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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 Cala City itself stands in danger."

"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 Great Pass if Honigalus agrees to withdraw."

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 Cala Bay," said gloomy old Duke Farindon Eagleroost. His fortress, together with that of Shiantil Blackhorse, defended the approach to Blenholme Roads and Gala City beyond. "Honigalus and the Continentals will probably fall on the Lord Admi­ral's fleet in half that time. Need I remind you that Cathra's next encounter with the foe will pit more than sixty enemy men o' war against our paltry twenty-nine? Even with the twenty Tarnian frigates, we're still outnumbered."

"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 Cala Bay will soon shift to the north. They will be unfavorable to Didion 's huge first-rate ships and frigates, and give a powerful advantage to our defenders. The idea of the King's Grace to use small fighting craft to harry the enemy force is an excellent one. Listen to him and have courage! Emulate the example of our-fearless warriors who captured Holt Mallburn.

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 Cala Bay could be expected to reach Woodvale by dawn.

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 Gala Bay tomorrow or the next day if he's not delayed by bad weather. Of course he probably won't come immediately to the palace. I believe he intends to visit Admiral Woodvale on his flagship first and instruct him how to dispose of Honigalus and his nasty band of raiders."

"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 Tarn—and your unfaithful son can win his war as best he can."

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 Brent River estuaries out of harm's way, in spite of the danger of grounding at low tide. The skippers of some smaller craft, heeding the Crown's call to arms, were installing simple artillery capable of hurling tarn-blaze shells at the foe. The distinctive sulphury smell of the infernal chymical mingled with the usual harbor odors of decaying fish, tar, stale beer, and human waste.

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 High Blenholme Island. There are others, both kindly and malevolent, who hope to influence its future. Your son, his wife, and their unborn child loom large in this conflict—but not, I fear, as the happy family you might have hoped for."

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."

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