Previous | Table of Contents | Next
thirty-two
Against the urgent advice of
his worried alchymists and physicians, King Olmigon personally presided over a
meeting of his Privy Council with the great peers who by tradition shared the
defense of Cathra's south coast. The two council members who were at Sea—Prince
Heritor Conrig and the newly promoted Lord Admiral, Zednor
Woodvale—participated through wind-voices.
It was the king's hope to
persuade the nobles to send armed merchantmen and small fighting craft from
their private fleets to reinforce the decimated Cathran navy. But in spite of
his best efforts, the conference degenerated quickly into a bootless wrangle
when it became plain that most of the Lords of the Southern Shore thought such
an action would be unwise.
"Is it not true,"
asked Count Chakto Cranmere, whose commercial fleet was the largest in the
kingdom, "that the Tarnian mercenaries have finally broken free of the
storm that delayed them?"
Olmigon said, "This is
what the windvoice traveling with them has told Vra-Sulkorig. Their ships are
now flying down the Westley coast, driven by a strong north wind. However, it's
uncertain what conditions they'll meet once they round Flaming Head and enter
Dolphin Channel—and this is why I've decided to seek additional reinforcements
of you, my lords."
Count
Brinmar Woodvale, brother to the admiral, spoke to the king. "With
respect, sire, more ships are surely not needed. Even with headwinds, the
Wave-Harriers are bound to arrive in time to save the day. Tarnians are the
finest sailors in the world and the best marine warriors as well. Let them earn
the reward we've Already paid them."
"The
Crown paid," Chancellor Falmire reminded the count, "not you Lords of
the Shore."
"As was only
proper," Duke Nettos Intrepid snapped, "since it was the Crown's
negligence that let the Royal Navy fall below strength in the first
place."
"You refused to tax
yourselves for new capital ships!" the king retorted. "And all of you
denied there was any danger from the sea, even when the Prince Heritor warned
you of Didion's secret alliance with the Continentals. And now half our
war-fleet is destroyed and
"If Your Grace had not
dismissed me from my post," Lord Dundry said, for-getting that he had been
one of the loudest to dispute the threat from the sea, "I might have led
our navy to victory in the Vigilant Isles. Young Elo Copperstrand displayed a
fatal lack of experience. It was ridiculous to divide the fleet—"
"My late son acted as
he thought best!" shouted Duke Bandon. "Damn your self-serving
hindsight, Tothor Dundry!"
Insults flew until
Vra-Sulkorig broke in with a windspoken observation from Lord Admiral Zednor
Woodvale.
My lords, leave off
quarreling and listen to me! We face sure defeat if the Tarnian frigates are
delayed. I must have some sort of reinforcements at once. No other
considerations are important.
"He's right," said
Count Haydon Defiant, who had thus far made no comment. He was a few years
older than King Olmigon, whom he had known since childhood. Short-clipped snowy
hair and long white moustaches gave his broad face the look of an intelligent
walrus. In contrast to most of the other nobles attending, he was a firm
supporter of the Sovereignty. "I for one intend to send the Lord Admiral
every small fighting vessel at my disposal—sloops armed with springals and
cutters carrying tarnblaze bombards."
"Your merchantmen mount
more effective mortars and culverins," the king pointed out to his old
friend. "What about them?"
"Well, most are already
laid up for the winter and the crews dispersed land-side." The count
refused to meet the gaze of the monarch. "The small boats will serve
better, sire."
And
more cheaply, was the unspoken thought.
Duke
Nettos Intrepid agreed it would be insanity to pit slow-sailing merchant ships
against men o' war. "But can sloops and gunboats make a tactical
difference fighting Didion's three-tier battleships and heavy frigates—to say
nothing of a vicious pack of Continental corsairs? Perhaps we should consider
suing for peace. Offer to send food trains to
Why should he do so, the Lord Admiral interposed bleakly, if victory at
sea and the corn stores of Gala are within his grasp? No, my lords! We must
fight—and pray the Tarnians arrive in time.
"Even with fair winds,
the Wave-Harriers face a full day's sail to
"Sue
for peace," Cranmere said. "It's the only solution."
"Nay!" cried the
king. Beads of sweat glistened on his face and his voice faltered. "You're
wrong! We must call out every vessel capable of hurling tarnfire or other
missiles at the foe . . . Even light fighting craft can perform a useful
delaying action! I . . . I have a daring plan. Only . . . let me explain it
..."
But his strength was fast
failing. He slumped back into the litter that had borne him to the council
chamber, and the physicians gave him water to drink and applied cool cloths to
his brow.
Count Haydon Defiant spoke
firmly. "We have yet to hear from Prince Heritor Conrig on this matter.
Vra-Sulkorig, be so good as to invite His Grace's comments."
Conrig addressed them
through the windvoice of Stergos: My lords, I beg you not to give in to
pessimism. All is not lost. The strong winds now filling the sails of our
Tarnian allies—and speeding my own fast ship toward the waters of home—are
being generated by the magic of Cathra's good friend, the gracious Princess
Ullanoth of Moss. Thanks to her, the winds in
The
lords murmured uncertainly. Before Conrig could say more, Duke Shiantil
Blackhorse spoke up in a manner that was both offhand and calculated. "It
is well-known that Beaconfolk sorcery invoked by Conjure-Princess Ullanoth
enabled the Prince Heritor to overcome King Achardus of Didion. Vra-Sulkorig, I
urge you to ask the prince if more of the witch's black magic is poised to
shield our Lord Admiral's fleet from the wrath of Achardus's son."
"For shame,
Blackhorse!" cried Haydon Defiant.
"Slander!"
Eagleroost roared. "What has this to do with the danger facing us now?"
At least one person in the
chamber knew. Lord Chamberlain Flintworth, who had been a crony of the deposed
Royal Alchymist, hid a tiny smile of secret satisfaction. His intensive
coaching of frivolous Duke Shi-Shi in recent weeks seemed not to have been in
vain after all.
Blackhorse said, "My
beloved uncle Vra-Kilian tried to warn our king that the Prince Heritor was in
thrall to the Conjure-Princess. For his pains, he nearly lost his head and has
been banished! I feel it is my duty to inform this assembly of the truth.
Before you agree to follow any recommendation of Prince Conrig, consider what
manner of man he is. And what future Cathra may face if he becomes its king—and
Ullanoth its queen."
"This is lunacy!"
King Olmigon gasped. "What in God's name are you playing at, Shiantil?
Making such accusations now, with our nation in imminent peril!"
"I think I know,"
Eagleroost said.
"And I," muttered
Defiant.
But Blackhorse persisted.
"Does the Prince Heritor deny that Ullanoth gave him his northern
victory and that he intends to share the throne with her?" "Lies,
foul lies," King Olmigon croaked. "Tell them so, my son! Tell them‑
ah!—tell them." He fell groaning back into the litter.
Vra-Sulkorig
raised both arms. "My lords! Listen to Prince Conrig's own words, spoken
to me on the wind."
Sire,
my lords—I swear on my royal heritage and on the Halidom of Saint Zeth that my
victory over Achardus Mallburn was achieved through honorable means and not
through dark sorcery as certain false reports have put forth. It is true that
Ullanoth of Moss has been Cathra's ally, assisting us through her benevolent
magic, and for this the Sovereignty intends to reward her well. But I never
promised to marry her or set her on Cathra's throne. And as God witnesses, it
was the strength and valor of our warriors that vanquished Achardus Mallburn
and gave Holt Mallburn into my hands—not uncanny powers. He who claims
otherwise is a liar and a traitor!
Farindon
Eagleroost began to applaud. He was immediately joined by Defiant, Vigilant,
and Count Woodvale. The others, with the exception of Shiantil Blackhorse, who
only smiled and shrugged, eventually joined in.
King Olmigon's voice now had
renewed vigor. "My lords, thank you for your expressions of goodwill. Will
you now put aside your differences so that we may work together defending the
realm?"
"Aye!" came the
nearly unanimous response.
Eagleroost said, "I'll
have my windvoice transmit orders at once. Following the good example of Count
Defiant, I'll send every suitable gunboat at my disposal to join the Lord
Admiral's fleet."
"So will I," said
Lullian Vigilant.
"And I," Count
Woodvale added.
The others, even glowering
Shiantil, added their affirmations. The small fighting craft would set out as soon
as their crews could be assembled. Those based in
None of the Lords of the
Southern Shore had volunteered to risk any valuable merchantmen, however.
Whispering among themselves as Olmigon lay back in evident relief and commanded
Vra-Sulkorig to bespeak the good tidings to the Prince Heritor and the Lord
Admiral, the lords quietly concluded that even if Honigalus and the
Continentals licked Woodvale and wreaked havoc on Cala, they could gain
no lasting foothold in Cathra nor do much damage to the lords ensconced in
their strong castles. Winter storms would soon force the enemy armada to
retreat. And in spring, the situation might be very different .. .
The king said, "My
lords, I thank you and beg that you keep in mind a fact that every naval
strategist knows: numbers are not everything in sea warfare. Bravery, the
cunning use of resources, and luck can conquer even the most overwhelming
odds."
Murmurs. They would have
liked to believe it.
"This conference is now
adjourned," the king went on. "But before I leave you, I wish to
share the great secret which I have thus far kept to myself—the response of
Emperor Bazekoy's oracle to my one Question."
Suddenly, every man in the
room was silent and motionless, with all eyes fixed upon the dying king.
"I
asked Bazekoy if my son Conrig could succeed in uniting High Blenholme in a
great Sovereignty. The oracle said it could be done, provided that I myself
fulfilled a certain very strange condition. Last night I dreamed of the
emperor. The time has finally come for me to obey his dictate. My friends,
believe that Cathra will win this war and the Sovereignty will come to pass.
And now I bid you farewell, for it's unlikely we'll ever meet again."
He gestured to the
litter-bearers, and they began to carry him from the council chamber.
"But, sire!" Count
Brinmar Woodvale cried out uncertainly. "What is this condition of the
emperor that you intend to fulfill?"
"Muster your small
craft to defend Blenholme Roads," the fading voice said from the corridor,
"and you'll find out."
"Oh, no!" The
sweet face of Queen Cataldise stiffened in disbelieving horror as Olmigon
explained what he was going to do.
"I beg you to be
reasonable, Your Grace," Vra-Sulkorig implored, speaking for the cadre of
physicians and alchymists who stood aghast at the king's bedside. "Your
heart-pains are nearly constant now. Any exertion will surely be the death of
you. Why, I feared you would never survive this afternoon's conference! For you
to leave the palace is unthinkable."
"Emperor Bazekoy told
me that Conrig would unite our island only if I rose from my deathbed to assist
him." Olmigon's lips had gone bluish again, his face was mottled, and his
burning eyes were sunk deep into his skull. "I'm ready. Order my carriage
and have my gentlemen prepare suitable garments. I'll need heavy wool
underthings, for starters."
"Husband, stay!"
The queen had begun to weep. "Stay if you have ever loved me."
"I love you," came
the implacable response, "and I'll do as I was told. Bring me a waterproof
leather jerkin and trews . . . high boots, fur-lined . . . a long sealskin
cloak with a hood edged in wolverine . . . fur mittens on a long string."
Sulkorig hesitated, then
inclined his head in agreement. "I'll summon the lords-in-waiting at once,
sire. They'll bring everything you need."
The
queen rounded on him in a fit of anguish. "You can't let His Grace do
this!"
The
Acting Royal Alchymist took her arm and pulled her insistently to the
door, whispering, "Let be, let be! We must humor him in this sad
obsession. In a
short time he'll tire and accept the sip of poppy he refused earlier, and it
will
make no difference how he's attired. He'll sleep—and when he wakes tomorrow
he'll realize that it's too late for rash action. If God wills, he may not even
remember that we thwarted him."
"Yes, I see." The
queen dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "How sensible of you."
"Catty!"
She spun around as Olmigon
called out and returned quickly to his bedside. "What is it, husband?"
"I want to say farewell
to dear Maude. I won't be coming back from this jaunt of mine, you know."
Cataldise swallowed her
fresh distress and forced a smile. "Shall I fetch our daughter-in-law? I'm
sure she can be here by the time you're dressed. I'll go myself, and there'll
be no need to summon the Master-at-Arms."
The king lifted a trembling
hand and touched her cheek. "Don't grieve for me, dear heart. I'm a happy
man, going to battle again after sitting helpless on the sidelines for thirty
years."
She steeled herself to leave
him. "Lie easy then, and don't quarrel with the alchymists while I'm gone.
They only wish to help."
"Let them help me take
one last piss like a man!" the king said, glaring at the doctors. "Do
you hear? Then swaddle me well and wrap my loins in oilskin, so my damned
leaking bladder doesn't wet me down and bring on a fatal chill. I will not die
before my time! Bazekoy would be furious."
As the guards announced the
queen, Princess Maudrayne's dour maidservant was trimming wicks and getting
ready to light the lamps and candles against the setting of the sun.
"Take me to your
mistress," Cataldise demanded, before Rusgann could even rise from her
curtsey.
"She's
working in her little study-room, Your Grace. Please to follow me."
There were no other
attendants in the apartment. The place was cluttered with stacks of books,
baskets containing parchment rolls, stoppered glass containers with peculiar
things floating in them, and pieces of scientific apparatus. Some of the brass
objects reminded the queen of the disused navigation instruments that were now
only ornaments on the shelves of the king's sitting room.
What a
mess! Cataldise thought. The girl has let her quarters become positively
squalid since Sovanna was dismissed. Whether Maude likes it or not, I'll have
the place tidied up, starting tomorrow. What would Conrig think if he returned
and found things in such a state?
"The
Queen's Grace to see you," Rusgann announced to Maudrayne.
"Leave us,"
Cataldise told the maid, who shot her a saucy look before with-drawing.
The queen and princess
exchanged cool nods, then sat down opposite one another at a large table piled
with tomes and notebooks. Maudrayne had been watercoloring an ink sketch of a
flower on a sheet of vellum. She wore a splattered apron over her gown, and
her fingers were stained.
"I have some good news,
Daughter. Conrig is sailing south and may arrive in
"I look forward to
seeing my husband," Maudrayne said. "Thank you for coming to tell me
of him."
"There's something
else." Cataldise bit her lip to forestall tears. "The king has taken
a turn for the worse. He wishes to see you."
"Oh!" Genuine
concern furrowed the brow of the princess. "Of course I'll come at
once." She rose and untied her apron.
"Listen to me first,
Daughter. His Grace is not himself. He's been seized with a crazed notion and
refuses to abide by the advice of his doctors. He won't even heed me. You'll
have to help us calm him or—or the consequences could be mortal."
"What
is this notion?"
"His Grace is
determined to leave the palace this very night and take personal command of
our war-fleet. He has no confidence in Lord Admiral Woodvale's ability to
engage the Didionites in battle. He truly believes that Emperor Bazekoy wants
him to rise from his deathbed and direct the defense of our kingdom."
"Great
God!" Maudrayne could not help smiling. "But who can say if the
king's desire is madness or sanity? If Copperstrand and Woodvale had not
ignored him when he attempted to windspeak them, perhaps we would not have
suffered such a terrible drubbing at the Vigilant Isles. What other way can His
Grace guarantee that his orders are carried out, than by taking command? I've
read accounts of his youthful naval exploits against the pirates of Andradh—"
Cataldise was on her feet,
livid with anger. "Don't talk like an idiot! Sulkorig told me that the
least exertion will stop my dear husband's faltering heart. He cannot leave
his bed! I came here hoping for your help, madam, knowing that you love Olmigon.
If you intend to encourage him in his pathetic fantasy, then damn you for a
heartless fool—and be sure I'll tell Conrig how you failed his father in his
last hours."
Maudrayne went white. "You
misunderstand me, Your Grace. I was only speaking rhetorically. Foolishly also,
I confess. I scarce know what I'm saying, being so shaken by what you've told
me. I beseech you to forgive me for being so thoughtless at this difficult
time."
The princess had come around
the table and taken the queen's hands in her own. Her sea-blue eyes were
brimming. "I do love the King's Grace deeply, as you know. If you'll allow
it, I'll accompany you to him and do my utmost to soothe his troubled mind and
distract him from sick fancies."
"He insists on saying
good-bye to you," Cataldise said tiredly. "To humor him, I'm letting
his gentlemen dress him in outdoor clothing, as though he were truly going to
sea. You'll have to go along with the charade."
"Of
course ..."
Behind Cataldise, the door
to the sitting room opened slowly without a sound. Rusgann was there, grinning.
Beside her stood the shorter, more ample figure of Red Ansel the shaman,
holding a finger to his lips. He winked. A moment later, the door swung nearly
shut again.
Maudrayne embraced the
queen, her heart wildly pounding. "I understand perfectly, Mother. Wait
here just a moment while I instruct my maid."
The princess rushed from the
studium. She found Ansel holding out a small green glass phial he had removed
from the ivory casket where she kept her diary.
"Take this with
you," he whispered. "It's time for us to leave this place.
But our manner of departure will be more memorable than any of us ever
dreamed."
"What must I do?"
Maudrayne said breathlessly. "Oh, hurry, or the queen might discover
you!"
"No,
she won't," said the shaman. "Return with her to the king and
contrive to give her a few drops of this sleeping potion. It has no taste and
won't harm her. Rusgann and I will meet you at the royal bedchamber very
soon."
"But what about the
king?" the princess said.
"I thought you understood." Ansel's dark eyes were dancing.
"He's going to escape with us."
"They all think I've
lost my mind, lass," Olmigon said to Maudrayne in a quavering voice.
"Oh, husband!" The
queen sighed.
"It's
true. My dear wife and the wizards and that morbid old raven Falmire all
believe I'll turn up my toes if I leave the palace. But they thought the same
when I told them I was going to Zeth Abbey to ask my Question of Bazekoy. And I
lived through that, didn't I?"
"So you did, sire." The princess leaned forward from her
stool beside the king's bed and gripped his hand.
He lay
atop the swansdown comforter, completely dressed except for his heavy cloak and
mittens. Only Maudrayne and Cataldise now attended him. At Olmigon's
insistence, the alchymists and the others had withdrawn. Vra-Sulkorig had left
behind a tall crystal tumbler containing a poppy draft, which sat on a
nightstand along with a pitcher of water, a basin with washcloths, a decanter
of wine, three unused goblets, and a burning candle. The only other light in
the room came from the hearth.
"They're taking too
long with my carriage," Olmigon complained.
"It'll
be here soon," the queen said. "Don't be impatient, love. Remember
there's your yacht to be readied as well. You don't want to be kept waiting at
the dock when you can rest more comfortably here. Are you sure you don't want
us to take off your boots?"
The king grunted. "I'm
fine, damn it."
Cataldise lifted the crystal tumbler and offered it to him again.
"You really ought to take your tonic. You'll need your strength."
But he turned his face away. "Not yet. I'll drink it at the last
minute before I go, so its benefits will last longer."
Cataldise rolled her eyes.
"You know best."
"Damned
right I do! If I could only have convinced my jackass admirals of that, I
wouldn't have to take charge of things myself." He began to cough, and
both women sprang up to lift his head and shoulders. The queen tried once more
to hold the tumbler to his lips, but at the first bitter taste he knew what it
must be and began to curse and splutter. "Take it away, woman! Didn't I
tell you I won't have the vile brew yet?"
He calmed down as the queen
began to sniffle and told her he was sorry for losing his temper. "It's
just that this delay is vexing the hell out of me, Catty. Find out what's
delaying the carriage."
"Perhaps Maudrayne
could go—"
"She's still under
arrest," the king reminded his wife coldly. "You do it. Please. You
can make them hurry."
"Very well." She
left the chamber, moving reluctantly, and Olmigon said nothing more until the
outer door closed behind her. Then: "Maudie, they're playing games with
me, aren't they!"
"I'm afraid so,
sire."
His voice dwindled to near
inaudibility. "God help me. I thought I could pull off Bazekoy's trick,
but they've flummoxed me. I'm too far gone to make anyone obey. It's over.
Nothing left to do now but sing the Deathsong and polish my sorry excuses for
the emperor."
"Sire—"
"Woodvale's bound to
bungle it, you know. He's a professional naval officer with no idea how to
utilize a flotilla of cockleshell irregulars. You see, by all conventions of
modern warfare, large ships only battle large ships, while cutters and other
light craft only fight with each other or act as runabouts in service to the
big men o' war. But it doesn't have to be that way! I could show Woodvale how
to use our small fry against enemy ships-of-the-line and frigates . . . like
hornets harrying a herd of bulls! But I'll never get him to understand, talking
to him through the bloody windvoices."
"Your Grace, listen—"
But he swept on in a tone
that was weighted with a certain gloomy relish. "If Con were only here, I
might get the message across through him. He has no preconceived notions of
proper naval tactics, and he wouldn't take any guff from Woodvale and his
captains. But there's only me."
"And
me," she said. "And my friend Red Ansel Pikan. Sire, your oracle of
Bazekoy is a hard thing for sophisticated Cathrans to believe in. But we
Tarnians are different. And because we are, Ansel and I intend to flout the
queen, the wizards, and all the Cathran court if need be. Your idea of taking
charge of the Cathran fleet is magnificent folly . . . and Ansel and I will do
everything in our power to help you carry it out."
Olmigon stiffened. An odd
sound came from his throat, and for a moment the princess feared she was
hearing his death-rattle. Then she realized that the king was laughing.
"How
do we manage it, lass?"
Maudrayne took the tumbler
with the poppy mixture and flung its contents into the fire. "We pretend
you've drunk that. You feign deep sleep when the queen returns."
She took the green glass
phial from her bodice and poured four drops into one of the empty goblets on
the nightstand. "This is a harmless soporific given me by Ansel. The queen
and I will share a welcome bit of wine, watching you snore—and when she begins
to lose her senses I'll help her safely to a couch. Then you and 1 will wait
for Ansel, and trust that his magic suffices to get us both past the guards and
out of this cursed prison."
"Bazekoy's
Brisket!" he crowed. "Can you really do it?"
"Only if you promise
not to drop dead on me as we try," she said, smiling demurely. "In
which case, I'm off to
Olmigon's elation vanished.
"Ah, Maudie . . . Is there no way to reconcile the two of you?"
"Not
unless he renounces the Conjure-Princess. And small chance of that, I think,
with him counting on her sorcery to gain him the Sovereignty." "He
swore to us this very day that her magic is benign."
"He lied,"
Maudrayne replied somberly. "I have it from Ansel that Ullanoth uses
moonstone sigils that call on the power of the Beaconfolk—those inhuman
creatures we Tarnians call the Coldlight Army. Such magical tools inevitably
put the wielder's soul at risk, as well as the souls of those around them.
Conrig knows this, but his ambition won't permit him to admit the truth. I
don't believe he loves Ullanoth. But he intends to use her. If it suits his
purposes, he may even make her his queen."
The old
king's eyes squeezed tight shut as she spoke and he gave a soft groan of
pain. "No! He insisted he would not! Such a thing would taint the Sovereignty
beyond repair. Can't you convince him—"
"He'd
never listen to me, sire. Perhaps he'd listen to you."
"But is there
time?" Olmigon's eyes opened again, leaking tears. She took a washcloth
and wiped his face.
"Only God knows,"
she said. "And perhaps a certain emperor dead for ten centuries and
more."
"I dreamed of him last
night," the king whispered. "I saw Bazekoy's head afloat in its
crystal urn. He said: They're coming: cold iron and cold iron clashing. Warn
your son to take refuge then, forsaking victory, for these two are the foe no
man can defeat."
Maudrayne's
eyes widened. "What does it mean?"
"I don't know. I feel
that I ought to know—but my wits are so skimbleskamble these days."
Before he could say more,
the latch on the corridor door clicked. Queen Cataldise came tiptoeing back
into the royal bedchamber.
"Finally asleep!"
she whispered happily, bending over her husband and kissing his forehead. The
king's eyes were closed and he breathed slowly. "I see he's drunk the
potion. Oh, well done, Daughter!"
The princess took up the
decanter and filled two goblets with red wine. "Share this with me,
Mother. Then we'll undress His Grace and sit quietly here through the night,
knowing we've done the best we can for him."
Veiled by the shaman's magic
and carried in his muscular arms, the dying Olmigon Wincantor was successfully
spirited from his rooms to the palace stableyard, trailed by the princess and
her trusted maid. An unloaded cart, one of many that nightly brought in
firewood, awaited them near the Dung Gate. None of the guardsmen, porters, or
other lackeys working nearby seemed to notice the Tarnian as he rearranged
sheets of canvas to cover the lumpy shapes now resting inside the cartbed. As
for the rig's former owner, he was already returning afoot to his hut in the
countryside, thinking how he would spend the bag of gold hidden under his
smock.
"Are you all
ready?" Ansel inquired as he checked the harness of the draft-mule.
"As we'll ever
be," came Rusgann's truculant reply from beneath the concealing canvas.
"If
only my dearest Catty could have heard me say farewell," said the king.
"She'll
find your note in her pocket tomorrow," Maudrayne said. "It will
suffice."
The shaman climbed into the
driver's seat and took the reins. A click of his tongue urged the mule off at a
smart trot, and the cart rumbled out the gate and headed down the cobblestoned
street to the harbor.
Maudrayne's
sloop-rigged yacht, only slightly disguised, was tied up at Red Gull Pier. She
gave a cry of delight when she caught sight of the fine-looking craft, bobbing
in the dark water at some distance from the other sailboats and dinghies, and
oddly requiring no watchman to keep it unmolested by the dockside skulkers and
roistering seamen.
"It's my own Fulmar!
I never thought I'd see her again. Conrig was supposed to have ordered the
yacht sold."
"And so she was,"
Ansel said dryly, tying the mule to a bollard. "To me."
Olmigon had mercifully
fallen asleep. Maudrayne and Rusgann climbed out of the cart and began unloading
bundles of supplies they had brought along, provisions of every type gathered
and hidden for their great escape. None of the roughnecks wandering about paid
the slightest attention to them, although they were the only women on the pier.
"Let's get everything
aboard quickly," the princess urged, "and cast off before some
busybody reports us to the Harbor Patrol."
"No. one will,"
Ansel said. "We're not really invisible, but you needn't be concerned
that anyone will try to stop us. Not even those who spy from strange
places!" He peered over the edge of the dock with a sly smirk. There was
nothing to be seen among the pilings in the dark water but seaweed and the
usual floating bits of rubbish.
"Who do you mean?"
Rusgann asked, scowling.
"Never mind. There's
nothing to fear."
It was not quite midnight
and the great quay seethed with activity. Sheltered by the hills north of the
capital, the harbor air was cold and almost dead calm. A shallow blanket of
mist hung above the water, which was still fairly warm close to the shore.
Rumors
of an impending naval attack upon Cala had caused many panicked merchant
captains to abandon the commercial docks and put out to sea, or else move their
vessels up the Bien or
The king was not to be moved
until the other contents of the cart were unloaded and the sloop made ready.
Maudrayne had laid a gangplank and hopped aboard Fulmar. She was catching
bags of supplies tossed to her by the maid and stowing them below in the
yacht's tiny cabin.
During one of the intervals
when the princess was out of sight, Rusgann said to the shaman, "I hope
you don't intend for my lady and me to go aboard some Cathran warship and sail
into battle! It's the king who's mad—not us women."
Ansel chuckled. "Nay,
goodwife, you and your mistress will be let off safely ashore before Olmigon
meets his destiny. The Lord Admiral's fleet awaits the enemy in the waters
between Eagleroost and Castle Defiant, some seventy leagues to the south. We'll
zip handily down the coast and land you in a likely spot. Our voyage will last
only three hours or so, and will be as blithe as my magic can make it."
King Olmigon had finally
roused at the sound of their voices. He said to the shaman, "Duke Farindon
Eagleroost is a loyal friend, and his wife is Tarnian. She'd welcome Maudie. I
could rest briefly at the castle, then sail away and deliver my great surprise
to Admiral Woodvale at dawn! Perhaps small craft from Defiant's flotilla might
even ferry me to the rendezvous. Then you yourself would be able to remain with
the princess and keep her safe until the final victory, after which I pray you
help my son and his wife mend their differences—"
"I will see you to the
Lord Admiral's flagship myself," the shaman said, "as is my solemn
charge." His face was no longer mild and good-humored but had assumed an
expression of profound sadness. Arcane talent glimmered in his black eyes.
"The rest of it is not for you to command."
"I
see," the king whispered.
"No,
you do not." Ansel had climbed into the back of the cart and spoke close
to the king's ear, so that he alone might hear. "Bazekoy is not the only
uncanny entity taking an interest in the fate of
The full import of Ansel's
statement escaped Olmigon. The king had grasped only one thing, and his ruined
countenance was illuminated by sudden joy. "A child? Maude carries
Con's child?"
"A son. I tell you
this, old man, to give you comfort as you approach your end. But you must keep
it secret, especially from the Prince Heritor. He will soon face terrible
choices, and his decisions—unlike most of your own—must evolve from cold
reason, not the sentimental promptings of the heart."
The king's face fell.
"And Maudie?"
"A prideful woman,
obstinate and strong, one of those whose cleverness can be honed to wisdom only
through suffering. Her son will have formidable enemies. He will not survive,
nor will the Sovereignty, without his mother's governance and good
counsel."
"We're ready,"
Maudrayne called. "Bring him aboard."
The Tarnian gathered the
frail body of the king into his arms. "How are you feeling, old man?"
"Like
death," Olmigon said. "But that's as it should be. Let's be on our
way."
Previous | Table of Contents | Next