Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (7 page)

In that moment, though Havlah had not been told, he knew that Votoc must have blessed his father.

The two set off southward while the
Agnari
remained behind, distant and untouchable, standing as still as a statue. The wind pulled at his robes and his hair, but his body did not waiver. From the corner of one of his bluish-white eyes, a tear slowly rolled out onto his leathery cheek.

Erand had begun as a prosperous river town, positioned strategically at the intersection of the mighty Vulc Muri, and the busiest of Gresadia’s many roads, the Cen Vath. The Vulc Muri emerged from the forest of Divar in the south and flowed up through Zarothus and Erand, finally terminating in a magnificent delta in New Gresad, where it emptied into the northern sea, the Baeno Leir. The Cen Vath, Gresadia’s longest cross-country thoroughfare, stretched from the distant reaches of western Gresadia in Morvagan all the way to the capital of the neighboring country, Wralland, in the far east. When airships replaced both rivers and roads as the dominant conveyor of commerce, Erand was quick to adapt.

Now a sprig of vaulting skyscrapers bristled from the center of the city, towering above shops and offices. Around them sank the lower-lying residential neighborhoods of Erand, spreading out in a wide circle. The towers themselves stood anywhere from ten to twenty stories high, to the very limit that stone and wood can achieve.

Following the modern style of typical Gresadian architecture, ostentation was prime. To emphasize majesty, height and light, buildings were fitted with spiky decorations, pointed arches, and tall, latticed windows. In low buildings, ceilings were steeply vaulted and supported with ribbing and pillars that carried the eye upward to create a sense of rising verticality. The whole city seemed to reach up to the sky – to Aelmuligo.

The collection of towers was a sky harbor, a place for ships to moor, and a direct entrance to the city center from above. As a result, the skyscrapers themselves were typically inns or markets or both – a place for residents as well as travelers to congregate, do business, and find diversion. Dirigibles, balloons, and airships of all variety were docked at towers or floating in the air above Erand. Tethered to one of the tallest structures was
Gilderam
.

It hung in the air like a great green egg, capped at its dorsal and ventral poles with dual observatories. Slick, polished darkwood merged gracefully with the shiny metal engine housing and the netted canvas of the balloon. Around its midsection, little glinting portholes dotted the hull, forecastle, and aftcastle in neat rows. The bridge, an angular window at the front of the vessel, gleamed in the sunlight like the cycloptic eye of some bulbous green fish, its pupil formed by the hole Owein had left in it.

From her position on the main deck, Shazahd could see from one end of Erand to the other. The light of mid morning lit up her spires and cast long shadows down her narrow, winding streets. Industrious peddlers were milling in the markets. Shoppers in the city square, more than an
itth
away, looked like ants as they busily scuttled from store to store.

The Vulc Muri bisected Erand by cutting a jagged, serpentine trench all the way through it. High-vaulted bridges crisscrossed it intermittently, connecting both halves together. Through the years the streets had been laid without much planning, a feature common of Gresadian towns, and, compounding over centuries, had eventually evolved into a wholly unmanageable labyrinthine mess.

The view of it from above was quite breathtaking.

Shazahd’s ship was moored at the hotel
Vavishna, which jutted straight up from the middle of the city. Far below, at the base of the tower, her guests poured out onto the street, happy to be finally released after intense questioning by the Royal Police regarding last night’s attempted hijacking.

“…I told you, she’s out here,” said a voice from behind. It was Chief Steward Pawl, leading Owein through a hatch onto the deck. “Ah! There you are, Mistress Ranaloc.”

“Pawl. Maeriod.”

“This is for you,” Pawl said as he handed her a piece of paper. “It’s a letter of resignation from Captain Breld. Evidently last night’s episode was a bit too much excitement for him. Not exactly what he’d had in mind for his retirement, I think.”

“Great,” she said, looking it over. “Now we don’t have a captain.” Then to Owein, “I suppose you’ve come to ask for the early termination of your contract as well?”

“Actually, I came to tell you that we finally found our escort.”

“Oh, yes? Really? And what excuse did they offer for abandoning us during a hijacking?”

“None. They’re all dead. The crashed ship was found west of Cezil. The Tricorns must’ve infiltrated them, too.”

“
Threithumé
…” said Shazahd, casting her eyes downward to Erand.

“Also,” said Pawl, “on top of the destroyed turbine, Galif reports that our getaway last night damaged something called the ‘hydraulic manifold.’ Evidently until it can be repaired, the ship will only be capable of about a fifth of her normal power – at best. He’d like to pick up supplies today in Erand, but even if we can patch her up quickly, we’re going to be several days late for your wedding. I’ll see to it that word is sent to Divar posthaste. We’ll inform your fiancé that we’ll have to reschedule, and –”

“Don’t bother,” said Shazahd. “He already knows.” Pawl and Owein noticed that she was clutching her necklace. She whispered something to herself, but it was too quiet for either of them to understand.

“I beg your pardon, Mistress?”

“Nothing, Pawl. Tell Galif to meet me on the gangplank. We’ll leave immediately to get his supplies.”

“Of course, Mistress.” And Pawl disappeared inside the ship.

“If you and Galif are going into Erand,” said Owein, “I’ll get a few of my men together to go with you.”

Shazahd looked up at him. “So you’re not leaving?”

“We made a deal. I said I’d get you safely to Divar, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.”

“How terribly honorable of you,” said a new voice. It was Mentrat, coming up the deck from the stern. “But I’m afraid your services are no longer required.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Father, –”

“We’d rather make the rest of our journey without you or your men aboard this ship. Please pack up your things and go.”

Owein looked between Shazahd and her father. She was glaring at the old man, incredulous and a little shocked.

“I’d love to oblige you,” said Owein coolly, “but I’m afraid I was hired by your daughter. Not you.”

“Shazahd is my executor. She acts on my behalf. Now
I’m
acting on my behalf. And, unfortunately for you, Master Maeriod, I am not hugely fond of your profession and no longer wish to employ your services.”

“My services? You mean saving your ship? Your life?”

“I mean violence, Master Maeriod. Physical aggression. It is the basest of human pursuits, and the most loathsome. In this enlightened age, I’m surprised people like you can find work at all.”

“People like me?”

“Yes, Master Maeriod, people like you. Idiots, we call them.
Drindamum
. You see, violence is what people do when they can’t think of a better solution to their problems. Violence is stupidity in its purest form. And I have no need for it.”

“Don’t you? Then tell me, Your
Lordship
, just what brilliant scheme of yours would’ve taken your ship back last night?”

“Why you insolent child…!” Mentrat took a step toward Owein. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?!”

Owein took a step forward too. “As a matter of fact, –”

“
Gentlemen
,
please!” said Shazahd, silencing them both. “Father, Owein and his men saved hundreds of lives last night – including yours and mine – and they
will
be accompanying us to Divar as per our agreement. Master Maeriod, if you ever speak disrespectfully to one of your superiors again you really will be fired. Have I made myself clear?”

The two stood quietly for a moment before Owein said, “I’m sorry for speaking out of line, My Lady. Lord Ranaloc… do forgive me.”

“Forgive?” Mentrat scoffed. “Ha! What use have I for forgiveness.” He turned his back to them and looked out over the city below. Shazahd tried to think of something to say, but Owein simply bowed his head to her and left them, heading around the deck.

“Father,” she said, taking hold of the rail beside Mentrat. “I can sense you’re not well. Your pain is my pain. I can feel it.” His eyes flashed at her. “When we get to Divar… have you considered what I asked you?”

“What? The healing ritual? Please.” He strode for the hatch.

“Yes. Have you thought about it?” Shazahd followed him. “This will be the first opportunity you’ve had in ages. Maybe the last. You can’t bear this pain forever, Father, not alone. It’ll destroy you.”

“I don’t have time for meaningless ceremonies,” he said. “I’ll heal myself. I don’t need any healing, anyway! I’m perfectly
fine!
” he was shouting as he threw open the hatchway.

A very surprised young man was standing on the other side, just about to come out onto the deck. He was a typified Gresadian dandy, dressed expertly in the latest fashion. He wore a richly embroidered frock coat that was covered in buttons and fit with giant cuffs, and his face was white and pink with cosmetic powders.

“Hello there,” he said chipperly. “You must be Lord Ranaloc. Might I introduce myself.” He passed his cane from one gloved hand to the other so that he could take off his hat, which held a massive plume of fluffy feathers, and revealed a head of dark blonde hair pulled into a tight, short braid down the back of his neck. “My name is –”

“Get out of my way!” Mentrat yelled, and pushed him aside, storming into the ship.

“Another time, then!” he called after Mentrat.

“Sorry about that,” said Shazahd as the young man stepped through the door. “My father can be a bit …well,
temperamental
at times.”

“Your father? So you’re….”

“Shazahd Ranaloc. How do you do.” She extended her hand.

“My dear gods… you are even more resplendently beautiful than I was warned about.” He took her hand and kissed it. “
Shazahd
…” he repeated to himself. “I say, that is not a common name. Is it Gresadian?”

“No. It’s Valan.”

“It’s absolutely gorgeous. What does it mean?”

“I’m named after the rain nymph who scares away Tir and brings water to the desert.”

“Exquisite.”

“And what about your name?”

“My good, sweet Lady Ranaloc… my name is Levwit Balkenthron, the Marquis of Pwij. And I am forever at your service.” He dipped into a very low, pompous bow. And stayed there.

“Um… you may rise, Lord Balkenthron.”

He shot up like bolt.

“Please,” he said tenderly, and stepped close to her. “Call me …
Marquis
.” She laughed. He smiled at her. “Very well, Levwit then. Or whatever you wish. Oh my! – is that real Divaran heartroot?”

“Yes, it is.”

“It’s stunning. I’ve never seen one in person before. Is it true that when you unite it with its other half and plant it in the ground, it’ll grow a tree that never dies?”

“That’s what they say. Ask me again in an eternity. I’ll let you know.” Shazahd started walking down the deck.

“Ha! Such beauty
and
wit!” He walked with her. “Whoever holds the other half of that root is one lucky elf.”

“Shouldn’t you be gathering your things, Marquis? We won’t be moored here through the night.”

“My things?”

“I don’t expect anyone should want to sail on with us after last night.”

“My Lady!” Levwit sprang around Shazahd to face her. “With your permission, it would be my greatest pleasure to continue aboard your magnificent vessel for as long as you’ll allow it.”

“You wish to carry on with us?”

“Of course! You see, I’m a wanderer. I live to travel. And I’m also a bit of an admirer of airships. This ship is a marvel of modern engineering, and I’m completely in love with it. Also,” the marquis produced a tiny piece of paper from a pocket, “the ticket here says I get dropped off in Potholos.” He smiled broadly, and Shazahd couldn’t help but smile back.

By the time Shazahd, Galif and Pawl made it to street level, foot traffic was at its height. Owein had brought Fulo, Gor’m and Cavada to escort them. Levwit Balkenthron, the Marquis of Pwij, had insisted on coming along too.

Erand served as the commercial hub for the surrounding agricultural community, which mixed incongruously with city residents and foreign visitors. Perfumed lords and bejeweled ladies strode shoulder to shoulder with dirt-covered farmhands wearing the drab tunics of peasantry. Landowners and laborers shared the road with equanimity.

“Gor’m – now there’s a charming name,” said Levwit to the gigantic bodyguard. “Tell me, is it short for something?” Gor’m snorted, and the sound was like a tiny earthquake. “Dear me! I bet you have a lovely singing voice.” The brute eyed him sideways.

“Don’t be offended by his silence,” said Fulo. “He doesn’t talk much.”

“Does he sing?”

Fulo chuckled, then laughed full out. “You know, in all our years together, I can’t say I’ve ever heard him sing. Gorahem prefers to express himself in other ways. Usually with a sword. Or club. Or rock.”