Ellen Under The Stairs (14 page)

Again, Coluth came to a
stop.

"What?"

"A terrible noise! A bellow! Followed
by the shattering of timbers, the ship being ... eaten. Screams.
Silence."

Coluth, turtle like, drew inside
himself, clearly saying all he was going to on that
subject.

"But inside the harbor?"

"I agree. Unlikely. Even more so now
that the harbor is blocked against ships ...." the underwater
stones also serving to fence out the huge horrors. Not what Coluth
said. But, clearly, what he meant.

* * * * *

Down-light approaching, John was at
the harbor once more, dressed in his pointy-hat Wizard
outfit.

John had just finished his speech in
which he promised to wither the sailors with crystal conflagration
should they fail to obey him when ....

"Ship coming!" all turning to see what
the wharf lookout meant.

And sure enough, through the gathering
fog, came a boat; rowed at flank speed and aimed at the harbor
mouth.

Looking farther, John could make out
other ships, their oars flashing at double time, as if chasing the
lone ship.

"What's the nationality of those
cutters, Coluth?"

The admiral looked. Squinted to
see.

"Malachite."

"The entire navy? Shouldn't they be at
tie up by now?"

"Three ships only. No more behind
them. Risky to be in deep water this near down-light -- unless
allowed to enter the harbor."

"It's a chase?"

"They must want that ship more than
life itself," Coluth muttered, thinking of the dread sea monsters
that down-light would release.

"I want to see what's going on. You
know of any reason why letting a single ship in the harbor could be
a danger to us?"

Coluth thought about it in his
leisurely, seaman's way. "No."

"Then send a tug to guide the first
ship past the rocks, but not the others."

Saluting, Coluth pivoted to face the
sailors, still lined up along the wharf.

"You! Captain of the lead
tug!"

"Sir?"

"Guide that front ship in. But only
that ship."

"At once, sir."

Sailors scrambling into the indicated
boat, slamming their oar handles in the locks, pushing off, the
rowers pulled for the harbor's mouth, the steersman avoiding the
under water rocks from his memory of their location.

The tug boat "launched," Coluth made
more signs, this time to the catapult crews on promontories above
the harbor. To stand down. To let the ship in.

Fifteen minutes later, now near full
dark -- John having to get out of there before people found he
couldn't speak Stil-de-grain after down-light! -- the quarry ship
scraped to a stop along the dock, the sailors backing their
outer-oars to avoid crashing into a half-loaded
merchantman.

As for the chase-ships, they'd turned
back to row off at a fear-inspired pace, no doubt headed for the
nearest tie up dock on the mainland before being "eaten" by some
after-dark daemon.

The escaped ship's crew -- in the garb
of Malachite sailors, some Malachite soldiers intermixed -- cast
ropes to dock hands, the hands snubbing the ship tight against the
wharf.

Dock workers, sailors, and his own
guard surrounding him -- John fast-walked down the splintered
planking, dodging loading cranes, barrels, and boxes, to arrive as
the ship's gang plank thudded on the wharf, a man walking down the
plank, bowing his thanks as he stepped off on the levee.

Even in the half-dark of down-light,
John knew him!

Golden!

But far from the elegant young man
who'd been part of John's team on both cross-band trips. Now dirty.
Disheveled. Defeated.

"Golden. Welcome."

"Great Mage ...."

The emotion of the moment preventing
Golden from saying more, he could only make a ragged
bow.

"I'm back, at least for a time," John
explained.

"Thank you for taking me in, sir,"
Golden said, in his stiff manner.

"Say no more," John commanded, John
having to leave at once to make it back to his palace quarters
before full dark! "What you need is food and rest -- also for your
men," John motioning to his guard that the foreigners were also to
be treated with respect. "Food and sleep, first. Explanations
tomorrow!"

* * * * *

Early afternoon. John again in the
Mage room, most of the morning spent in fending off Ellen's reasons
for why she should be allowed to explore the city. Why was it that
a woman's definition of a crisis was when she didn't get her way?
Not that it wasn't fascinating to talk to Ellen about anything on
any occasion, beautiful, intelligent, and vivacious as she was. It
was just that being a year or two older than John didn't make her
worldly-wise in this strange place.

In between Ellen bouts, John had to
listen to the "needs" of a bevy of palace officials, John willing
to make promises in exchange for assurances that his entourage --
now to include Golden's cohorts -- were being well cared
for.

He'd taken time to chat with Platinia,
the girl with little to say on any occasion. He'd even tried to
converse with befuddled, if not outright crazed, Zwicia.

After that, Qrig, the palace barber,
had caught John in the hall, Qrig trying for tact, while at the
same time expressing displeasure at John's hair style. Too short
for Stil-de-grain fashion, he'd said, Qrig suggesting the Mage wear
a wig until John's hair had grown out sufficiently to be in style.
Even hinted -- wink, wink -- that the "ladies" would be more
attracted to the Mage if he paid more attention to his personal
appearance.

The only polite way for John to get
rid of the fussy little man was to announce that John had decided
to wear his hair short from now on, short hair giving him less
trouble and so allowing more time for government business -- a
suggestion that had produced a completely unexpected result. A new
hair style, what fun! The other men of the band certain to copy the
new Mage-look, Orig saw himself as leading this fashion trend,
cleaning up financially by franchising his intimate knowledge of
Mage haute couture.

Petty politics like this was why John
hadn't been ready to see Golden until now. Not a bad thing, really,
Golden needing sleep and more sleep by the look of him last night
-- nothing promoting rest like being safe in your beddy-by (or
reasonable facsimile.) Reviewing Golden's desperate run for the
harbor had John thinking Coluth was right -- that if Malachite
naval personnel were willing to risk death by chasing Golden to the
bitter end of the day, they must really want him.

In the War Room at last, John had made
it the first order of the afternoon's business to summon Golden,
John passing the waiting time by studying the map of Bandworld he'd
gotten Golden to drawn, a world map a novelty in this backward
place. The truth was that few natives knew much about surrounding
Bands, "traveling for pleasure" an unknown concept here, this
insularity attributable to "Band Sickness."

John wondered what this world must be
like to produce different gravitational pulls along Band lines. Was
the ground more densely packed in some Bands than in others? Was
the land under your feet "deeper" where gravity was stronger? Just
another unanswerable question in a world of unanswerable questions
-- a "curiosity itch" no more likely to be "scratched" than to ask
why the light shown from the "iron dome" sky in rainbow colors.
(Could the god-like creators of Bandworld have a lot in common with
color coordinating decorators? Correction. Color coordinating and
gravity shifting decorators?)

Speaking of religion, while each band
seemed to have its own beliefs, religion was more a game played by
priests than a set of beliefs providing moral instruction to
commoners. Rather like in John's world, come to think of
it.

A hesitant knock, John returning to
his seat at the head of the table, arranging his Cinnabar robe
before calling, "Enter."

Golden -- coming in -- bowing with the
flourish of Stil-de-grain protocol. Looking ... better ... a bath,
sleep, and a clean robe doing much to repair dispirited people in
any world.

"Good to see you looking so well,"
John said, motioning Golden to sit beside John in a seat of
honor.

With the grace that marked him as an
entertainer -- actor, dancer, rope walker, wall scaler, singer,
knife thrower, and who knew what other specialties -- the youth
came forward, bowing again before sliding into the indicated chair,
at once looking as formal as the most senior of statesman and as
fluid as flowing water.

"Again, accept my
gratitude."

Could Golden's stilted/stiff lingo be
because he'd had to learn several of the Bands' tongues, the young
man not "at home" in any one of them? Needing to travel to make his
living as a performer, entertaining mostly at night when light
magic no longer served as a universal translator, Golden had to
learn to speak the various languages of the Bands.

Enough speculation. "Did you know I
was back in Bandworld?"

"No, Lord."

"Then you were taking a chance trying
to reach the harbor. In a Malachite ship, no less."

"Some chances must be taken, great
Mage."

Great Mage? What was Golden? Five
years younger than John? Addressed that way -- and by everyone --
John felt ... ancient. There was no help for it, though. As long as
John was the power behind the throne of Stil-de-grain, he'd be seen
as ten feet tall.

"As you know, I've been gone for some
time."

"Yes. After escaping from Hero Castle,
we waited for you, but you did not come."

"Because, as I think I hinted, I ...
had a change of plans.

"Rather than feel left behind, I was
glad you made it up and out -- all of you. Where would I be if you,
Coluth, and his sailors hadn't rescued me?

"As it was, I had a way of getting to
my world. But now I'm back to find that you, yourself, have been
away. And in a bit of trouble, judged by the Malachite cutters that
were doing their best to run you down."

"Yes." The down cast look added
emphasis to Golden's agreement.

"Why don't you start with when we were
parted and finish with last night at the harbor."

"I owe you that, great Mage. Though
the story is ... embarrassing."

"There's just the two of us here and
anything you say will stop with me."

"Thank you, sir." Golden sighed,
whether from fatigue or relief, John couldn't tell.

"In the tower room," Golden began,
"you had used the strange fire of your world to keep the men of
Pfnaravin back." Golden meant the hot fire of John's world, as
compared to the cool flames of this place. "This gave us time to
exit the room through the roof, Coluth and the sailors climbing
first. When all had left the room, I reminded you that I was
Cleadon, son of Cleadon, and that Lithoid, my father's traitorous
brother, had killed my father and stolen the throne."

"Yes." With Golden "rolling," it was
time for John to keep his answers brief.

"I knew -- as did you -- that I could
not work magic with the Crystal. For only you could do that,
Mage-Disks loyal to their owners."

"Yes." And Golden was right about the
Crystal. No one but its current "owner" could work magic with it.
And a lethal magic it was -- seducing whoever possessed it into
believing he was god and a self-righteous god at that. John had
used the Gem as a weapon in the war against Auro. And used it. And
used it. Until its power was exhausted. Only then did John "return
to himself," shocked and ashamed at the indiscriminate killing he'd
done at the Crystal's insistence. Thank God that Mage-gems had only
so much stored power, needing periodic recharging in this world's
light! Otherwise, John might have found himself trapped by the
Crystal's magic ... forever.

At the same time, John was aware that
as long as he lived, the Crystal would serve no one but him. Not
Golden. Not anyone.

"Go on," John prompted, Golden at full
stop, head in his hands.

With a struggle, the youth sat up.
Cleared his throat. "After escaping, we went different ways, Coluth
to Xanthin, his sailors with him. Though feeling no loyalty to
Pfnaravin, the Admiral was honor bound to oversee this Band's naval
reconstruction.

"And I must confess that I took your
Crystal from its hiding place," John waving forgiveness before
Golden fainted from fear.

"After that, alone, I traveled
Beak-ward, avoiding the land of the giants."

No need to take him through that
desperate time again, Golden already shivering. "I crossed into
Malachite through The Gap, that pass through the mountains open to
travelers since the end of the war. From there, I went to Bice, to
contact my father's loyal aides, finding that most were dead.
Something I should have anticipated. They were old. Lithoid was
hunting them down, one by one.