Conqueror’s Moon (58 page)

“I will see you to the Lord Admiral’s flagship myself,” the shaman said, “as is my solemn charge.” His face was no longer mild and good-humored but had assumed an expression of profound sadness. Arcane talent glimmered in his black eyes. “The rest of it is not for you to command.”

“I see,” the king whispered.

“No, you do not.” Ansel had climbed into the back of the cart and spoke close to the king’s ear, so that he alone might hear. “Bazekoy is not the only uncanny entity taking an interest in the fate of High Blenholme Island. There are others, both kindly and malevolent, who hope to influence its future. Your son, his wife, and their unborn child loom large in this conflict—but not, I fear, as the happy family you might have hoped for.”

The full import of Ansel’s statement escaped Olmigon. The king had grasped only one thing, and his ruined countenance was illuminated by sudden joy. “A child? Maude carries Con’s child?”

“A son. I tell you this, old man, to give you comfort as you approach your end. But you must keep it secret, especially from the Prince Heritor. He will soon face terrible choices, and his decisions—unlike most of your own—must evolve from cold reason, not the sentimental promptings of the heart.”

The king’s face fell. “And Maudie?”

“A prideful woman, obstinate and strong, one of those whose cleverness can be honed to wisdom only through suffering. Her son will have formidable enemies. He will not survive, nor will the Sovereignty, without his mother’s governance and good counsel.”

“We’re ready,” Maudrayne called. “Bring him aboard.”

The Tarnian gathered the frail body of the king into his arms. “How are you feeling, old man?”

“Like death,” Olmigon said. “But that’s as it should be. Let’s be on our way.”

thirty-three

The easy triumph that had seemed well within the grasp of King Honigalus yesterday was now looking much more difficult to achieve. And it was all Beynor’s fault.

The steady southeasterlies requested of the young sorcerer had prevailed nicely enough while the Continentals sailed up from Nis-Gata, but the wind dropped away to nothing within an hour of the corsairs’ joining the armada. At first, the flat calm seemed fortuitous. It eased the transfer of munitions and much-needed foodstuffs from the newcomers to the nearly empty holds of the Didionites and enabled the king’s fleet commanders to confer face-to-face with their Continental counterparts. Battle-plans were coordinated, stores of food and water secured, magazines filled, and cannons readied. The Didionite captains and their allies enjoyed a fine meal in the royal saloon of Casabarela Regnant, then prepared to cross Cala Bay and make short work of Woodvale just as soon as the wind picked up again.

But it did not pick up. And frantic appeals to Beynor went unanswered.

King Honigalus and his officers stood glum on the quarterdeck of their huge flagship beneath a full spread of sails that only fitfully filled with gentle breezes. Instead of coming out of the southeast, the light airs blew from the north. After seven hours creeping to windward, the armada had moved less than fifty leagues toward their encounter with the foe.

“Where’s that damned Fring?” Honigalus demanded. “Surely he and his clutch of magickers must have found out some news of Beynor by now. It’s impossible that the entire Glaumerie Guild of Moss should have no notion of the boy’s whereabouts. We must have a favorable wind!”

Galbus Peel threw a brief glance at the overcast sky. “This morning we had a red dawn, Your Majesty—not a thing that mariners traditionally welcome. But it might signify an important change in the weather.”

“The wizard comes!” one of the young lieutenants announced, and a bulky black-robed figure emerged a moment later from the companionway and came on deck.

Fring bowed to the king and made his report with a long face. “There is grave news from Moss, Majesty. Ridcanndal, Master of the Glaumerie Guild, finally admitted that Beynor has disappeared from Royal Fenguard. So has the barque that was Didion s gift to the king. No one has any notion of the missing young man’s destination, nor can they explain why he should have gone away. All Ridcanndal will say is that baleful thaumaturgy is at work, clouding the guild’s oversight.”

Honigalus spoke a weary obscenity. “Beynor has let us down. The brat overreached himself, just as we feared, and now he’s gone into hiding.”

“Beg pardon, Majesty.” Fring’s lips displayed a grimace that might have been a smile. “If the Conjure-King had merely failed to fulfill his boastful promises to you, there would have been no good reason for him to flee Fenguard—especially since a terrible blizzard is now raging throughout the northland.”

“It matters not,” Honigalus said, shaking his head in disgust. “The whole pack of bogtrotters can go to the Hell of Ice for all I care! Were your scryers able to locate the Cathran fleet? And what about the Tarnians?”

“The effort was one of the most difficult we have ever attempted. However, we did obtain the information following an intensive—and, I might add, painful— conjunction of minds. As Captain Peel predicted, Admiral Woodvale has taken up a position just south of the entrance to Blenholme Roads. The Tarnians have m°t with light, variable winds, just as we have. They are now making their way across Tunny Bay, moving very slowly. Unless conditions change drastically, we are bound to reach the Roads many hours ahead of them.”

The king’s face cleared. “Excellent! After we smash Woodvale’s force, the Harriers are bound to turn tail for the Western Ocean. Why should they risk themselves in a futile cause? They aren’t fools.”

“No, Your Majesty.” Fring was smug. “Do you have further orders for me?”

When Honigalus shook his head, Galbus Peel said, “Bespeak our people at Sorna on the west coast and Castle Highcliffe on the east. I wish to know the wind direction up there and its force—and if there is any sign yet of snow-clouds coming southward over the sea.”

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Just before sunup, with the weather around Bluefish Bay partly cloudy and the wind no longer so strong as to preclude any sort of delicate maneuvering, Hartrig Skellhaven suggested to Prince Conrig that they might risk taking Shearwater through the tricky channel separating the mainland from the Vigilants, rather than skirting the islands as prudent navigators invariably did.

“We could save nearly two hundred leagues, using the shortcut,” the viscount said. “But I don’t think we should chance it unless Stergos bespeaks Ullanoth. We need to be certain that her rambunctious magical gale doesn’t return unexpectedly while we creep through the shoals.”

“Very well,” Conrig said, rising from the table in the officers’ mess, where he had been conferring with Skellhaven and Baron Ingo Holmrangel, who served as First Mate. “I’ll ask my brother to attempt to reach the princess. But she warned me she might be too weak for distant windvoicing after conjuring yesterday’s big northerly blows on either side of the island.”

Holmrangel shook his head slowly, frowning. “A wierd thing, that, and nothing any seaman familiar with Cala Bay wants to get on the wrong side of, this time of year. Still, the air’s nowhere near the frost-point yet, and the gales have petered out, so I guess we needn’t worry.”

The baron was a rough-featured, bearish man with a distinct family resemblance to his older cousin. He had proved himself to be impressively efficient at organizing the makeshift crew of Shearwater, and had personally beheaded a Stippenese bosun caught attempting to sever the clipper’s fore-topmast stay early on in the voyage. After the execution of the saboteur, the other Continental crewmen pressed into service had cooperated meekly with their Cathran captors.

Conrig found Stergos on the poop deck, staring morosely at the passing scene of Bluefish Bay. The Doctor Arcanorum had declined to join the prince and the Heart Companions at breakfast earlier, saying that he preferred to take some fresh air and pray, now that the violent wind had finally fallen off. The precipitous voyage down Blenholme’s eastern coast under straining sails had badly shaken the nerves of the sensitive alchymist, as had his almost continuous duty of maintaining communication with the windvoices at Cala Palace and those of Admiral Woodvale.

“It’s no use, my trying to bespeak Princess Ullanoth,” Stergos said, after Conrig had made his request. “I attempted to reach her a short time ago with no success. She may still be recuperating abed—as poor young Deveron is—and with us so far away from Holt Mallburn now, my voice is not strong enough to penetrate her slumber.”

“Snudge!” Conrig brightened. “He’s rested long enough. Let’s wake him and have him try for Ullanoth. She made it plain enough that she knows of his talent.” He took Stergos by the arm and drew him toward the companionway. “I wish we could have kept his ability secret from her, but I feared she’d learn of it if she ever got close to him.”

“Do you think she also suspects Deveron of using Iscannon’s sigil?” the doctor whispered, following Conrig down the ladder to the middle deck, where the squires had been given sleeping space among the merchant ship’s single line of cannons.

“Who can say? I only wish I knew whether Snudge told the truth when he claimed the Concealer was lost at Mallmouth Bridge.” His face twisted. “Damn him if he still has the thing, but quails from using it out of cowardice!”

“Cowardice? How can you say such a thing?” Stergos hissed, seizing his brother by the upper arms as they gained the middle deck. “He saw his friends murdered before his eyes, and their killer burnt to cinders by the moonstone’s sorcery. He has told me of this to ease his mind, weeping like the devastated child he is. But no coward opened the bridge-gate to your army.”

“Snudge swore fealty to me and dare not abjure his duty,” said the prince, his face adamant. “If you know that he still has the Concealer stone in his possession, you must tell me.”

“I don’t know it.” Stergos met his brother’s hard gaze without flinching, even though there was desolation in his own eyes. “Neither will I question him about it, lest he be tempted to lie to me.”

“So! But you care not that the boy lies to me?”

“Con, I love you and will give my life for you. But you can’t demand that I compromise the conscience of another person. No liege lord on earth can ask such a thing. I know that Deveron has begged you to trust him—”

“As has Ullanoth,” the prince muttered. “Trust! It’s a luxury few princes can afford.”

“But the boy is worthy of it. If he does still have the stone, perhaps one day he’ll feel strong enough to use it again in your service. Until then, I beseech you not to press him. It will do no good.”

“Ah, Gossy!” Conrig made a gesture that mingled exasperation and surrender. “You and Snudge are alike in so many ways. I swear I’ll ask no more of either of you than you will freely give. Forgive this black humor of mine. It’s the war… my fears for the Sovereignty and for Cathra itself… the quirk of fortune that allowed Honigalus and his armada to escape Mallburn Town before we could stop them… the stupidity of our own admirals. And here I am, with all my hopes now dependent upon the powers of a fickle sorceress—”

“And perhaps also upon our poor dying father,” Stergos added. “But he believes the oracle that said all would come right in the end. What can we do but try to believe it, too?”

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They were gentle waking the boy, who had dark circles beneath his eyes and was so sluggish that he could barely emerge from the blankets of his hammock. He had slept for more than twelve hours and eaten nothing since Shearwater had quit Mallburn harbor, but if he suffered nightmares he said nothing of it to Conrig or Stergos.

“You need warm food and drink more than anything,” the alchymist decided, after he and his royal brother had helped Snudge into his clothes. They draped his arms over their shoulders, hauled him to the petty officers’ mess next to the galley, and sat on either side of him at the splintery table. A fat Stippenese cook dished up fried ham and warmed-over wholewheat porridge laced with dried apricots to Snudge, and served all three Cathrans heated wine from the private stock of the ship’s dead captain.

“Now, before you drink down too much of that awful vinegar-blink and blur whatever talent remains to you,” the prince said, once the cook had retreated, “try to bespeak the Conjure-Princess in Holt Mallburn. Ask her if she can maintain a gentle wind in the channel north of Terek Island in the Vigilants, so our ship can shortcut through it to Cala Bay. Ullanoth may be asleep, recovering from her magical labors.”

Snudge nodded and hunched forward with his head in his hands. The brothers sipped the wine, which was actually an outstanding vintage.

After a while Snudge sighed and lifted his face. He was smiling wanly. “I did have to wake her, and she wasn’t pleased. But she assures me that whatever winds prevail here now will continue for at least half a day more. Later, the weather may change due to natural causes. There is nothing she can do to influence it through magic at this time—not, she says, without risking harm to herself.”

Stergos rose. “I’ll inform Skellhaven.” He hurried away.

“The Conjure-Princess wasn’t surprised to have me voice her,” Snudge said. “She also told me that King Beynor has fallen afoul of the Beaconfolk, who were so angry with him that they took Rothbannon’s sigils away. The king has fled to the Dawntide Isles to live with the Salka. Ullanoth assures you that her brother will no longer assist Honigalus through his sorcery.”

“Futter me!” the prince exclaimed. “There’s good news for a change. Maybe our navy has a chance against Didion and the Continentals after all… Did the princess tell you whether she plans to join us soon?”

“No, Your Grace. And I didn’t think to ask her. All she said was that she needed to rest. She commanded me not to bother her again before evening.”

Conrig sat back with a sigh of disappointment. “Ah, well. Drink up, lad. And get that food inside you. When you’re stronger, I’d like you to scry what the enemy armada may be up to.”

“I’ll do my best, Your Grace.”

Conrig sat silent until the boy had finished his meal, apparently lost in thought. Finally he said, “Are you truly feeling better? I realize that the affray at Mallmouth Bridge was a terrible thing. Terrible! You were like one sleepwalking for much of the time after.”