Dark Magic (6 page)

Calandryll held his face still as presentiment laid cold hands along his spine. “There was talk of building boats ere I left,” he agreed calmly, “but only as a measure of protection against those corsairs as harry the trade between our countries.”

“There’s little enough of that at present,” ek’Nyle declared, thin lips curving in a cold smile. “The trading cities of the east coast lay under blockade.”

“Indeed?” Calandryll raised eyebrows in what he hoped was a suitably languid expression of aristocratic indifference.

“Indeed.” ek’Nyle nodded. Then: “And you lack the appearance of a Domm’s son.”

Of that there was no denying: the past months had stamped their mark on the youth who had fled Secca. He stood straighter now, his body leaner, hardened,
and likely his eyes reflected his impatience and his disillusion. The leathers he wore were beaten by wind and sun, his skin tanned; he was not aware he stood balanced in a fighter’s stance, for that was habit now. He smiled and said, “I have traveled far, vexillan, and done my share of boat work. Such things change a man, but you’ve my word I am Calandryll den Karynth, son to By lath of Secca.”

“You’ve proof?”

Calandryll’s smile faltered. He endeavored to transform the shift into a look of outrage, such as an insulted noble might wear. “I am not accustomed to the questioning of my word,” he said coolly.

Ek’Nyle snorted soft laughter. “You’ve the manner of a Lyssian aristocrat, I’ll grant you that. But you’ve the look of a warrior.”

“Is it not your custom, too, that the nobility train for swordplay?” Calandryll demanded, struggling to maintain a disdainful air.

“It is also our custom to walk cautiously about those who may be our enemies,” the Kand responded.

“How might you name us that?” Tekkan interrupted. “What quarrel exists betwixt Vanu and Kandahar? Do we not come with hides?”

“As might spies sent by Sathoman ek’Hennem to probe our defenses,” ek’Nyle retorted absently; and abruptly turned his questions to Bracht: “You’re this one’s bodyguard?”

Bracht nodded.

“And you are?”

“Bracht ni Errhyn of the clan Asyth, from Cuan na’For.”

“You’re a long way from your homeland, Kern.”

Bracht shrugged. “I went awandering. I found myself in Lysse. I took employment with Lord Calandryll.”

“A horseman at sea?”

Again Bracht shrugged.

“You I’ll accept as a freesword,” ek’Nyle said, his
voice speculative now. “But a warboat out of Vanu? A roving aristocrat? These things are . . . unusual.”

“But nonetheless true,” said Tekkan.

“Perhaps,” the Kand allowed. “So tell me, boatmaster, where you would go. If I let you.”

Calandryll stiffened at the implicit threat of delay. At his side, Tekkan said, “Why, back to Lysse, vexillan. To return Lord Calandryll to his home. Thence to mine.”

“The coastal cities are closed,” ek’Nyle said.

“Therefore I’d empty my hold of hides and take on such supplies as will see us safe across the Narrow Sea,” Tekkan replied, his voice even. “Without touching your coast again.”

“Or creep ashore to bring word to the rebels.” Ek’Nyle’s hands tightened on the dagger, drawing the blade partway from the embossed sheath. Sunlight glittered on the steel. “You present me with a problem, boatmaster. You and your passengers.”

Calandryll saw them held here, Rhythamun gaining all the time. He frowned, seeking to emulate his father’s manner, to overwhelm objection. “Vexillan,” he intoned, making his voice curt, “I repeat that I am Calandryll den Karynth, of Secca, and I’d return home swift as I may. Would you delay me? Such action runs contrary to the accords between our countries and I think your Tyrant must take a dim view.”

Ek’Nyle was unimpressed: “The Tyrant sits in Nhur-jabal,” he said carelessly. “I command in Vishat’yi and I repeat that you bear scant resemblance to a noble of Secca. Nor do you carry such proof as would confirm your claim. Rather, you’ve the look of some freesword; perhaps one employed by Sathoman ek’Hennem.”

“That I resent!” Calandryll barked, endeavoring still to emulate his father, to summon up that admixture of authority and threat that characterized Bylath.

“Prove me wrong and I’ll willingly apologize,” the vexillan offered negligently. “But until such proof is
forthcoming, you’ll remain in Vishat’yi. As my guests, of course.”

The dagger thrust hard into the sheath, punctuating the sentence. Calandryll asked, “How shall I prove it?”

“First,” ek’Nyle declared, “I shall inspect your cargo. Do you truly carry dragon hides, then, aye, I shall accept you’ve made the journey from Gessyth. As for the rest”—a hint of malice hid behind his widening smile—“perhaps I must send to Nhur-jabal.”

“That would confirm our probity”—Calandryll nodded, steeling himself to patience—“but take far longer than I care to linger here. Surely our cargo will confirm the rest—were we in the rebels’ pay, we’d hardly deliver so valuable a cargo to the Tyrant’s legions.”

Ek’Nyle’s smile warmed a fraction, as if he welcomed such debate, or found pleasure in cunctation. He shrugged eloquently and said, “Unless it be subterfuge—a ploy to win my trust. Come south from Gessyth I must ask myself why you failed to offload your cargo in Kharasul.”

“We’d word of your war,” Tekkan interjected, “and guessed your need would be greater the closer to the fighting.”

“This smacks again of profiteering,” ek’Nyle responded.

“We ask only that you allow us to haul our vessel and stock our hold with supplies for the crossing of the Narrow Sea,” said Tekkan. “Does that sound like profiteering?”

“No,” ek’Nyle admitted, smiling, and Calandryll felt hope soar. Then fall as the smile froze and the vexillan added, “Nor like the usual greed of common traders.”

“We are not common traders,” Tekkan argued, “but explorers. All we seek now is to return home unhindered.”

“As shall you,” said the Kand, “if I am satisfied.”

“Such outcome appears impossible,” said Calandryll. “How may we provide the proof you demand?”

“The cargo first.” Ek’Nyle’s gaze fastened hard with suspicion upon his face. “Then I shall decide.”

“And if you cannot?”

“Why, I have two choices.” The smile returned, as if the man relished his authority and the power it gave him. “The one is to execute you; the other to send you to Nhur-jabal, that the Tyrant’s sorcerers may question you.”

Calandryll felt his hands clench involuntarily into fists, aware that ek’Nyle caught the movement, cursing himself for that small betrayal. Then, in the vexillan’s words, he saw an opportunity to turn the debate in a more favorable direction; it was a slim chance, and more than a little hazardous, but his patience wore thin and recklessly he asked, “And is there not a sorcerer here in Vishat’yi? If not, a spae-wife. Either would surely divine our honesty.”

To his right he heard Tekkan’s sharp intake of breath; to his left saw Bracht’s warning glance. It was a dangerous gambit: sorcerer or spaewife, either might reveal the true purpose of their quest, and in the doing betray them to ambition, perhaps involve them in further delay should the Tyrant’s wizards take a hand. Against that danger he balanced the conviction that this officious vexillan would hold them here indefinitely, out of suspicion or spiteful amusement, and each day—each hour!—they lingered weighted the scales heavier in favor of Rhythamun.

“Your suggestion appears to alarm your comrades,” ek’Nyle remarked. “Why might that be?”

“I’ve no liking for magic or its practitioners,” Bracht grunted truthfully.

“And you?” the Kand asked Tekkan. “Do you object?”

The Vanu shrugged, shaking his head, his expression bland.

“Then perhaps that is the way,” ek’Nyle murmured, studying their faces for sign of further reaction,
but finding none for both composed themselves despite their doubts. “Sorcerer and spaewife, we have both. But first, this cargo . . .”

He rose in a swirl of scarlet, snapping orders as he came around the table, a squad of pikemen falling in about the three as he strode from the barbican and back across the cobbles to the wharf where Katya and the other Vanu folk waited, ringed round by watchful soldiers. Calandryll glanced sidelong at his companions as they were herded to the warboat, seeing Bracht’s blue eyes clouded with doubt, Tekkan’s grey impassive.

Gulls rose raucous as they came near, and over the smooth water of the anchorage the mist faded, a pale sun breaking through the overcast. The air was cold and from the heights above the city a wind skirled, fluttering the banners atop the barbicans and the mastheads of the ships. Tekkan called in his own language and several flaxen-haired Vanus sprang to the warboat’s deck, the rest forming a chain as the baled dragon hides were passed onto the quay. Quindar ek’Nyle watched patiently as the hides were stacked, then, nostrils pinching at the pungent odor, inspected the topmost bale.

“In this you have not lied,” he allowed when he was satisfied. “And in return you ask for supplies and the use of this anchorage?”

The hides were worth far more. From them armor could be fashioned, tough as any metal out of Eyl, and without the seasonal influx of traders prices must surely rise. Even so, Tekkan nodded and said, “And such materials as we need to make the repairs.”

The vexillan smoothed his oiled beard a moment, then shrugged. “You may commence your repairs. After all, are you proven false in the other matter this boat shall become part of the Tyrant’s fleet.”

“When shall this proving take place?” Calandryll demanded, hard put to conceal his irritation.

Ek’Nyle turned him a speculative glance and answered,
“When Menelian is ready. Until then you’ll remain here.”

His chin jutted in the direction of the barbican and Calandryll saw that they should be held prisoner until the sorcerer came. He sighed in affectation of aristocratic vexation, though frustration gritted his teeth. Across the piled hides he saw Katya watching, unnoticed by ek’Nyle among the other Vanu women. Her grey eyes were troubled but she forced a faint smile of encouragement and he thought that at least she was not held. If worst came to worst, perhaps she might be able to take the warboat out. His gaze traveled past her, across the harbor to the boom, and all his fears returned: while that barrier hung across the exit there could be no flight. He started as a pike tapped his back, urging him away, ek’Nyle already pacing toward the ominous tower.

Reluctantly he fell into step, following the vexillan inside the barbican, where a door of wood and metal was opened, ek’Nyle offering a brief bow devoid of apology as he ushered them into a cold stone chamber.

“I shall ask that Menelian attend you,” he declared. “Until then you will remain here.”

Before Calandryll had opportunity to protest that such quarters ill befitted the son of Secca’s Domm, the door was closed, the sound of oiled bolts sliding into place horribly final. He looked around, seeing a small chamber all of grey blocks, a single window granting sight of a rectangle of brightening sky cut vertically by thick metal bars. Around the lower part of the wall the blocks were extended inward to form a continuous bench and at the center of the floor a hole gaped dark, the acrid stench rising from it attesting to its use. Bracht grunted and availed himself of the facility: a tacit comment on their plight.

Tekkan settled himself on the bench and said softly, “Was it wise to bring a mage into this?”

“Ek’Nyle would surely have thought of it sooner or later,” Calandryll retorted, his irritation spilling over
so that his response came out harsh. “And if not—would you rather we went in chains to Nhur-jabal?”

Tekkan favored him with an imperturbable look and shook his head, prompting a pang of guilt. “Forgive me,” Calandryll asked. “These delays sit ill.”

“With us all,” Tekkan murmured.

“Your magic would prove useful now,” Bracht said, stretching on the stones, head pillowed on his arms.

“My magic?” Calandryll laughed bitterly. “Whatever magic I worked was the gift of Rhythamun, channeled through the stone he gave me and lost with its going. And I thought you had no love of such thaumaturgy.”

“I’d sooner put my faith in honest swordwork, true,” Bracht answered evenly. “But I come to think that perhaps fire must be fought with fire. Could you wreck that door as you turned those canoes off Gash’s coast I’d accept such usage. And in Mherut’yi your magic freed me from a similar prison—I’d not object to another such demonstration.”

“I fear I must disappoint you.” Frustration set an edge to Calandryll’s voice. “I’ve no magic in me now, nor any answer to this cursed delay save patience.”

“Which,” Bracht returned, “you lately lack.”

Calandryll stared at the freesword with narrowed eyes. That the Kern’s comment was true did nothing to assuage the anger he felt rising; rather, it fueled his ire. He clenched his fists and drove them hard against his thighs, fixing Bracht with a stare no less cold than ek’Nyle’s.

“I’d halt Rhythamun,” he snapped. “I’d hunt him down and slay him before he locates Tharn’s tomb and raises the Mad God. I believed you shared that aim.”

“Gently, gently,” Tekkan said, concern in his voice. “That aim is common to us all. Let us not quarrel over such shared purpose.”

Calandryll ignored the boatmaster, his eyes locked with Bracht’s. The freesword rose to a sitting position,
adjusting his falchion across his knees. “I share that aim,” he said carefully, “as you well know.”

“I know you’d have the coin promised you!” Inside his head a calmer voice told him he spoke wildly, that these accusations were unjustified, that Bracht was a proven comrade. Even so, he found it impossible to still his tongue; it seemed a madness impelled him to strike out, careless of what he said. “I know you lust after Katya and must pursue this quest until the Arcanum is destroyed and Rhythamun defeated so that you may press your suit. Otherwise . . .”

He shrugged, raising balled fists to slam them, again, hard against his thighs, shaking his head as if in dismissal of the Kern.

Bracht studied him a moment, swarthy face creased by a frown. When he spoke his voice remained soft. “As we entered this harbor Katya suggested that Tharn stirs,” he said. “That the god, dreaming, sows the seeds of disruption, of disillusion. I think she was right.” His voice hardened then and he added, “Did I not, we’d set blade to blade and I’d slay you.”