Dark Magic (11 page)

The freesword nodded cheerfully, rising to glance at the window, where tendrils of mist curled, the sky a pearly grey. “There’s little point,” he said, “the sun will be up ere long.”

Calandryll groaned and stretched full-clothed on the bed, determined to snatch what sleep he could.

T
HE
fog that had risen in the early hours was drifted thick throughout Vishat’yi by sunrise, layered across the cleft holding the city in a moist, grey-white blanket that hid the heights with their catapults and the harbor at the mouth of the Yst alike. The streets were ill-lit ravines of shade and shadow, ghostly as Calandryll and his comrades left Menelian’s home, silent at this hour, and tinged red by the dull glow of the hearth fires and lamps that showed around the edges of shuttered windows and blank-faced doorways. Lanterns made scant inroads on the brume, and footfalls were muffled as they made their way to the waterfront, Calandryll red-eyed from lack of sleep, clutching the cloak Menelian had provided tight about him, grateful to the sorcerer for the ample breakfast that had awaited his rising. Warm food and the bitter herbal infusion the Kands favored at that hour had done enough to dispel his weariness that he was at least able to attempt civilized conversation, though he could not match his companions’ cheerfulness. Bracht, seemingly invigorated by their discussion, was once more his dourly confident self, while both Tekkan and Katya had enjoyed several hours of slumber, and Menelian evinced an energy
Calandryll suspected must derive from magical sources. Forgoing any escort, he bade them wait a moment at his gate, murmuring softly as his hands wove shapes in the air, producing a corona of bright yellow-silver light that pierced the gloom surer than any lantern. With that radiance probing ahead, he brought them unhesitatingly through the fog, down flights of narrow stairs and along winding, grey-shrouded alleys, to the sea, where dim torches glowed and sounds came faint from the wharves. He led the way, Katya to one side, Tekkan to the other, Calandryll and Bracht bringing up the rear with hands on swordhilts and heads swinging constantly from side to side: even under the protection of a sorcerer, it seemed that in such obfuscation the threat of attack was dangerously present.

Indeed, the sight of Quindar ek’Nyle was welcome reassurance, waiting as he did at the head of a troop of armored soldiers, affecting a deep bow as he greeted Katya, a more cursory salute to the others.

“Your Vanu folk work hard,” he said, addressing the woman but glancing sidelong at Menelian. “Since word came down they’ve not halted.”

Katya smiled graciously. Menelian said, “I’d not see potential allies delayed longer than need be, vexillan.”

“Allies?” Ek’Nyle’s saturnine features framed a question and the sorcerer answered, “Indeed. As I advised you, Lord Calandryll is a prince of Lysse and might well persuade his father—the Domm of Secca!—to lend us ships to use against the rebels.”

The vexillan’s eyes swung to Calandryll, who nodded, thinking that this explanation they had devised over breakfast was as good as any to justify such haste to work.

“Indeed. As you know . . . Quindar . . . Secca and Aldarin raise a navy to defend our sea lanes. Those ships might well be put to your aid against this tiresome rebel lord.”

It was easy to affect the somewhat bored drawl of a princeling with his head still fogged as the air
around him, the vacant smile he assumed not entirely unfeigned.

“Aye.” Ek’Nyle ducked his head, the plume surrounding his helmet shedding droplets of moisture. “I trust you’ll forgive my earlier suspicion, Lord Calandryll. I had no way of knowing . . .”

Calandryll raised a negligent hand. “No matter, vexillan. Not now that we understand one another.”

Ek’Nyle forced a smile. “May I offer you warmer quarters?”

“I’ll stay with my vessel,” Tekkan said.

“And I,” Katya added.

“I think perhaps I shall remain, too,” said Calandryll. Then thought to maintain his part: “Awhile, at least. Such ship work might prove interesting.”

“As you wish.” The vexillan bowed, though his expression was curious. “I’ll leave you to it—I’ve duties to attend.”

Menelian said, “Go to them, Quindar. I’ll see our guests have all they need,” and after a moment’s hesitation, as if he debated with himself, the soldier nodded, beckoning his men away.

In moments they were hidden in the fog, the clatter of their boots dulling rapidly, like faint footsteps receding down a tunnel. Menelian smiled, gesturing at the lanterns.

“So you’ve the freedom of the harbor—shall we see how work progresses?”

Once more he offered Katya his arm, and Calandryll was dully thankful to see Bracht accept the gesture without argument. He followed the sorcerer along the wharf, braziers marking its edge with sullen light, the slow slap of waves its foot, to where brighter radiance glowed out of the pervading fog. This light came from far larger fire buckets, set along three sides of a stone-walled anchorage, and from glassed lanterns strung on lines across the depths between the walls. It was, he saw, a dry dock, cut off from the tide’s aggression by a lock of stout timber,
and in it stood the Vanu warboat, held erect by a framework of solid piles. The crew moved like busy ants about the clinkered flanks, their industry arousing feelings of guilt for even what little sleep he had enjoyed. The odor of heated tar mingled with the scorched smell of the braziers’ coals and the salty thickness of the harbor fog, and to that was added the cleaner scent of fresh-cut wood, rising from the saws of carpenters, their buzz joining the dull echo of hammers and the lilting voices of the Vanu folk.

“It would appear that all goes well,” Menelian said.

Tekkan grunted, more intent on his vessel than the mage’s comment, and went down the steps that descended into the dock.

He returned a while later, his weathered features evincing satisfaction at what he had seen.

“You vexillan took you at your word,” he said. “Does nothing interrupt, then we can sail with tomorrow’s dawn.”

“Excellent.” Menelian smiled approval, then turned to Katya. “Though I confess myself loath to lose such pleasant company.”

“So things go.” Katya favored him with a bland smile and wrapped her cloak about her shoulders in such a way as to deny him her arm.

Calandryll saw Bracht grin. “What may we do?” he asked.

“Little, I think,” said Tekkan. “Boat work’s needed here, and unskilled hands are more hindrance than help.”

“Mayhap, then, I may make a suggestion,” Menelian offered. “This fog will not lift for a while and my home is more comfortable than this cold harbor, also I’ve a small library that may provide some clue to the defeating of Anomius’s creation. Shall we return there?”

“I’ll remain here,” Tekkan said.

“Best we three stay together,” Bracht suggested, his tone casual, but his eyes seeking Katya.

“Shall it be safe?” wondered Calandryll. “Should we not all stay close by the harbor?”

Menelian shrugged. “I believe you’re safe enough under my protection, and I can ward you better within my own precincts.”

“We’ve our archers here.” Tekkan nodded. “Surely enough to defend the warboat. I think our friend is right, and I’ve sufficient hands at my disposal that yours will make no difference.”

“Then it would appear you are superfluous to this task.” Menelian smiled, his gaze encompassing all three but the comment clearly directed at Katya. “I repeat my offer.”

The woman looked to her father and they spoke briefly in their own tongue, then she turned to the sorcerer and said, “Very well. Let us return and study this library of yours.”

Menelian bowed and turned again to Tekkan. “Quindar ek’Nyle will provide anything you require,” he said, “and should you need to send word, you’ve only to ask him.”

“I think we’ve all we need.”

The boatmaster gestured at the equipment set out around the dock and the sorcerer ducked his head, his cloak swirling as he swung about.

“Then let us return,” he declared.

T
HE
shrouding blanket of fog held sway over the city until midmorning, and by then Calandryll had decided that Menelian’s library was poorly served with any tracts on necromancy and its creations. He and the sorcerer had spent the hours ransacking the shelves for such works as might prove useful, but found so far only the vaguest references, more forklore and legend than reliable facts. Bracht and Katya, the one cheerfully unlettered and the other unfamiliar with the written language of Kandahar, engaged in sword practice in the garden, the sounds of their combat dulled until at last the winter-hard sun
force a way through the mist and servants threw back the shutters.

Menelian rolled the parchment he studied and pushed it away, looking to the window, its thick glass distorting the figures beyond to render hem fantastical, like images from a dream. The brightening sun struck sparks off Katya’s mail, the dancing column of her blade. Facing the black-clad Kern she was all gold and silver, her laughter bright as she parried an attack.

“A man might die for such a woman,” the sorcerer murmured. “I’ve not met her like.”

“Nor Bracht.” Calandryll set the intricacy of a dried leaf between the ivory-tinted pages of a tome bound in cracked leather as he followed the sorcerer’s gaze.

“She’s promised?”

Menelian’s voice was wistful: Calandryll nodded. “In a way. Bracht lays claim to her, but until this quest of ours is done, Katya will accept no man’s suit. Not until the Arcanum is destroyed and Rhythamun’s threat ended.”

The sorcerer smiled. “Then hope exists.”

“You’d face Bracht’s blade,” Calandryll warned, “and I believe Katya’s mind made up.”

“Blades are of little consequence to me,” Menelian returned absentmindedly, though his smile lost a measure of its optimism. “But if she’s already chosen . . .”

Calandryll shrugged. It had barely occurred to him that wizards experienced the common emotions of mortal men, but this sorcerer, gazing wistfully at the warrior woman, showed all the signs he had seen in Bracht; all those, he supposed, that he had shown to Nadama.

Menelian’s voice was thoughtful as he studied the pair. “Folk think us above such matters. They think because we practice the occult arts we lose ordinary feelings. But we do not! Sometimes, my friend, it is very lonely. The common folk fear us; others regard
us with suspicion. To encounter a woman such as Katya is rare.” The smile he still showed was rueful and it seemed almost that he read Calandryll’s mind. Then he snorted laughter, his good humor returning. “No matter, we must each accept our destiny, and though I’d see her stay, I shall do as I promised—all aid to your quest.”

“And my thanks for that,” Calandryll said. “I’d not anticipated such help from a mage.”

“Why not?” Menelian shifted his eyes reluctantly from the window to Calandryll’s face. “Because of past betrayals?”

“Those sorcerers I’ve so far met have proven”—Calandryll paused, not wishing to offend—“unfriendly.”

Now Menelian’s laughter was genuine. “Unfriendly?” He shook his head, amused. “You’ve a talent for understatement, Calandryll. But you trust me, do you not?”

He grew serious again, and it seemed, from the expression on his face and the earnest tone he employed, that he needed reassurance. Calandryll nodded and said, “Aye.”

“I discern a limitation.” Menelian rested his elbows on the table, hands cupped beneath his chin, his eyes firm on Calandryll’s. “Do you explain it?”

Calandryll thought for a moment, then said, “I trust you. But you have spoken of factions among your fellow sorcerers, and those two with whom I’ve had the closest acquaintance have proven far less than friendly.”

“Of Anomius and Rhythamun we’ve already spoken,” said Menelian, “Of the Tyrant’s sorcerers . . . aye, there are factions, differences of opinion. Were that not so, you’d not receive my help now. But is that not the way of the world? Did men not disagree, we’d all follow like sheep after whoever speaks the loudest; did we not accept the dictates of our conscience, then surely the strong should always force their will on the weak. Those of the inner circle who’d pander unreservedly to Anomius’s demands
would ignore the greater imperative—to prevent Tharn’s raising.”

“How can they?” asked Calandryll, and Menelian sighed and shrugged, his eyes clouding.

“They see only the immediate future,” he answered slowly, “not the greater picture. They are not evil men; only given to swift answers—Sathoman ek’Hennem threatens the stability of Kandahar and must be halted. Anomius offers a speedy answer to that threat—therefore they accede to his terms.”

“And would sacrifice us to his ambition.” Calandryll’s gesture encompassed himself and the two duelists in the garden. “Is that not evil?”

“They think not,” Menelian returned sadly. “To them, the end justifies the means. And if they may end this civil war, what are the lives of a Lyssian and a Kern?”

“Important enough to us,” Calandryll declared.

“But would you not give them up to halt Rhythamun?”

All vestiges of mist were gone now, the sky grown an icy blue from which the sun shone with cold brilliance, refulgent against the windowpanes. Through the thick glass it sent lambent rays over the sorcerer’s face, lighting bright points in his keen eyes. Calandryll ducked his head. “For that, aye,” he allowed. “Not for Anomius’s ambition.”