Magician (34 page)

Kulgan watched him and said, “Well,
Pug. Shall I have them fetch you a razor so you can keep your chin
bare like Prince Arutha? Or do you wish to cultivate a magnificent
beard?” He exaggeratedly brushed his own grey beard.

Pug smiled for the first time since
leaving Mac Mordain Cadal. “I think I can leave off worrying
about it for a time.”

Kulgan laughed, glad to see the boy’s
spirits returning. The magician had been troubled at the depth of
Pug’s mourning for Tomas and was relieved to see the boy’s
resilient nature assert itself. Kulgan held the door open “Shall
we?”

Pug inclined his head, imitating a
courtly bow, and said, “Certes, master magician. After you?”
and broke into a laugh.

They made their way to the dining room,
a large and well-lit hall, though nothing as large as in the castle
of Crydee. The Duke and Prince Arutha were already seated, and Kulgan
and Pug quickly took their places at the table.

Borric was just finishing his account
of the events at Crydee and in the great forest when Pug and Kulgan
sat. “So,” he said, “I chose to carry this news
myself, so important I believe it to be.”

The merchant leaned back in his chair
as servants brought a wide variety of dishes for the diners. “Lord
Borric,” said Talbott, “when your man Meecham first
approached me, his request on your behalf was somewhat vague, due, I
believe, to the manner in which the information was transmitted.”
He referred to the magic employed by Kulgan to contact Belgan, who
had in turn sent the message to Meecham. “I never expected your
desire to reach Krondor would prove as vital to my own people as I
now see it to be.” He paused, then continued, “I am, of
course, alarmed by the news you bear. I was willing to act as a
broker to find you a ship, but now I will undertake to send you in
one of my own vessels.” He picked up a small bell that sat near
his hand and rang. In a moment a servant was standing at his
shoulder. “Send word to Captain Abram to ready the
Storm
Queen
. He leaves on tomorrow’s afternoon tide for Krondor.
I will send more detailed instructions later.”

The servant bowed and left. The Duke
said, “I thank you, Master Kilrane. I had hoped that you would
understand, but I did not expect to find a ship so quickly.”

The merchant looked directly at Borric.
“Duke Borric, let me be frank. There is little love lost
between the Free Cities and the Kingdom. And, to be franker still,
less love for the name conDoin. It was your grandfather who laid
waste to Walinor and siege to Natal. He was stopped only ten miles
north of this very city, and that memory still rankles many of us. We
are Keshian by ancestry, but freemen by birth, and have little
affection for conquerors.” Kilrane continued as the Duke sat
stiffly in his chair, “Still, we are forced to admit that your
father later, and yourself now, have been good neighbors, treating
fairly with the Free Cities, even generously at times. I believe you
to be a man of honor and realize these Tsurani people are likely all
you say they are. You are not the sort of man given to exaggeration,
I think.”

The Duke relaxed a little at this.
Talbott took a sip of wine, then resumed his conversation. “We
would be foolish not to recognize that our best interests lie with
those of the Kingdom, for alone we are helpless. When you have
departed, I will summon a meeting of the Council of Guilds and
Merchants and will argue for support of the Kingdom in this.”
He smiled, and all at the table could see that here was a man as
confident in his influence and authority as the Duke was in his. “I
think I will have little difficulty in making the council see the
wisdom of this. A brief mention of that Tsurani war galley and a
little conjecture on how our ships would fare against a fleet of such
ships should convince them.”

Borric laughed and slapped his hand
upon the table. “Master merchant, I can see your wealth was not
acquired by a lucky cast of fate’s knucklebones. Your shrewd
mind is a match for my own Father Tully’s. As is your wisdom. I
give you my thanks.”

The Duke and the merchant continued to
talk late into the night, but Pug was still tired and returned to his
bed. When Kulgan came in hours later, he found the boy lying
restfully, a peaceful expression on his face.

The
Storm Queen
ran before the
wind, her topgallants and sky sails slamming her through the raging
sea. The swirling, stinging icy rain made the night so black that the
tops of her tall masts were lost in hazy darkness to those who stood
on her decks.

On the quarterdeck, figures huddled
under great fur-lined oilcloth cloaks, trying to stay warm and dry in
the bitterly cold wetness. Twice during the last two weeks they had
run through high seas, but this was by far the worst weather they had
encountered. A cry went up from the rigging, and word was carried to
the captain that two men had fallen from the yards. Duke Borric
shouted to Captain Abram, “Can nothing be done?”

“Nay, my lord. They are dead men,
and to search would be folly, even if possible, which it is not,”
the captain shouted back, his voice carrying over the storm’s
roar.

A full watch was above in the
treacherous rigging, knocking away the ice that was forming on the
spars, threatening to crack them with additional weight, disabling
the ship. Captain Abram held the rail with one hand, watching for
signs of trouble, his whole body in tune with his ship. Next to him
stood the Duke and Kulgan, less sure of their footing on the pitching
deck. A loud groaning, cracking sound came from below, and the
captain swore.

Moments later a sailor appeared before
them. “Captain, we’ve cracked a timber and she’s
taking water.”

The captain waved to one of his mates
who stood on the main deck “Take a crew below and shore up the
damage, then report.”

The mate quickly picked four men to
accompany him below. Kulgan seemed to go into a trance for a minute
before he said, “Captain, this storm will blow another three
days.”

The captain cursed the luck the gods
had sent him and said to the Duke, “I can’t run her
before the storm for three days taking water. I must find a place to
heave to and repair the hull.”

The Duke nodded, shouting over the
storm, “Are you turning for Queg?”

The captain shook his head, dislodging
snow and water dripping from his black beard. “I cannot turn
her into the wind for Queg. We will have to lie off Sorcerer’s
Isle.”

Kulgan shook his head, though the
gesture was not noticed by the others. The magician asked, “Is
there nowhere else we can put in?”

The captain looked at the magician and
the Duke. “Not as close. We would risk the loss of a mast.
Then, if we didn’t founder and sink, we’d lose six days
rather than three. The seas run higher, and I fear I may lose more
men.” He shouted orders aloft and to the steersman, and they
took a more southerly course, heading for Sorcerer’s Isle.

Kulgan went below with the Duke. The
rocking, surging motion of the ship made the ladder and narrow
passageway difficult to negotiate, and the stout magician was tossed
from one side to the other as they made their way to their cabins.
The Duke went into his cabin, shared with his son, and Kulgan entered
his own. Gardan, Meecham, and Pug were trying to rest on their
respective bunks during the buffeting. The boy was having a difficult
time, for he had been sick the first two days. He had gained sea legs
of a sort, but still couldn’t bring himself to eat the salty
pork and hardtack they were forced to consume. Because of the rough
seas, the ship’s cook had been unable to perform his usual
duties.

The ship’s timbers groaned in
protest at the pounding the waves were giving, and from ahead they
could hear the sound of hammers as the work crew struggled to repair
the breached hull.

Pug rolled over and looked at Kulgan.
“What about the storm?”

Meecham came up on one elbow and looked
at his master. Gardan did likewise. Kulgan said, “It will blow
three days longer. We will put in to the lee of an island and hold
there until it slackens.”

“What island?” asked Pug.

“Sorcerer’s Isle.”

Meecham shot up out of his bunk,
hitting his head on the low ceiling. Cursing and rubbing his head,
while Gardan stifled a laugh, he exclaimed, “The island of
Macros the Black?”

Kulgan nodded, while using one hand to
steady himself as the ship nosed over a high crest and forward into a
deep trough. “The same. I have little liking for the idea, but
the captain fears for the ship.” As if to punctuate the point,
the hull creaked and groaned alarmingly for a moment.

“Who is Macros?” asked Pug.

Kulgan looked thoughtful for a moment,
as much from listening to the work crew in the hold as from the boy’s
question, then said, “Macros is a great sorcerer, Pug. Perhaps
the greatest the world has ever known.”

“Aye,” added Meecham, “and
the spawn of some demon from the deepest circle of hell. His arts are
the blackest, and even the bloody Priests of Lims-Kragma fear to set
foot on his island.”

Gardan laughed. “I have yet to
see a wizard who could cow the death goddess’s priests. He must
be a powerful mage.”

“Those are only stories, Pug,”
Kulgan said. “What we do know about him is that when the
persecution of magicians reached its height in the Kingdom, Macros
fled to this island. No one has since traveled to or from it.”

Pug sat up on his bunk, interested in
what he was hearing, oblivious to the terrible noise of the storm. He
watched as Kulgan’s face was bathed in moving half lights and
shadows by the crazily swinging lantern that danced with every lurch
of the ship.

“Macros is very old,”
Kulgan continued. “By what arts he keeps alive, only he knows,
but he has lived there over three hundred years.”

Gardan scoffed, “Or several men
by the same name have lived there.”

Kulgan nodded. “Perhaps. In any
event, there is nothing truly known about him, except terrible tales
told by sailors. I suspect that even if Macros does practice the
darker side of magic, his reputation is greatly inflated, perhaps as
a means of securing privacy.”

A loud cracking noise, as if another
timber in the hull had split, quieted them. The cabin rolled with the
storm, and Meecham spoke all their minds: “And I’m hoping
we’ll all be able to stand upon Sorcerer’s Isle.”

The ship limped into the southern bay
of the island. They would have to wait until the storm subsided
before they could put divers over the side to inspect the damage to
the hull.

Kulgan, Pug, Gardan, and Meecham came
out on deck. The weather was slightly kinder with the cliffs cutting
the fury of the storm. Pug walked to where the captain and Kulgan
were standing. He followed their gaze up to the top of the cliffs.

High above the bay sat a castle, its
tall towers outlined against the sky by the grey light of day. It was
a strange place, with spires and turrets pointing upward like some
clawed hand. The castle was dark save for one window in a high tower
that shone with blue, pulsating light, as if lightning had been
captured and put to work by the inhabitant.

Pug heard Meecham say, “There,
upon the bluff. Macros.”

Three days later the divers broke the
surface and yelled to the captain their appraisal of the damage. Pug
was on the main deck with Meecham, Gardan, and Kulgan Prince Arutha
and his father stood near the captain, awaiting the verdict on the
ship’s condition. Above, the seabirds wheeled, looking for the
scraps and garbage heralded by a ship in these waters. The storms of
winter did little to supplement the meager feeding of the birds, and
a ship was a welcome source of fare.

Arutha came down to the main deck where
the others waited. “It will take all of this day and half
tomorrow to repair the damage, but the captain thinks it will hold
fair until we reach Krondor. We should have little trouble from
here.”

Meecham and Gardan threw each other
meaningful glances. Not wanting to let the opportunity pass, Kulgan
said, “Will we be able to put ashore, Your Highness?”

Arutha rubbed his clean-shaven chin
with a gloved hand. “Aye, though not one sailor will put out a
boat to carry us.”

“Us?” asked the magician.

Arutha smiled his crooked smile. “I
have had my fill of cabins, Kulgan. I feel the need to stretch my
legs on firm ground. Besides, without supervision, you’d spend
the day wandering about places where you’ve no business.”
Pug looked up toward the castle, his glance noted by the magician.

“We’ll keep clear of that
castle and the road up from the beach, to be sure. The tales of this
island only speak of ill coming to those who seek to enter the
sorcerer’s halls.”

Arutha signaled a seaman. A boat was
readied, and the four men and the boy got aboard. The boat was hauled
over the side and lowered by a crew sweating despite the cold wind
that still blew after the storm. By the glances they kept throwing
toward the crest of the bluffs, Pug knew they were not sweating
because of work or weather.

As if reading his thoughts, Arutha
said, “There may be a more superstitious breed on Midkemia than
sailors, but who they are I could not tell you.”

When the boat was in the water, Meecham
and Gardan cast off the lines that hung suspended from the davits.
The two men awkwardly took oars and began to row toward the beach. It
was a broken, stuttering rhythm at first, but with disapproving looks
from the Prince, along with several comments about how men could
spend their lives in a sea town and not know how to row, they finally
got the boat moving in good order.

They put in at a sandy stretch of
beach, a little cove that broke the bluffs of the bay. Upward toward
the castle ran a path, which joined another leading away across the
island.