Conqueror’s Moon (53 page)

Conrig inclined his head in a gracious gesture. “Thank your king for his suggestion. Please tell him to go to hell.” And to Beorbrook: “Lock this man in the dungeon with his fellow magickers. My brother tells me that these Didionite adepts have fairly weak talents and are unable to bespeak or windwatch through a dense burden of rock and earth. If Honigalus has any more messages for me, let him send them through the Brothers of Zeth.”

“You condemn your family to death!” Ilingus cried.

“Take him away,” Conrig said wearily. “I’ll hear Duke Tanaby’s report next.”

Vanguard, his three fighting sons, and their considerable force of warriors had rounded up the officers of the great guilds and the city’s merchant-lords almost without bloodshed and marched them to the palace in chains. Conrig now interviewed each Didionite magnate briefly, assuring them that they would eventually be allowed to continue in business under the Sovereignty if they cooperated with Vanguard’s inventory of their treasure, food supplies, and weaponry.

He then beckoned Viscount Hartrig Skellhaven to approach the throne, the last of the principal Cathran battle-leaders to render his report. But before the seagoing noble and his associates could make their way across the crowded room, there was a commotion at the door and the sound of female voices raised in sharp protest.

Conrig rose to his feet and commanded silence.

“It’s the three Didionite royal ladies,” Count Sividian called out, “demanding audience with Your Grace.”

“Let them enter.” The prince resumed his seat.

Uncrowned Queen Bryce and Somarus’s wife Thylla were like dead women walking, their faces ravaged by shock and grief and their hair hanging in snarls. They still wore rumpled nightrobes and shuffled forward as if they were dazed sheep, driven by young Princess Risalla. She was dressed in a black gown, simply cut but of rich fabric. Her pale hair was arranged in neat coils and covered by a black veil.

“Prince Conrig!” Risalla cried out boldly, stepping ahead of the other two. “We’ve come to beg a boon of you. Give us the bodies of King Achardus and Queen Siry, so that we may prepare them for burial in the ancestral crypt.”

After their brief encounter the previous night, Conrig had dismissed the youngest child of Achardus as a meek, colorless creature of no great beauty. But the woman who confronted him now had no aspect of fear or diffidence about her. Risalla’s eyes were alight with courage and determination, giving her plain features an aura of strength and magnificence beyond mere comeliness.

He said quietly, “The brave queen’s remains you may certainly have, Princess. But why should I grant honorable repose to an uncivilized brute like Achardus, who flouted every norm of chivalry by murdering Cathra’s peaceable delegation?”

“I know it was ignoble of my father to have killed your people, cast their bodies into the sea, and piked their heads above Mallmouth Bridge,” Risalla said. “And you would be within your rights as our conqueror to treat his poor corpse in a similar manner. But I beseech you to show mercy and kindness instead, if you hope for our fealty within your Sovereignty.”

Conrig sighed. “And would you accept the Sovereignty of High Blenholme, madam, if fate decrees that my victory over your nation shall stand?”

“With all my heart,” said Risalla. “It would be my duty, which I value above any other consideration.”

Conrig lifted his gaze to Sividian, who stood behind the royal women. “Give them the bodies and see that they have what is needed.”

The count nodded and ushered the three of them away.

Viscount Skellhaven finally approached and reported that he had made short work of the handful of naval vessels deemed too unsound to join the armada and the few merchantmen tied up at the docks, arresting their officers and sending their crews fleeing into the ruins of the city.

“But the harbor spoils were as paltry as we feared, Your Grace. Most of the warehouses are empty. Of the captured ships, only a single Stippenese transport carrack was well found and decently armed with a dozen culverins. She’s a strong, speedy clipper about a hundred fifteen foot long, displacing five hundred tons. Her name is Shearwater… and I want her!”

The prince laughed. “Draw closer, Hartrig. The ship is yours—but not yet to keep, until you and your brave seamen have done a necessary service for me.”

Skellhaven climbed the dais. He spoke low. “What is it?”

“I must finish the job I began, taking on King Honigalus, or else our victory here in Holt Mallburn is an empty sham. Can you provision and crew this Shearwater before nightfall? I intend to leave for Cathra as soon as possible.”

The viscount nodded slowly. “Aye. Between us, Cousin Holmrangel and I’ve enough hands for a fighting crew. We’ll press a few willing Stippenese officers as well from the gang of prisoners. It’ll save time, shaking the ship down, although she’s not that different from Cathran carracks… But it’s five hundred fifty hard leagues to Blenholme Roads. Even with the fairest winds and no storms, the voyage could take nearly four days this chancey time of year.”

“What if our sails are stiffened by a magical gale created by Conjure-Princess Ullanoth?” the prince inquired softly.

“Depends on the condition of Shearwater’s bottom,” Skellhaven said. “But if she’s clean below, and doesn’t dismast or fall apart under the strain, and if we avoid digging her bow and flipping fore-and-aft—we might just be able to make it in thirty-six hours.”

“That’s more like it!” Conrig’s grin was reckless. “Are you game to try, my lord? The fate of the Sovereignty—and Cathra itself—may depend on your answer, for our new Lord Admiral Copperstrand has played the fool and split his force in two, counter to King Olmigon’s express command. I’ve been told by the enemy’s archwizard that our warships are badly outnumbered by the fleet of Honigalus in a battle now taking place off the Vigilants. I have no windspoken word of the outcome as yet, but we must prepare for the worst. I intend to take command of what’s left of our fleet myself—if any vessels remain afloat upon our arrival.“

“That futterin‘ great booby Copperstrand!” Skellhaven exclaimed. “What did he think he was doing—holding ships in reserve, in case the Continentals snuck up behind him into Cala Bay?”

“I presume so. I’ve been informed that the southern corsairs are still in port, no doubt waiting to see how Honigalus fares.”

“I’ll wager they won’t stay there for long… Well, I’ll be on my way back to the quay. I’ll leave it to you to whistle up the magical gale. Count on me to take care of everything else.”

“I will,” said Conrig.

He watched the tattered, indomitable viscount stride from the throne room, then summoned Tayman and Feribor, who waited with most of the other Heart Companions for the prince’s orders. Swiftly, he informed them of his decision to sail south, delegating each a particular area of preparation. “We’ll take the surviving armigers with us, but no one else save my brother Stergos. Find him for me, Feri, before you undertake your other tasks, and send him to my private chambers. I must know how that damned sea-battle is going.”

The count’s saturnine face showed a flicker of irony. “I should think the Lady Ullanoth could give you a better account, using her superior sorcery.”

“So she could,” Conrig retorted grimly, “if I could only find her! The woman seems to have vanished.”

==========

Conjure-King Beynor woke from his latest dream of pain just before noon. He lay motionless in his bed, hardly daring to believe that the agony inflicted by the Lights was temporarily in abeyance, savoring the small comforts of being horizontal, warm, and cradled in softness.

His eyes opened. Sunshine shone through the windows of his chambers. Through the open bedroom door he beheld the reassuring sight of the twin guardian Fortresses, glowing in the golden monstrance out in the sitting room. His hand groped for the two chains hanging about his neck: Subtle Armor and Shapechanger were there and safe, as was the Great Stone Weathermaker, which he kept always on his finger.

She had not stolen them while he slept.

Stolen sigils… and soot on the soles of his bare feet!

The memory returned like a crash of cymbals, the remarkable insight that had struck him as he lost consciousness the day before. With caution, he levered himself upright and lowered his feet to the floor, where fur-lined slippers waited. Still pain-free. Was he growing stronger, becoming inured to Weathermaker’s baneful side-effects?

The temperature of his room was still reasonably comfortable, but the fire was almost out. Good! His windsight showed only blackness inside the chimney. If the sigils taken by Ullanoth were concealed up there, they were buried in cinders and soot.

He slipped on a velvet robe and went to the hearth, where he easily quenched the last glowing peat coals with his talent. Nevertheless, he’d still be forced to wait a bit until the iron damper and the firebricks of the flue were cool enough to permit him to search.

He rang for breakfast, then poured some of Lady Zimroth’s nerve-stimulating elixir into an emerald-encrusted goblet and drank it down. Immediately, he felt energized and decided to discover what events had transpired while he slept. He put on a heavy fur coat, shut down the Fortresses, and went out onto his balcony to scry.

The day was clear and extremely cold, with a light northerly breeze. It was, he realized, Leap Day of the Boreal Moon—traditionally a portentous time for the island of High Blenholme, when significant things might be expected to happen… such as a victory at sea for the navy of Crown Prince Honigalus!

Closing his eyes and bracing himself against the stone wall, he sent his windsight soaring southward. And there it was: Copperstrand’s eight barques and eighteen frigates engaged in a desperate melee against forty Didionite men o‘ war, and clearly getting the worst of it. As Beynor watched, enthralled, fusillades of tarnblaze bombshells from three fast-moving enemy two-deckers raked the Cathran flagship, toppling its tall mainmast. A few moments later, the Conjure-King’s windsight was blinded by a spectacular silent explosion that virtually obliterated the crippled three-tier barque, beyond a doubt killing every soul aboard.

“Cathra’s whipped!” the delighted king whispered. He refocused his overview again and again from differing perspectives, watching the Cathran battle line break in three places. Some defending ships allowed themselves to be trapped between the island reefs and the onrushing foe and were being driven onto the rocks. Others, outmaneuvered by the more agile vessels commanded by Honigalus, had been devastated by tarnblaze and were sinking or being forced to surrender. At length, when the scene was almost entirely masked by clouds of smoke, two barques and three frigates flying Cathran colors burst out of the turmoil and fled westward toward Cala Bay. No Didionites followed.

Beynor cut off his scrying and excitedly bespoke Fring, the Crown Prince’s windvoice.

“Is the battle over? Has Honigalus won? I oversaw Cathran ships running away!”

The laconic reply was some minutes in coming. The fighting is not quite finished. But Didion is triumphant, King Beynor, beyond any doubt. Not a single ship of ours has been lost. Twelve of the foe have been sunk—including their flagship— five have surrendered, and five more have fled.

“Excellent! Convey my congratulations to Prince Honigalus. And ask him what he intends to do next.”

Again there was a delay. Then:

Didion’s battle losses are minor. Three of our great ships-of-the-line suffered consequential damage and will have to retire to Continental ports for repairs, taking our wounded with them. The rest of our war fleet will await the arrival of our allies, who are expected to bring provisions and fresh stocks of munitions. After the rendezvous and reinforcement, we will proceed to Cala Bay and bombard the Cathran capital of Cala. We will avenge Prince Heritor Conrig’s attack upon Holt Mallburn last night, the city’s fall to our enemies, and the sad demise of King Achardus and Queen Siry.

Hearing these tidings for the first time, Beynor felt his heart contract within his breast. So Conrig had mounted a successful land invasion in spite of all his efforts! But the situation was far from hopeless. Didion would never surrender while its new king lived and was poised to fall upon Cala. And the second son of Achardus, Prince Somarus, still headed a sizable army capable of retaking Holt Mallburn.

“Please convey my condolences to King Honigalus upon the death of his royal father and the queen. I can only presume the villain Conrig was abetted in his conquest by malign Beaconfolk sorcery. No commonplace magic could possibly have hidden his invading army from my scrutiny.”

So you say, Conjure-King…

Beynor winced at the windvoice’s cynical tone. But there was no way the Didionites could know for certain that Ullanoth and her sigils were assisting Conrig. Curse her! What would she do next? It was imperative that he track his sister down and devise some way to destroy her, perhaps using Weathermaker. Might it be possible to direct the Great Stone’s thunderbolt at her without knowing her precise location? Nothing in Rothbannon’s writings indicated that the sigil was capable of such a deed, but—

King Honigalus of Didion presents his compliments to the Conjure-King of Moss, and assures him of his continuing goodwill and deep regard. When the time is appropriate, please initiate a brisk wind out of the southeast to speed our Continental allies to us. Needless to say, these fair winds must be judiciously sustained to assure the final vanquishing of our mutual enemy.

The pitiless bastards! Would they never allow him a single day to recover?

Beynor managed to say, “When it’s convenient, I’ll consider the request of my esteemed fellow-monarch, Honigalus. Meanwhile, let him savor the triumph which I already helped him to achieve.”

In a smoldering fit of pique, he cut off the windspeech dialog with Fring and put all thought of the Didionite armada out of his mind. Let them wait for their bloody wind. He had more vital matters to consider.

Sweat beaded his brow and drenched his fur-swathed body. His earlier sense of well-being had totally evaporated, and he stood trembling in reaction to the terrible news of Holt Mallburn’s fall and the sure knowledge that Ullanoth had brought it about.