City of Jade (20 page)
Authors: Dennis McKiernan
Then Aylis turned once more and faced forward. She looked down at Lissa and said, “Come, Liss, let us go to the bow; there might be dolphins racing, or even Children of the Sea.”
And together they made their way forward, dodging this way and that to avoid interfering with members of the crew as they hauled on halyards at the behest of the bosun to trim up the sails to catch the full of the quartering headwind.
And still the
Eroean
gained speed as faster and farther she went. . . .
Eroean
gained speed as faster and farther she went. . . .
. . . While far behind and standing ashore, two fairly young Dwarves watched as the craft drew away, each wishing that he could have been one of the warriors chosen for Brekk’s warband. And the Elvenship diminished as onward she ran, her hull seeming to sink into the sea with distance, and finally the hull could no longer be seen, though the masts and sails—azure all—yet jutted above the horizon, blending into the sky and just visible . . . if one knew where to look. One of the young Dwarves turned to the other and said in Châkur, [“Ready?”] The other sighed and nodded but said nought in return. And they mounted up and wheeled about and slowly rode toward the remaining seventy-four ponies and the lone horse to begin the long trek back to Kraggen-cor.
18
Plot
DARK DESIGNS
MID AUTUMN, 6E1
MID AUTUMN, 6E1
Ragged in flight, Nunde had struggled across some six hundred leagues—eighteen hundred miles—to reach his dark tower clutched among the crags of the Grimwall, just east of Jallor Pass, there where the western reaches of Aven cross over to the long steppes of Jord. From the nexus, southerly down into Khal he had fled, emerging from the mountains to come perilously close to the dreaded Skög and the Wolfwood, there where vile Dalavar—the Wolfmage—dwelled. West and away from that dire danger Nunde had veered, to cross Khal and Garia and Aven, to come at last into his domain. And in rage he had slaughtered nearly one hundred Chûn, and had nearly slain his apprentice, Malik. For his plans had been shattered, and all because of Aravan and his ilk. Yet even this bloodletting had not assuaged in the slightest Nunde’s terrible rage.
Including the long time of his flight to safety, Nunde had spent nigh nine months in all, seeking a plan to destroy the bane of his existence. He had no doubt at all that the schemes of that vile Elf had led to the downfall of the Black Fortress and the ruin of Nunde’s dark designs, a disaster from which the Necromancer had barely escaped with his life.
And at the coming of this day’s dawn, down the stone steps of the shadowy stairwell Nunde descended to his torchlit quarters below, and there he fell into a restless sleep, his mind still churning with thoughts of revenge, as it now had done for months on end.
114
It was as the sun rode across the zenith—though no glimmer of its light reached his chamber—that Nunde bolted upright.
“Radok, to me!” he shouted without thinking, but then he remembered Radok was dead, slain on a raid into Arden Vale a number of years ago.
But from an adjoining chamber, “Yes, Master Nunde,” called Malik and, bearing a lit candle casting wavering shadows, he hurried to the Necromancer’s side. A not-well-hidden look of anxiety played across the pale white face of the corpulent apprentice—for he never knew where the master’s wrath would be directed.
“I have it,” declared Nunde, his dark eyes gloating as he ran his long, bony fingers through his waist-length hair, tossing it back and over a shoulder to hang nearly to his hips.
“Have what, Master?”
“The plan, you fool,” hissed Nunde, irritation flashing across his narrow face with its hooklike aquiline nose, “the plan for that Dohl Aravan. The way to reave from him all he holds dear. And when I am done with his immediate companions, then will I do him in. After which I will recover his corpse and raise him”—the Necromancer clenched a black-nailed fist—“and ever will he regret that which he did. For then I’ll send his rotting remains forth to extract even more of my revenge by having him slay others of those he loves, and he will be able to do nought to gainsay me, even though he will be horrified by that which I will have him do.”
With his apprentice bustling at his side, Nunde strode out from the chamber and down a torchlit dark-granite hallway to a corpse-littered laboratory, the flayed bodies on the many tables in various stages of decomposition and dismemberment. But Nunde did not pause to admire his handiwork; instead he stepped to and ’round a large desk made of an esoteric gray wood and sat. Hovering nearby, Malik wondered at what his master intended, but as Nunde pulled a sheet of parchment out from a drawer and began to write—the razor-sharp quill scratching across the vellum, leaving a trail of bloodred liquid behind—the apprentice frowned in puzzlement. The Necromancer brewed no potion, compounded no powder, cast no spell, raised no corpse, and this did not seem to be any arcane scroll the apprentice recognized, so how this could possibly gain Nunde his revenge, Malik did not know.
But at last Nunde passed the parchment across to Malik and hissed, “Bring me these ingredients.”
Malik looked at the list, recognition dawning in his eyes, for these things the apprentice did know. Yet how this might further his master’s scheme, Malik had not the slightest answer.
The next night, locked and barred in his quarters, Nunde drank the fresh-brewed concoction, and after long moments he slipped into unconsciousness, and sent his aethyrial self winging far eastward.
19
Plans
BOSKYDELLS
LATE AUTUMN, 6E1
LATE AUTUMN, 6E1
“Well, buccoes, you’ve trained extra hard this past year, and, Pip, you’re fifteen summers old—”
“I’m three moons older,” said Binkton, even as Pipper said, “Bink’s three moons older.”
Arley laughed. “I was just about to say that, my lads.”
“Oh,” said Binkton, as Pipper joined his uncle in mirth.
But then Pipper’s face took on a puzzled look. “So, I’m fifteen?”
“Of course you’re fifteen, Pipper,” snapped Binkton. “Have you gone ’round the bend?”
“No, Bink, what I mean is: so I’m fifteen and Bink’s three moons older; what has that to do with ought?”
Arley smiled, for ever did Pipper pop up with statements that seemed to drive Binkton to distraction. Pipper never seemed to say or ask what he meant to say or ask, and Binkton always took umbrage when he couldn’t follow Pipper’s mental leap—one a dreamer, the other more material.
“Oh,” said Binkton, and he turned to Uncle Arley. “So, what have our ages to do with anything?”
“Just this, buccoes: next spring, as you approach sixteen summers, I think it’s time you put this show on the road and earned a bit of copper for yourselves.”
“Yes!” shouted Pipper.
“Hmph!”
grunted Binkton. “I think we were ready last spring.”
grunted Binkton. “I think we were ready last spring.”
“Oh, no,” said Arley, “there’s much more I have to teach you, and this winter is the time to do it. Besides, I can still see places where you need more skill: you, Binkton, in opening locks with nought but a wire as a pick as well as working while hanging upside down; and you, Pipper, need more practice in sleight of hand, and your juggling could use some sharpening, as well. And both of you need to be able to perform all things in all sorts of weather, when you are dripping with sweat in the heat and your hands are watery slick, or when your fingers and toes and every muscle in your bodies are numb with chill. You never know when sudden winds will blow or the rains pour down or swirling dust and grit will blind you, and you’ve got to be safe up on the rope or to get out from the trap you find yourselves in.”
“Hoy,” exclaimed Binkton, “you make this sound like a dangerous business.”
Lost in thought, the eld buccan nodded. “Aye, for many a time, I—” Of a sudden, Arley came to himself. “Harrumph. Well, you just never know.”
“Oh, I’ll work extra hard, Uncle Arley,” said Pipper. “I mean, I’ll try to get better at walking a coin across my knuckles—though I’ll never be as good as Bink, of course—and my filching skills need improvement, and I could get better at—”
“Yes, yes, Pip,” said Uncle Arley, interrupting Pipper’s stream of words. “I’ll help you with all of those, and then next spring and through the summer, but especially the winter after—when the harvests are in and the common rooms are brimming with folks—it’s off to the taverns and inns in the Boskydells, where the pickings ought to be good.”
That night, Pipper said, “Oh, won’t this be the very best?”
Exasperated, Binkton asked, “And what thought flitted through your mind just now?”
“That we’ll have our own coppers and silvers and perhaps even a gold or two, Bink,” said Pipper, his eyes reflecting his boundless enthusiasm.
“About time, too,” grumped Binkton. “I mean, we’ve taken enough of Uncle Arley’s money. We need to be on our own.”
“Uncle Arley’s money,” breathed Pipper, looking about as if to see where the eld buccan might be.
“Oh, come on, Pip, you’re not going to bring that up again.”
“Wull, it’s always been a myst’ry, Bink, and—”
“And you just can’t leave it alone,” snapped Binkton. The buccan plumped his pillow and jerked his covers up around his neck. “It’s Uncle Arley’s, and I don’t care where it comes from. Now go to sleep.”
Pipper lay quietly a moment, but then said, “But Finley Tutwillow, down in Rood, says that once every year a mysterious rider, an Outsider, a Human, no less, comes every Midsummer Day and puts a sack of coins in the Bank of Boskydells. And always about that same time, Uncle Arley says his pension’s come. What do you think that’s all about, Bink? I mean, why would some Human—?”
Binkton’s soft snoring was all the answer that Pipper got, as was usual when he and Binkton speculated in the dark about Uncle Arley’s even darker past.
20
At Sail
ELVENSHIP
MID AUTUMN, 6E1
MID AUTUMN, 6E1
In the Captain’s Lounge, Long Tom stood beside Aravan at the map table with Aylis at his other side. Nikolai and Brekk and Dokan stood across the board. Tiny Lissa sat atop the table and sipped tea from a thimble-sized mug, as Noddy poured a cup for Aylis.
“Where we be bound, Cap’n?” asked Long Tom.
Aravan stabbed a finger down to the chart. “Here.”
As Lissa got to her feet and strolled across the tabletop to see, all looked, Noddy included, at where the captain’s finger touched the map.
A great strew of specks and dots and irregular loops were scattered across where Aravan pointed, his finger resting upon one of the larger shapes.
“Oi see,” said Long Tom. “One o’ th’ Ten Thousand Isles o’ Mordain, eh?”
“What be we after, Kapitan?” asked Nikolai.
“White tea,” replied Aravan.
Lissa frowned. “White tea?”
Aylis smiled. “Very young tea leaves plucked from the tips of the plant. ’Tis a delicate flavor, much savored in the halls of Caer Pendwyr, or so it was long past.”
“It still is, my love,” said Aravan. “ ’Twill bring a fine price for the crew.” He glanced at Long Tom and Nikolai and added, “More than enough for all the warband and crew, e’en those who sat idle for many long moons.”
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