Deryni Checkmate (15 page)

Do that,
Morgan replied.
Anything else? You’ve done a fine job, but I don’t want to tax your strength any more than necessary.

Yes!
came Derry’s emphatic reply.
I had to kill a man in cold blood tonight, m’lord. He and his partner were Torenthi agents, and they were trying to drug me with something.

Get it,
Morgan ordered.
You can open your eyes without breaking rapport. Describe it to me.

Derry opened his eyes cautiously, then reached across and picked up the vial. He looked at it carefully, then closed his eyes once more.

Derry sat up and opened the vial, then took a cautious sniff.

Again,
Morgan commanded.

Derry obeyed.

I’m not sure. It could be
bélas.
The R’Kassans use the drug as a truth potion. But it will only work on humans, and then only when they’re very drunk.

Derry, were you drunk?
Morgan asked.

They thought I was,
Derry replied with a smile.
Would it have hurt me?

How inhospitable of them,
Morgan retorted.
Anything else before we break rapport?

All right. First of all, I want you to destroy those papers and the
bélas.
Either could be your death warrant if you’re caught. I must go to the Hort of Orsal tomorrow, but I’ll listen for your call tomorrow night at this time, in case you need to get in touch with me. Don’t try unless your information is vital, though, because we can’t afford the energy drain on a regular basis. And see what you can find out about the Interdict. Other than that, just be careful and get back in the next two days. Have you got all that?

Derry shuddered slightly as the contact was broken, then opened his eyes and looked around the room. He felt tired, drained of energy, but it was a good tired, and the experience had been much better than he’d expected. He apparently had been apprehensive over nothing. One of these days he would learn to believe what Morgan told him about magic the first time.

He looked wistfully at the open vial in his hand, then emptied it into the chamber pot under his bed. Then he ground the vial to powder under his heel and put flame to the papers. Ashes followed the drug into the chamber pot, and then he urinated over the entire mess for good measure.

There. He defied even a Deryni to make sense of that mess—if anyone even thought to look.

That settled, he unlaced his leather jerkin and pulled off his boots. Pulling back the shabby blanket on the bed, he flopped down on the mattress and covered himself, moving his dagger under his pillow where he could reach it in a hurry. Then, as an afterthought, he tucked Morgan’s medallion back inside his shirt.

Wouldn’t want anyone to walk in and see that,
he thought to himself as he dropped off to sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

PSALMS 35:8

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IT was just past sunup when Morgan, Duncan, and the ducal entourage arrived at the quay to board Morgan’s flagship
Rhafallia.
The air was chill, damp, heavy with the bitter salt tang of the sea.

Since the visit to the Hort of Orsal was to be an official one, Morgan was decked out in quasi-formal attire: knee-length black leather surcoat with the Corwyn gryphon emblazoned on the chest in green suede, this over a black fine wool tunic and light mail encasing his body from neck to knee. Hard leather boots took up where the mail left off, the heels adorned with silver ceremonial spurs—though Morgan would not be going near a horse. A heavy cloak of a rich, nubby green wool hung from his broad shoulders, secured right of center with a carved silver clasp. And since this was a state visit and not a military maneuver, the ducal coronet of Corwyn crowned his golden head. His broadsword hung at his side in a well-worn leather scabbard.

Duncan, too, had made dress concessions for his visit to the Hort of Orsal, finally discarding all pretense of clerical garb in favor of a high-collared black doublet and cloak over mail. He had debated whether he should don the plaid of his McLain ancestors—he knew that Alaric kept one on hand for just such occasions—but he had decided that such a move might be premature. Few people knew of his suspension as yet. And until they did learn of it, there was no need to advertise the fact. As long as he wore black, he would arouse no attention. People would see what they expected to see—and priests wore black.

But meanwhile, he realized wryly, he would have little difficulty fitting into society as a layman again. Lord Duncan Howard McLain was first and foremost a nobleman’s son, well-schooled in the fighting traditions of the aristocracy. And though the new blade hanging at his waist might be virgin just now, there was little doubt in Duncan’s mind that it would serve him well the first time the need arose.

The dense coastal fog was lifting as Morgan and Duncan approached the
Rhafallia
, and they could see her tall mast looming suddenly in the grayness. The brightly painted mainsail was furled loosely along the single wide yardarm, and Morgan’s black-green-black maritime banner hung limply from a short standard at the bow. As they watched, a sailor ran up Kelson’s colors on the mast, a flash of crimson and gold against the gray morning sky.

Rhafallia
was not Morgan’s largest ship, though at a mere fifty tons she was one of the fastest. Double-ended and clinker-built like most ships that plied the Southern Sea in trade, she carried a crew of thirty men and four officers, with room for perhaps half that many men-at-arms or passengers, in addition to cargo. When the wind blew, and blew from the right direction, she could make four to six knots with little difficulty. Recent rigging innovations copied from the Bremagni merchant fleets to the south now made it possible to tack as close as forty degrees to the wind with a new forward sail called a jib.

If the wind failed, or did
not
blow from the proper direction, there were always the oars. And even without sail, the narrow and high-riding
Rhafallia
could easily make the crossing to the Hort of Orsal’s island port and back in less than a day.

Morgan glanced up at the mast again as he and Duncan approached the gangplank, and noticed that sailors were already swarming the rigging in preparation for departure. A lookout was supervising from a vantage point in the fighting castle at the top of the mast, and Morgan could just see the bright knit caps of the deck crew scurrying in the slightly lower level of the rowing gallery. He hoped that they would not have to rely too heavily on oars this morning, though. He wanted to be back on land well before noon.

As he considered the dismal possibility of a protracted crossing, a tall man in well-worn brown leather breeches and jerkin came striding up, his neck and shoulders muffled by a rough wool cloak of faded crimson. He wore the peaked leather cap of a ship’s master, with the green cockade of Morgan’s sea service jutting gaily from the brim. He grinned broadly as he saw Morgan, and a bushy rust-colored mustache and beard bristled when he talked.

“Good morning, Your Grace!” he boomed, rubbing his hands together briskly and glancing around as though he were thoroughly enjoying the cold, the fog, and the early hour. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

Morgan raised a droll eyebrow. “It is if you like to sail blind, Henry. Will the wind pick up by the time the tide shifts, or are we going to have to row?”

“Oh, there’ll be wind,” the captain assured him. “It’s going to be a beautiful day for sailing. Only one tack out of the harbor. How many are you bringing aboard, by the way?”

“There’ll be nine in all,” Morgan replied, glancing around distractedly. “Ah, this is my cousin, Monsignor Duncan McLain. Duncan, Captain Henry Kirby, Master of the
Rhafallia
.”

Kirby touched the brim of his hat. “Honored to meet you, Monsignor.” He turned back to Morgan. “Are you ready to come aboard then, m’lord?”

“We might as well. How long before the tide?”

“Oh, a quarter hour or so. We can start casting off and getting sail set as soon as you’re aboard.”

“Very well.” Morgan turned and gestured to the knot of men standing farther back on the quay, then followed Duncan and Kirby aboard. Behind him, Lord Hamilton and Morgan’s escort came trudging down the quay seven strong.

Hamilton looked much more confident now that he was back in fighting harness. He was a warrior, not a courtier. His close association with Gwydion and other more cultured personages for the past few days had been nerve-wracking, to say the least. Certainly none had been happier than he to see the fiery little troubadour packed off for Culdi this morning. It had started Hamilton’s day most propitiously, and he was now in his element, presiding with singular aplomb as he herded his contingent aboard the ship.

Master Randolph was the first of the ducal party to board, his handsome face alight with pleasure at the thought of the adventure he hoped awaited. As a physician, he was seldom included in court intrigue beyond that of the sort he had handled at the state banquet. The fact that Morgan had invited him along on this trip was a source of wonder and delight.

At his side was young Richard FitzWilliam, the royal squire Duncan had brought with him from Rhemuth. Richard was enthralled with the prospect of seeing the Hort of Orsal’s legendary court in person. Further, he idolized Morgan, had trained under his supervision at the court in Rhemuth. Fiercely loyal to the duke, he had risked harsh words and physical danger more than once to warn his mentor of impending danger.

In addition, there were four of Morgan’s staff officers from the castle garrison, serving the dual purpose of honor guard and military advisors for the strategy sessions that were the object of the visit. It would be the job of these men, under the leadership of Lord Hamilton who brought up the rear, to command the local defenses while Morgan was away leading the royal armies in the north. As such, they were a vital link in the defense of Corwyn.

When the last man was aboard, two crewmen in faded blue breeches and linen shirts drew in the gangplank and secured the rail on the side. Even now, a breeze was rising as Kirby had predicted, the mist beginning to disperse in tattered strips. Kirby began shouting orders, and lines were cast off, sails unfurled. As
Rhafallia
drifted out from the dock, a dozen rowers broke out their oars and began guiding her toward a patch of wind perhaps fifty yards from the quay. When she cleared the last ships anchored in the vicinity of the quay and entered the wind, her sails began to fill.

The breeze stiffened as
Rhafallia
cleared the harbor mouth, and she began to pick up speed. After a few hundred yards, she came about smartly and set a course for the Orsal’s island capital. If the wind held, she would arrive at the other side in less than four hours, with a steady cross-wind all the way.

As soon as the mechanics of getting underway were finished, Captain Kirby joined Morgan, Duncan, and Randolph on the afterdeck. Though
Rhafallia
was technically a merchant ship, she carried raised fighting platforms fore and aft. The helmsman steered the ship from the rear of the aft platform with a broad starboard steering oar, but the rest of the platform was ordinarily captain’s country, used as a lounge and observation deck.

Sailors had brought folding camp stools of finely tooled Forcinn leather up the access ladder, and the four made themselves comfortable. The sun was shining strongly now, and as they gazed back toward Coroth, they could see the fog still shrouding the high cliffs of the coast, yet already beginning to melt away in the spring sunlight. Hamilton, the four lieutenants, and young Richard were lounging on the main deck about amidships, and those crewmen not engaged in the actual sailing of the ship were relaxing in the narrow, indented rowing galleries that ran the length of the ship on either side. A lookout stood watch on the forward fighting platform, and another in the castle atop the mast. The huge expanse of mainsail and wide jib obscured a large portion of the sky, the painted gryphon on the main fiercely surveying the entire scene.

Kirby sighed and leaned back against the railing on the aft platform as he inspected his ship.

“Ah, ’tis a beautiful day, just as I promised, m’lord. You really have to get out on the sea and taste the salt air to appreciate life. Can I interest you in a bit of wine to take the chill from your bones, perhaps?”

“You might, if you have Fianna wine,” Morgan allowed, aware that the vintage he had named was the most expensive, and also well aware that Kirby drank nothing else.

Kirby gave a wry grin and gestured expansively. “For you, m’lord, nothing but the best.” He glanced over his right shoulder and into the starboard rowing gallery where a boy of seven or eight was whittling. “Dickon, come here a minute, lad.”

The boy looked up attentively at the sound of his name, then put away his knife and scampered to the foot of the ladder. The ship rolled slightly in the brisk wind, but the boy held onto the ladder steadily. There was a look of pure hero worship in his eyes as he looked up at Kirby.