Voyage of the Fox Rider (39 page)

“Well what I mean, Pysk, is that it will take a spell to overcome a spell.”

“But Aylis said—”

“Never mind what Aylis said.”

“But, Alamar, isn’t she right?”

Alamar growled, then said, “In some things she’s right, Pysk. —But look here, what I plan to do is to get the jump on Durlok, surprise him, as Jatu says catch him unawares.” The elder rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“And just how do you propose to do that, Alamar?”

“Well, Pysk, think on this: what if Durlok cannot see the fireballs, eh? Then what?”

“Um…I suppose they would strike his ship unimpeded.”

“Exactly so,” cackled Alamar. “Exactly so. And I can conceal them with a casting, make them,
hmm
, unnoticed.”

“But, Alamar,” protested Jinnarin, “won’t he simply use his magesight to see them coming?”

“He could, Pysk, and that’s why we have to surprise him, so that he doesn’t get a chance. Then we’ll burn his ship, and if he escapes, skewer him with a bolt from a ballista. That will put an end to his plans, whatever they may be.”

“But, Alamar, you assume that he is indeed on a ship. What if he is not? Then what?”

Alamar stared at Jinnarin. “How else would he travel about in the middle of the ocean, Pysk? Tell me that.”

“I don’t know, Alamar. You’re the Mage. You tell me.”

“Pah! It’s not even worth considering.”

Jinnarin reluctantly acquiesced, then gazed up at the Mage. “That’s your plan? The whole of it?”

Alamar nodded. “What do you think?”

“Well, Alamar, I think that it’s full of holes. See here, if Durlok is the Mage you think he is, then won’t he counter your spells with castings of his own? Won’t he quench any fire we burst upon his ship? Won’t he turn any ballista bolt hindward in its arc and send it back at us? I mean, look at it this way: if you, Alamar, were on a ship being attacked thusly, what would you do? And whatever you decide, isn’t that exactly what Durlok will do?”

Bokar, Jatu, and Frizian sat drinking hot tea at a table in the ship’s mess. “I say we do it just as we did the pirate ship in the Straits of Alacca,” declared Bokar. “Only this time it is we who will hale alongside. Then we drop the corvuses and charge across, while some swing over on yardarm ropes, and take the ship. It is as simple as that.”

“Oh?” murmured Jatu, a skeptical look on his face. “As simple as that, eh? You forget, Bokar, there’s a Mage aboard that other ship, and where Mages are concerned, nothing is simple.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Bokar. “There are forty Châkka warriors upon the
Eroean
, all armed and armored. I doubt that any Mage can withstand such an assault, especially if it comes as a surprise.”

Jatu nodded, but Frizian said, “Perhaps so, Armsmaster, yet surely this Durlok does not sail alone. He must have a crew of his own. And if so, they will not simply be standing about while we board their ship and go after the Mage. I mean, we’ll be fighting for our very lives.”

Bokar canted his head in agreement. “True, Frizian, yet heed: I will have ten of my Châkka bear crossbows, and assign them the task of finding the Mage and bringing him down. Surely one or more bolts will find their mark. He cannot turn them all aside.”

Before the ship’s second officer could reply, a seaman came to the table. “Mister Frizian, sir, the wind is beginning to shift. It’s running a bit warmer and up from the south.”

As Frizian stood and made ready to leave, Jatu shook his head and said. “Perhaps this plan of yours will indeed succeed, Bokar, yet it does have a weakness, one
which Lady Aylis pointed out: just how will we slip this tall ship alongside Durlok’s without being noticed?”

“Fainting is not my wont,” said Aylis, standing in the center of the stateroom she and Aravan shared.

Aravan canted an eyebrow.
“Chieran?”

Aylis shook her head. “Twice now it has happened to me: the first time when I was trying to read your cards, love; the second time when I laid hands on the…on Durlok’s victim. Never before have I fainted, but now it seems to be on the verge of becoming a habit.”

Aravan pulled her to him, his strong arms going about her. Of a sudden he pulled back and looked at her. “Thou art trembling, Aylis.”

She drew him back to her, resting her head on his shoulder. “I am afraid. Aravan, afraid for my father.”

Aravan stroked her hair. “Dost thou wish to speak of it?”

Aylis sighed and then pulled away and moved to the bed and sat. Aravan swung a chair about and threw a leg astraddle and sat facing her.

“Durlok is a Black Mage,” began Aylis, “and they get their not from within but rather from without. They use the pain and agony and sufferings of others, their hatred, their fear, their terror, whatever, to power their vile castings. Hence, given that they have enough victims, their energy is without bounds.

“My father, by contrast, uses his own internal energy for his castings. And he is at the end of his ebb, or nearly so. Hence, he has only a limited number of castings ere he will be past redemption, and should he use all of his , he will perish.

“And the terrible thing is, I cannot aid him, for my strength lies in the gathering of information, though at the moment I am blocked. I cannot even lend him some of my , for I know not how. Oh, there are spells which would transfer from me to him, but I am not privy to such…nor do I believe is my father. Yet even did we know them, it is questionable whether he would employ castings of that kind for they are much too similar to the lamia-like drainings the Black Mages use to empower themselves.

“And that is why I am afraid, Aravan, for should we
meet Durlok face-to-face, I know my father will not hold back. He will pit his limited ‘gainst the inferno of a Black Mage. And he will die does he do so.”

The wind continued to shift from southwesterly to south, and as it did so, its force began to abate. The air itself was somewhat warmer, though only slightly so, for it was yet deep winter there on the marge between the wide Weston Ocean and the great Northern Sea. And onward sailed the
Eroean
, easterly ever easterly, Rico now piping the sails about to catch the failing wind abeam.

Early mid morn Captain Aravan, came on deck and the entire crew gathered for a simple ceremony, a burial at sea for Durlok’s victim. As all stood assembled beneath silken sails, the captain uttered a prayer, asking that High Adon gather the soul of the slain Man unto Himself. And with Rico piping farewell, they tipped the funeral plank and let the canvas-wrapped body slide down into the waters, the ballast dragging it under the cold grey waves.

Hours passed, the low winter Sun crawling across the sky, the wind continued to diminish, the
Eroean
making the most of the breeze, yet creeping across the water.

“What be our speed, Boder?”

“Six knots and falling, sir.”

Aylis came on deck, seeking Aravan. And when she found him she said, “I have been thinking, love, about the rede I uttered while trying to divine your cards. It seems to me that I should begin teaching you some of the tongue of Magekind, for if you are to draw fire into a dark crystal, you will need the words to do so.”

Aravan gazed at the seeress. “
Chieran
, it is not at all certain that the rede was meant for me. After all, thou wert not looking
at
me but
through
me instead.”

“Nevertheless, love, I would teach you words which you might need in speaking an object’s Truename.”

Aravan acquiesced, and together they strolled toward the bow, Aylis speaking softly, Aravan repeating her words.

And still the wind diminished.

Jinnarin and Alamar sat in the ship’s mess, breaking their fast, Rux lying under the table, gnawing on a slab
of dried jerky. As they ate, from the galley came Trench the cook. “Oi’ve got somethin’ special ’ere for y’, Laidy Jinnarin. A bit o’ a sweet, if Oi do say so m’sel’. ’Ere y’ be, Laidy—a dab o’ a ‘oney comb. It ought t’ go roight nice on th’ bit o’ y’r biscuit, naow.”

As Alamar eyed the honeycomb, his mouth watering, Jinnarin looked up at Trench. “Why, I thank you, Trench, but tell me, what did I ever do to deserve such a treat?”

Trench shuffled his feet then said, “Well, miss, y’see, y’ won th’ plume lottery f’r me, y’ did. Two underd coppers, ‘twas, one f’r each slip pulled out o’ th’ ‘at. And when y’ spotted that first plume, wellanow, it were Oi ‘oo wos th’ winner. Two ‘underd coppers, it ain’t much naow, but it were th’ prestige o’ winnin’ wot counted. Oi c’n crow it over m’ shipmates, Oi can, ’n’ f’r naow Oi’m known as ‘Lucky Trench,’ ’n’ f’r that Oi thank’ee. Y’see, th’ crew, wellanow, they think m’ cookin’ is even better, naow that Oi’m a proven lucky charm ’n’ all. ’N’ that’s why Oi’m givin’ y’ th’ bit o’ th’ comb Oi’ve been savin’ j’st f’r a special occasion, ’n’ this wos it.”

“Why, I thank you, Mister Lucky Trench. I will savor every scrap of it.”

Trench bobbed his head and strode back to the galley, a spring in his step.

“Are you going to eat all of that?” Alamar’s voice was plaintive.

“As much as I can, Alamar,” answered Jinnarin, stuffing her mouth. “Yb cn mrv htvr ss lft.”

“What? What did you say, Pysk?”

Jinnarin’s jaw worked up and down as she chewed and chewed and finally swallowed. “I said, you can have whatever is left.” She smiled wickedly and took another big bite.