancy
canisters and bundles of dried herbs, neatly labeled in some foreign script. And books.
More books than Sturm had ever seen in his life.

He found the source of the gurgling and the spice aroma. An elaborate arrangement of clear
tubes and bottles bubbled slowly on a round table in the center of the room. Beside this
apparatus was a large red candle, as thick as his wrist. The odor was coming from it.