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twenty-seven

With unaccustomed forbearance Mero remained silent, riding in the rear while the spunkies created the now familiar fog-free tunnel and guided the four armigers down the sharp switchbacks toward the great valley of the River Malle.

As the falcon flew (if one had dared the murky sky), the distance from Red-fern to the capital was less than thirty leagues along this shortcut trail. But the terrain was so steep, descending a perilous escarpment, that most who traveled between the castle and Mallburn Town used a second road that followed the gorge to Rockport and then joined the Coast Highway, even though the distance was nearly doubled thereby.

After seven hours the boys finally arrived in the lowlands, having met only a goatherd with a single goat, some gaunt-faced children gathering fagots, and a pair of old women carrying a basket of some wild edibles they'd gathered off the mountainside. All of these persons plunged away from the trail with squeals of terror, thinking they had encountered phantoms, when the troop loomed up behind them in the fog, eerily lighted on its way by the spunkies.

A thin drizzle had begun by the time the narrow track turned into a sem­blance of a road and the armigers entered the first Didionite village. It might have been a fairly prosperous place once, but the famine had reduced it to a squalid ruin. Most of the roadside cottages had been sacked and burnt. If folk still lived thereabouts, they were silent and secretive for fear of raiders. The village inn, built sturdily of local stone, still had its roof, although the door and the shutters for the upstairs windows were gone.

Snudge dismounted, handed his reins to Belamil, and went to the inn entrance to inspect the interior with his windsight. "Nobody there," he announced. "It's dry, there are scraps of wood about from broken-down walls and such, and the hearth seems undamaged."

"How can you tell?" Mero inquired innocently. "It's almost pitch black inside."

"I've got eyes like a cat! We could do worse than stop here to rest and eat. If the chimney's not clogged, we could even chance a fire. No reason why the horses can't come in, too, out of the wet."

"But not the willy-wisps!" said Saundar with a shudder.

Mero was the only one who laughed, but he clamped his jaws almost at once, remembering the rumor about Sir Ruabon—and the cries of the sacrificed live-stock outside Castle Redfern.

"I'll tell the Small Lights to remain without," Snudge reassured the others. "How do you talk to them?" Mero asked. "They don't speak our language. All they do is squeak and chitter."

"When I whisper, they understand," Snudge lied. "But I suggest you don't start giving them orders. They only answer to me because their leader Shanakin commanded them to obey." And warned them not to drain our blood on the way to Mallburn Town . . .

Snudge produced a tarnstick, which miraculously lit in spite of the pervasive damp, with only a small assist from his talent. Tinder and twigs blazed and smoke went properly up the inn's chimney. Snudge and Saundar broke up wood for fuel, while Belamil used a bunch of dead weedstalks to sweep the area in front of the fireplace. Mero meekly filled the horses' nosebags and gave them water from a leather bucket.

They roasted fat sausages, spread toasted chunks of bread with soft cheese, and finished off with honeycakes made of oats, raisins, and filberts. A skin of ale, passed from hand to hand throughout the meal, almost made them forget how cold and clammy they felt. The horses munched their grain, stamped and whif­fled, and filled the derelict tavern with the pungent scent of their droppings. It was all rather cozy until Snudge took out the map parchment and spread it on the hearthstone, preparing to describe the next phase of the mission. The others gathered close.

"I think we're right here, in a hamlet called Brayshaw. From now on, we travel as fast as possible so as to reach the River Malle by eventide. About ten leagues from here there'll be another village, Hoolton, that's larger and very likely inhabited—but most of the people will probably be locked safely inside their houses because of the fog. We'll gallop right on through, and if anyone peeks out and spies us, they'll be too frightened by the ghost riders to do anything about it."

The others chuckled.

"We keep going to this T-junction with the highway, where there's a sizable place called Bardsea, and turn left. Fortunately for us, most of the town lies off the main road, down by the shore where there's a harbor. The Coast Highway goes directly to Mallburn Town, and once we're on it we have to change tactics, since we're bound to encounter sophisticated travelers or even Didionite patrols.

Belamil drawled, "No more spectres enveloped in glowing vapors, scaring the wits out of the simple peasantry?"

"No," Snudge agreed, with a thin smile. "I'll command the Small Lights to stop creating the uncanny tunnel and just carry on leading us through the fog, glowing dimly and floating an ell or so in front of each courser, down close to the surface of the road."

Mero was incredulous. "The horses will never follow spunkies!"

"Yes they will. Prince Conrig told me it would work, after being reassured of it by Princess Ullanoth. I tried it out successfully on my trip down the mountain to Castle Redfern, riding a mule. Of course, mules are often smarter than horses, but just keep spurring your beast on, and after a while he'll get the idea and trot after the guiding Lights like a sheep."

"I hope you're right," the redhead growled. "What happens if we meet Didionites?"

"It probably won't happen too often. If it does, the Lights will go dim and squeak a warning well ahead of time. Rein up, get off the highway, and wait in the fog till the enemy riders pass. The Lights will extinguish themselves without being told."

"Is that why we haven't seen the others?" Saundar inquired thoughtfully. "The creatures generating all this magical fog?"

"Yes," Snudge said. "They shine only when they want to."

"The rest of the time," Belamil said with grisly relish, "they lurk. And not timidly, either, like the spunkies down south in Cathra! There are thousands and thousands of them up here in the north country, infesting the swamps, waiting for unwary prey. My granny told me so."

"The devil take your granny," Mero grumbled.

Snudge continued. "We should reach the river by dusk—or what would be dusk if there was no fog. We'll send our weird little friends away then, ignite torches, and proceed to the bridge as though we were a legitimate troop of dis­patch riders. If the guards at Mallmouth accept our pose, we'll ride into the city like we own the place, find a spot to hide the horses, and get on with our job. Mallburn Town is supposed to be half deserted because of the famine. Only the docks, the precinct where the rich merchants live, and the great Malle Road lead­ing from the bridge to the palace are well lit at night."

"What happens if the guards at the bridge gate don't want to admit us?" Mero asked.

"We get righteously huffy, wheel smartly about, and warn them we'll be back in the morning to make big trouble. Don't worry. I have another way of getting us inside the city if it becomes necessary."

"How?" Mero persisted.

"Ask me after we're turned away—but be sure your shoulders are well lim­bered up for rowing against a tidal current." He flipped the map, revealing a dia­gram of the bridge fortifications on its reverse side. "Now, take a careful look at this, lads. I've been told the Mallmouth Bridge is a great wonder of engineering, much more impressive than any bridge in Cathra. The Diddlies may be barbar­ians, but they're very clever barbarians."

The others studied the drawing in silence. The bridge was over five hundred feet long. The four fixed spans closest to the city shore were supported by three massive stone piers rising from the riverbed. Only small boats could pass beneath the arches. Taking the place of a fourth pier was a fortified tower, also with its foundations in the water. It contained the bridge gate, which consisted of two heavy iron portcullises at either end of the central passage. Within the tower was also the machinery that lifted a movable span linking the bridge to the opposite shore, where there was a small guardpost and a tollbooth.

Saundar poked the parchment with a finger. "This final section of the bridge lifts to let tall ships through. And look: when the leaf is up, the city's neatly isolated from invaders like us coming from the south."

"Right," said Snudge. "The next bridge over the river is nearly sixty leagues upstream, at Mallthorpe. Between there and Mallmouth, the people must use ferryboats to cross."

Belamil was frowning at the diagram. "But how does the movable span lift? There are no chains coming from the tower to the end of the leaf, so it can't be a regular drawbridge. And the leaf is so long!"

Snudge nodded. "Nearly ninety feet. It's called a bascule, and it lifts like a kind of gigantic one-sided see-saw. Look here at this smaller sketch. There's a counterweight inside a great vault attached to the southern side of the tower, along with a pivot—something like a huge cart-axle—that enables the bridge-leaf to move up and down."

"I see it now." Belamil almost had his nose to the parchment. "And once we disable the counterweight machinery, the bridge gets stuck in the down position."

The counterweight was only partly made of caged granite blocks. On its upper side was a large iron chamber that was pumped full of water or drained dry when it was time to raise or lower the bascule. It took two dozen men to operate the pumps.

"As you may have guessed," Snudge said, "it strongly behooves us to launch the first part of our attack when the bridge is down. I could get us across the water gap in a small boat and into the tower while the bascule leaf was raised—but there's no way just the four of us could pump out the counterweight chamber and lower the bridge again."

"Deveron." Saundar's intelligent brow was deeply furrowed. "I know we promised not to question your plan—but this task seems less and less within the realm of possibility, the more you tell us about it."

"I'll say!" Mero chimed in.

"The task can be achieved," Snudge insisted, "and by us. Four tarnblaze bombshells exploded within the counterweight water-chamber will crack it badly and damage the pump mechanism so that neither one can be fixed for days—even weeks. We accomplish that task first, then jam open the two portcullises of the bridge gate. They are raised and lowered with ordinary chains and windlasses located on the upper floor of the tower."

"Sounds easy as pie," Mero said in a scathing tone, licking honey off his big fingers. "We'll just marshal up a thousand spunkies and order 'em to drink the blood of every foeman inside the bridge tower."

"No," Snudge said equably. "My plan is quite different, and it doesn't include magical mayhem."

"But there will be some sort of magic at work, I presume!"

"There will," Snudge agreed.

"Then tell us what kind!" Mero demanded, jumping to his feet with hands clenched. "And what about Princess Ullanoth? Is she going to help us with sorcery?"

Snudge shook his head. "You'll hear details of the plan when I'm ready to tell them. Do you intend to dispute my leadership, even after promising Prince Conrig you'd follow without question? Or does the thought of magic frighten you?"

The big armiger's face went dark with fury. "Are you calling me a coward—' He broke off, his jaw dropping, as a high-pitched, wavering screech came from outside the inn. "Futter me! What the hell was that?"

Belamil dashed to the open doorway. "Nothing outside but fog. Our guiding spunkies seem to be gone."

"The murdering wee wankers are probably killing someone," Mero growled. "We could be next!"

Snudge said, "The Small Lights aren't dangerous to human beings in day-time. Even at night, when they're strongest, it takes large numbers of them to overcome a grown man or woman. Of course a small child, in thick fog ..." He trailed off uncomfortably.

"Perhaps the noise was just a fox taking a hare, Saunder said, clearly believ­ing nothing of the sort.

"I think it's time for us to press on," Snudge decided. "Pack up. And collect some wood we can use for torches. I have a pot of pitch we can dip them in later."

He folded the parchment and put it into his belt-pouch, then went outside to call the missing spunkies back from whatever mischief they had been up to.

 

Even with the mare named Mist moving at a snail's pace, Ullanoth arrived at the great hill-park surrounding Holt Mallburn palace in early afternoon. Its wrought-iron gates were locked, but she rode boldly up to the sentinels on duty and addressed them in cracked, querulous tones.

"How does one get an audience with King Achardus?"

The armed men regarded her with amused scorn. "These darksome days, one doesn't," said the sergeant. "I'm surprised you don't know that, Gammer."

"I've come a distance," she admitted, "all the way from Highcliff hoping to appeal our baron's unjust sentencing to death of my grandson. Poor Nallo never burnt those hayricks! They only blamed him because he's not quite right in the head. I realize my appearance is not prepossessing, messire, but I'm not without means. I hoped His Majesty would accept a nice token from me and look kindly on my petition for clemency."

The sergeant's eyes shone with greed. "You could give the petition and the token to me. I'll take it in straightaway."

"Then His Majesty is in residence?"

"Where else would he be?" The man was getting impatient. "Well?"

Me feigned concerned thought. "Oh, dear! I'd set my heart on seeing the king myself. If you could but arrange it, messire, there'd be a lovely token for you, too."

"King Achardus doesn't see the commonalty. Give over your petition and coin, woman, and stop wasting my time."

"I must go back to the inn and fetch them," she said. "Expect my return in an hour or so."

Me dug her heels into the mare's ribs and cantered away into the fog before the guards could restrain her. "Or better yet," she murmured to herself, "expect me when you least expect me!"

The princess turned into a narrow alley between tall, shuttered shops, a place she had scouted out before approaching the Royal Park. Me dismounted and removed the fardel she had lashed to the saddle.

"Now you must go back where you belong, Mist," she informed the dapple grey, and commanded the moonstone named Beastbidder to find the mare's rightful home and compel her to return there.

"Small Lights?" she called on the wind. "Manakin?"

A swarm of golden sparks with a single blue-white one among them winked into view. Yes, lady?

"I require you now to travel with this mare to her home and keep her safe from human villains."

We would rather suck the juices from the beast, lady. And the villains, too.

"Do as I say! All of you leave me now. I intend to rest for some hours. Await my summons outside the main gatehouse of Holt Mallburn Palace at midnight."

The mare pricked up her ears as though listening. A moment later she trot­ted off downhill, in the direction of the city center. The spunkies had vanished.

Ullanoth replaced Beastbidder and readied Interpenetrator. It would make short work of the iron fence around the park—to say nothing of the palace walls. Yes, she would rest—but not before using the enhanced viewing powers of Subtle Loophole to study everyone who interested her. Too much time had passed with-out her being able to scrutinze the play-actors in her great drama and make certain that all was well.

She intended to oversee Achardus in his palace, her wicked little brother Beynor, King Olmigon of Cathra, the fleet of Tarnian mercenaries, the distant Southern Continent where the corsairs of Foraile and Stippen were gathering, Crown Prince Honigalus and his armada, and Conrig and his invasion force.

It would be an uncomfortable session that might lay her low for hours, but performing the difficult oversight within Holt Mallburn itself would be deli­ciously satisfying. Before undertaking the work she'd savor fine food and drink from the royal kitchen and buttery, take a much-needed bath, and wash her hair. Snooping about hidden by Concealer, she'd surely be able to find suitable fresh garments for herself in the wardrobe of one of the Didionite princesses. It would never do to welcome Conrig wearing the rags of Witch Walanoth. Later, when the ordeal of scrying was over, she'd take her repose in one of the palace's elegant guest rooms.

How ironic it was that she should come so harmlessly into the innermost stronghold of Didion! Invisible, able to pass through the thickest wall or the most secure door, she could kill Achardus Mallburn as easily as a rabbit, opening the veins of the giant monarch's throat with his own purloined dagger. But she would not. Such a gross deed was not fitting for a future Conjure-Queen, nor did she have any personal animosity towards Didion's king. Vengeance belonged to Conrig Wincantor. All Ullanoth intended to do was make that vengeance possible, with the help of her friends.

 

Subtle Loophole showed Achardus Mallburn, his Privy Council, Archwizard Ilin­gus, and Queen Siry Boarsden wrangling over penalties to be imposed on the treacherous timberlords of Firedrake Water, who had refused to send troops to join Prince Somarus's defense force at Great Pass. How boring! But it was inter­esting that the tall queen favored the most drastic punishment of the rebels, and the men seemed inclined to let her have her way. The royal women of Didion were far from being mere political pawns or broodstock .. .

Beynor lay unconscious in his bed, tended by Zimroth, Master Ridcanndal, and the Royal Physician, who had been granted permission to penetrate the spells of couverture generated by his two Fortress sigils. Her brother was in a sorry state after using his Weathermaker to conjure a strong fair wind to speed the Didionite armada and a strong foul one to delay the Tarnians. The doctor opined that the Conjure-King might not recover for two days. Good! Beynor's antics would not distract her during the battle for Holt Mallburn .. .

The sigil showed King Olmigon of Cathra looking like a man at death's door, but nonetheless giving crackling orders to his anxious windvoices. He was attempting to regroup the divided Cathran navy into a single force, and com­plained bitterly about the alchymists' inability to maintain reliable communi­cation with ships on the high seas. Vra-Sulkorig blamed malignant magic. King Olmigon himself voiced suspicions that his admirals were determined to fight the Didionites in their own fashion, without being distracted by royal meddling .. .

The Tarnian frigates were shortening sail and putting out sea-anchors to counter the savage tempest now assaulting them off the Stormy Isles. Viewing them with concern, Ullanoth hoped she would not have to use her own Weather-maker to help them reach Cathra in time .. .

The Continental ships were gathered in the Stippenese port of Nis-Gata, their crews carousing ashore and their captains showing no immediate intention of putting out to sea. Strange .. .

Crown Prince Honigalus and Fleet Admiral Galbus Peel were playing chess and chewing hard ship's biscuit aboard the south-charging Casabarela Regnant. Peel was winning the game, but the prince didn't seem to mind. During the brief time of her oversight, neither man discussed the upcoming sea battle, except to say that it might take place on the morrow if Beynor's driving gale remained constant...

Last of all (as she thought), she focused the sigil on Conrig. Her breath quickened and her heart leapt when she saw him again. Me wondered how she could ever have forgotten his face. His uncovered wheat-colored hair sparkled with droplets of moisture as he conferred with the leading nobles of the invasion force in the ward of Redfern Castle. His cheeks were flushed, his lips bore a con­fident smile, and his dark eyes blazed with confidence as he reviewed tactical assignments. She felt a deep warmth stirring within herself and recalled how good it had been when they were together.

Yes, she told herself. If I have it in me to love any man, I will love Conrig Wincantor. Together we'll conquer and rule this island. And if anyone can help him to aspire beyond the Sovereignty of High Blenholme and equal Bazekoy's glory, I am that person!

But what was the prince telling the Cathrans now?

She was first disbelieving, then shocked to hear Conrig say—and the other leaders agree—that the opening of the Mallmouth Bridge gate by a certain band of armiger infiltrators was more crucial to the success of their attack than her own role admitting the army to Holt Mallburn itself .. .

Trembling with anger, as well as with the worsening pain and weakness caused by use of the Great Stone, she aimed Subtle Loophole at the mysteriously important boys and found them riding toward the Coast Highway, guided through thick fog by spunkier. The four youths were under the age of twenty, all of them squires who had been at Castle Vanguard during Conrig's council of war. They were disguised as Didionite knights and spoke not a word to one another.

Why on earth had the prince entrusted these ordinary lads with such a vital mission? How could they possibly hope to open a fortified bridge guarded by dozens of armed men? Had Conrig made some foolish miscalculation?

Ullanoth forced herself to say the quartet more closely. A burly older boy with a truculent air, having a fringe of brick-red hair straggling out from beneath his chain mail hood. A stocky, well-muscled youth who was singing bawdy bal­lads in a fine tenor voice to lighten the tedium of the ride through limbo. A tall clever-looking boy who sometimes sang along with his companion. And the youngest of the party, slender and broad-shouldered, with comely but forgettable facial features

Forgettable save for his eyes, which the uncanny clarity of Subtle Loophole revealed were a vibrant blue . . . and afire with the unmistakable gleam of a powerful wild talent.

 

"What do you mean—the Continentals refuse to rendezvous with us off the Vig­ilants?" Honigalus smashed his fist down on the chessboard, sending the pieces scattering in all directions.

Fring the wizard blinked at this unusual display of agitation from the normally phlegmatic prince. He stood with folded arms thrust up the sleeves of his black gown and assumed an irksome expression of long-suffering. "Royal Highness, I don't presume to analyze wind-messages from our allies. I only report them. May I continue?"

Regaining his self-control, Honigalus sighed. "Proceed."

"A conference of corsair captains has unanimously agreed to delay joining with our fleet until after we have successfully engaged the Cathrans for the first time. Until then, their fifteen frigates and thirteen corvettes will remain in Nis-Gata, a port some seventy leagues south of the Vigilant Isles. They intend to send out a squadron of fast cutters, forming a windvoice relay, to observe and report upon the battle."

"Putting me to the test, the slimy bungholers! Making absolutely certain Didion has the upper hand before finally committing themselves."

"Apparently, Highness."

"So much for Beynor of Moss and his precious Treaty of Alliance. Damn—if only the pirates of Andradh had agreed to join us! The Harriers are not nearly so lily-livered as their neighbors to the east." Honigalus turned to Fleet Captain Peel, who had remained seated at the chart table on the opposite side of she chessboard, keeping his expression unreadable. "What do you think of this devel­opment, Galbus?"

"The Continentals are a wily lot. It'll do us no good to attempt to pressure them. All we can do is acquit ourselves valorously against the foe, and pray that the Continentals never learn that Cathra is expecting reinforcements from Tarn."

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