Ironcrown Moon (62 page)

The recuperating Royal Alchymist lay in a long chair on a shaded balcony of the palace. He had dismissed the Brother Secretary who was assisting him with his papers as soon as Snudge bespoke him, and now carried on their wind-conversation with one hand shading his eyes. “No, no, I’ve said nothing to the king about Maude—but I couldn’t contain my happiness and my relief at your survival. How in

Zeth’s name did you ever get to Tarn?”

Through sigil magic. I was given a Great Stone called Subtle Gateway by the Source, who also told me where Maudrayne and the boy were being held. Gateway is able to carry me and my companions anywhere, at a price. We’re in a small place on the eastern coast of Tarn, near Fort Ramis.

“But the shaman Bozuk told Duke Feribor she was imprisoned at Cold Harbor, far to the north!

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The Lord Constable was sent in search of her when it seemed you might be dead.”

Bozuk lied, my lord. And Duke Feribor has played our king false. He bribed Bozuk to take him to Maude, thinking to use her in support of his own claim to Cathra’s throne. At this minute, Feribor’s ship is only a few leagues distant from us. The situation is tricky, but I believe we’ll surely be able to escape before he arrives.

Stergos groaned. “My royal brother would never believe ill of the duke, no matter how we two sought to persuade him. Perhaps now he’ll listen.”

Your windvoice falters, my lord. Are you strong enough to continue? Perhaps Vra-Sulkorig should relay my message to the king while you stand by.

“Oh, Deveron! Of course you don’t know. Poor Sulkorig is dead by misadventure, his head broken by the hoof of the Lord Constable’s horse. The beast took fright for some reason while the two men were examining it in its stall.”

I regret to hear it. Sulkorig was an able man, and an honest one.

“Although he did give me much cause for concern,” Stergos admitted in all innocence. “His conscience was troubled by his inadvertent discovery of the king’s talent, but I convinced him that he had no moral obligation to report it to the Royal Tribunal.”

And His Grace knew of this?

“Well… yes. But you can’t think that—”

“Gossy! What is it?” Conrig strode out onto the balcony, his face shining with excitement. “Is it really Snudge bespeaking you?”

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The Royal Alchymist’s hand flew away from his eyes and he stared at his brother with a mixture of consternation and fear. “Con! Oh, how you startled me!”

“Are you well?” the king asked in concern. He lowered himself to a padded stool.

“Yes, yes.” Stergos forced a smile. “I’m well, and Deveron is very well. Con, he’s found Maudrayne and the boy! And he says he’s managed to convince her to recant her accusation concerning your talent. There are some concessions required, but I do believe we’ve found the solution to your terrible dilemma.”

“Great God,” Conrig murmured. “Snudge talked Maude around?” He scowled. “What concessions?”

“Just a moment, while I let Deveron know you’re here. Then he can tell you everything himself.”

He spoke on the wind, then pulled himself to a sitting position. At length, he presented to the king a verbatim account of Snudge’s proposal and Maudrayne’s acceptance.

Conrig listened, thunderstruck. When Stergos finished, the king said, “But how will Snudge get Maude and the boy to Donorvale? For that matter, how in hell did Snudge get to Tarn?”

“He has a new sigil named Gateway,” Stergos admitted with reluctance. “Acquired from some… some wizard he met along the way. I

still have to get the straight of it myself. The thing is able to transport a number of persons from one place to another through sorcery.”

“God’s Teeth! Our Snudge is a veritable wellspring of surprises. The proposal is ingenious. I quite like the notion of having Parli

Beorbrook adopt the lad. But can we trust Maude’s word? I must think hard about this.”

“Deveron says there can be no delay. Your friend Feribor has deceived you and is about to attack the place where Maude is being held. If you accept Snudge’s proposal, he’ll carry the princess and the boy Dyfrig to Donorvale, using the Gateway sigil. The sealords can witness her recanting and her acceptance of the agreement. If you decline or withhold a decision, Deveron says he’ll take Maude and

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Dyfrig elsewhere and—er—find them a new home.”

“Damn him for a treasonous whoreson!” Conrig bellowed. “He dares to bargain with me?”

Stergos stiffened. “His proposal is a good one, Con. Without Maude’s accusing testimony, there is no cause for any tribunal, here in

Cathra or in Tarn, to look into the matter of your talent.”

The king gave him a mutinous glare. “It’s lese-majeste! I’m the Sovereign!”

“For now you are,” his brother said sadly. “Con, agree to it. You gain much and lose nothing but Maude’s bitter enmity and the threat to your throne. I implore you! So much lies in the balance.” More than you know, the Royal Alchymist thought, but I can say nothing to you about the Source and the New Conflict, for you would never believe me!

Conrig said, “Very well.”

“What?” Stergos leapt like a trout, recalled from his abstraction.

“I’ll do it. Our Tarnian ambassador can be one official witness and the Lord Constable the second. I draw the line at facing that hellcat myself. Let it be part of our agreement that I never see Maude again. Tell Snudge to get her and the boy to Donorvale without delay.”

“I will!” Stergos covered his eyes and sent the message on the wind, weeping for joy all the while.

Conrig Wincantor, the Sovereign of Blenholme, turned away from his brother and helped himself to the wine that was on a small refreshment table near the balcony railing. Then he looked out over the expanse of Gala Blenholme Harbor, sipping from his crystal cup and smiling. Tinnis Catclaw’s ship was speeding to Tarn. He was already commanded to stop at Donorvale to confer with the sealords, and now there was no need for him to proceed further.

He would witness the agreement.

And then, if Conrig thought it was for the best, he might fulfil his original task.

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No one in the peel challenged the squad of fraudulent guardsmen as they marched up the grand staircase from the gate vestibule to the third level, trailed by a youthful servant. Many of the residents had already learned that a strange warship had hove into view, causing the shaman-lord much anxiety. A timid-looking housemaid clutching a feather-duster even ventured to ask the passing king’s men if

Skullbone Peel was in danger.

“Nothing to concern you, wench!” Gavlok told her sternly. “Back to work.”

At the armory door, the armiger Valdos whispered to the others, “Can you give me a minute or two to get the child out of the library before you raise a ruckus in there?”

“Only that,” came the voice of unseen Induna. “Take the prince to the turret as fast as you can.”

Valdos trotted to the library at the far end of the corridor and pulled open the door. The four-year-old boy sat at a long table amidst the shelves, reading very slowly from a book while pointing out the words with his finger. A homely, big-boned woman, evidently his nursemaid, sat across from him mending a shirt.

“Prince Dyfrig!” Valdos called out. “Your lady mother has urgent need of you. You must come with me to the turret at once, where she awaits.”

Dyfrig said, “After I finish this sentence. Is there such a word as ee-num-russ?”

“You must come now!” Valdos crossed to the table.

The maid scowled at him. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes!” Valdos spluttered. He held out his arms to the boy. “Here, I’ll carry you.”

Dyfrig was patient. “Rusgann can’t read. Can you? Look—what’s this word? Ee-num-rus? I never heard of it.”

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Outside, there were shouts and a sudden metallic clash. The maid surged to her feet with a squawk of alarm and dashed to the open door.

“Don’t go out there!” Valdos cried. “Laddie, come to me!”

“The word,” came the implacable demand.

Frantic, Valdos peered at the place indicated by the small finger. “

Enormous

!” he shouted, and scooped Dyfrig up.

“Thank you,” said the little prince.

Induna appeared, pushing Rusgann back into the room and slamming the door behind her. “It’s going wrong, Val. Come close to me and we’ll make a run for it. I can probably shield you and the boy with my magic while still going unseen—”

“What’s happening?” Rusgann demanded.

“We’re rescuing the boy and the princess,” Induna snapped. “Stand aside, woman. There’s fighting in the corridor.”

“I won’t go without Rusgann!” Dyfrig shrieked. “I won’t!” And he began to squirm and flail his limbs like a mad thing, so that Valdos nearly dropped him.

“Stop it!” the armiger pleaded. “We’ll take her, we’ll take her!”

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Dyfrig was instantly still in his arms. “Good.”

Induna cracked the heavy door open, then closed it again, cutting off the sound of a loud affray.

Her expression was bleak. “There’s a shaman out there. He didn’t see me. He must have come down the stairs in the guards’ dormitory just across the hall. He’s creeping towards the armory, probably sent by those on the roof to investigate the fighting. A scrier wouldn’t make any sense of it— guard fighting guard. We’ve got to take down the magicker, Val. Give the boy to the maid and grab that big book. I’ll go invisible and trip him up, and you swat him with the book when he’s down.”

“Swat him? I’ll carve out his lights!” the squire blustered, fumbling for his dagger.

She slapped him roundly. “Do as I say,” she hissed.

Valdos took up the huge tome from its stand, muttering. A moment later he and Induna were out the door.

“Are we really being rescued, Rusgann?” Dyfrig was safe in her strong arms, an expression of keen interest on his face.

“God only knows. Hold on to my neck, Dyfi.”

The sound of a tremendous explosion rocked the room. Induna flung the door open. “Come with me! Go carefully and don’t trip over anything.”

The corridor was filling with smoke that poured from the armory. Shadowy figures moved about in it, yelling and cursing. Swords clanged. On the floor lay a man in a shabby brown gown, his head hidden beneath a book. Radd Falcontop, with a sinister black-iron sphere in one hand and a sword in the other, came running towards them. He cleared the fallen shaman with a single leap and darted into the dormitory, shouting at Rusgann. “Get the hell out of here, wench—down the stairs!”

“This way!” said Induna’s voice. The strapping maid felt an invisible person tugging at her apron, drawing her into the smoke. She clung tight to Dyfrig, was momentarily blinded by the swirling fumes, heard coughs and screams, stumbled over a guard’s bleeding body. Then she saw the small woman beckoning to her, pointing out the way of escape.

“Over here! The stairs. Go down. Go to the windmill turret. Take the boy to his mother!” The witch vanished again.

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Another explosion shook the peel, coming from the dormitory. A thunderous voice called out in the murk, “It’s done! Both sets of steps to the roof gone. All you king’s men—fall back. Fall back and run!”

Rusgann said, “Hang on, Dyfi,” and plunged down the stairs.

==========

“We’re within range of Skullbone Peel, my lord duke,” the captain said to Feribor.“You, wizard! Keep light airs blowing so we can maneuver. Quartermaster! Raise the colors of the Sovereignty and the duke’s pennon.”

Feribor used a spyglass to survey the peel from the quarterdeck of the frigate, which lay broadside to the shore. “They’ve finally got the catapult set up on the fort roof, and it’s loaded with a sizable tarnblaze shell. The silly damned fools! That engine couldn’t fling a bomb more than a hundred ells… I wonder what the two columns of smoke are all about? Think it might be a signal of some sort?”

The captain shrugged. “I can’t say, my lord. Shall we fire a dummy charge to attract their attention?”

“Not yet. But see that the guns are readied.”

“It’s already done.”

Feribor turned to his windvoice, a slope-shouldered older man with a long, sardonic face.

“Vra-Colan, bespeak Shaman-Lord Ontel. Tell him who we are and present my personal compliments.”

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The Brother pulled up his hood so that his face was shadowed, except for the mouth. After a few minutes had passed, he reported, “Ontel also conveys the usual sentiments of greeting to you, my lord. He asks what brings you to the Desolation Shore.”

“Say we have come to take away Princess Maudrayne Northkeep and her son, who are his unwilling guests. Have him be so good as to send them out to our ship in a small boat. He has exactly one half hour to comply.”

Vra-Colan spoke on the wind, paused, then gave the reply. “Ontel asks what you will do if he declines.”

“Tell him that my ship’s guns will pound his wretched little fort to rubble. And assure him that I care not whether the lady perishes along with him and his people, since she is already under sentence of death for having threatened grave harm to the Sovereign of Blenholme.”

The message was sent, and Feribor waited impatiently for the reply. When the minutes continued to drag by in silence, he finally barked, “Golan! Demand that they answer!”

Blind Bozuk sat slumped in a chair a few paces away from the duke, the windvoice, and the captain, close beside the helmsman at the wheel. He called out feebly. “They’re preparing their answer! One of them is lighting the fuse of the great bombshell in the catapult.”