The Reign of Wizardry (5 page)

The admiral’s attire was rich and almost femininely dainty. His loose ceremonial robe was the purple of his rank. Parted in the front, it showed his tight-drawn golden belt and white linen loincloth. He wore tall, embroidered buskins, and his bare, brown arms were laden
with gold and silver bracelets.

Surrounded with a little group of officers, who held ready hands on their swords, the admiral paused before Theseus. His narrow face seemed to reflect a certain unwilling admiration. “So you are the famous Captain Firebrand?”

“Men call me that,” said Theseus.

“Then where is your swift galley, that has taken so many prizes?” Suddenly piercing, the dark eyes of
the admiral studied Theseus. “And where are your reckless men?”

“Ask your wizards,” Theseus said.

Phaistro caught his breath, and anger glittered in his eyes. “Where is this ship’s crew?” His voice crackled. “And all the treasure from the north coasts that was aboard? And where are the two royal convoys?”

Theseus grinned. “The Hittite and his men are safe on the headland behind us,” he said.
“As for the treasure and the convoys, ask your wizards again. Or go fishing on the bottom of the sea!”

The admiral made a sputtering sound, and trembled in the purple robe. “Captain Firebrand”—his voice came tense and sharp—“we have heard of you at Knossos—”

“—And you’ll hear more,” Theseus promised quietly. “Because I am sailing for Crete, with gifts for Minos.” He nodded at the wild black
bulls in their pen on the deck, at the
tall yellow girl by the steering oar. “And I am going to enter the cyclic games,” he said, “as a candidate for the throne of Minos.”

The admiral stiffened. For a moment he was breathless, his dark eyes wide with astonishment. Then he bent convulsively, and his thin face turned red, and he cackled with shrill laughter. He turned to the Cretan officers about
him, small dark men with broad leather belts and black loincloths, gasping through his laughter: “The pirate says he is going to enter the games, to seek the throne of Minos. Isn’t that a capital joke?”

Evidently it was. The officers doubled themselves with merriment—without neglecting, however, to keep watchful eyes on Theseus and ready hands near their swords. At last the admiral sobered his
thin face and turned back to Theseus.

“I’m sure, Captain Firebrand,” he said, weak-voiced from laughter, “that your battles with bulls and men and the gods will make a very interesting spectacle. But don’t you think you are somewhat rash to volunteer, when no man has won the games in the last hundred cycles?”

“It seems to me,” Theseus said, “that Minos is the rash one, to keep repeating the
games. But what is your joke?”

Phaistro laughed again, until tears came into his eyes. “The joke … the joke is very simple,” he panted at last. “You tell us that you are sailing to Crete to enter the Minoan games. And the orders of the fleet, Captain Firebrand, were to bring you to Knossos—to be flung into the games!”

“If that is a joke,” said Theseus, “aren’t you perhaps laughing ahead of the
point?”

Phaistro flushed red again with anger. His thin hands clenched and his dark eyes glittered. After a moment, however, he gulped and tried to smile at the tall Achean.

“I forgive your insolence, Captain Firebrand, because you are a brave man,” he said. “And I am going to offer you a piece of advice—again because your audacity moves me.”

Phaistro stepped quickly forward from his officers,
and: “Don’t surrender your sword,” he urged quickly, in a lowered voice. “Don’t let us take you alive to Knossos! Better throw yourself upon your own blade, and die cleanly outside the shadow of the Dark One.”

Theseus touched his sword, smiling. “Thank you, admiral,” he said softly. “And I shall not surrender the Falling Star. But
neither shall I kill myself.” He drew the long steel blade out
of its scabbard. “I am going to carry the Falling Star to Crete.”

Phaistro’s thin face turned dark again. “Pirate, your impudence has gone too far,” he snapped angrily. “Give up your sword—or my men will take it.”

Theseus lifted the blade. “Let them try!” His blue eyes smiled warily. “There are wizards outside Knossos,” he said softly. “One of them, admiral, is my slave. And my sword was forged
from a burning star. It is an enchanted blade, and it will cut any other. If you want it—take it!”

Phaistro’s dark eyes flickered uncertainly aside at the tall golden form of Tai Leng, standing lazily beside the steering oar. They roved the empty decks, and came uneasily back to Theseus and the brandished Falling Star.

Theseus watched the admiral’s narrow face. It still had the tensity of anger,
but the pallor of fear was now upon it, too. Phaistro was obviously afraid of wizardry. And it must seem strange, Theseus knew, to meet a ship sailed by two alone: such a man as he was, and such a woman as Tai Leng.

The full red lips of the admiral quivered uncertainly. His thin hands clenched and opened, and tugged uncertainly at the edges of his purple robe. And his awe of magic at last prevailed.

“If your weapon is indeed protected by enchantment,” he yielded at last, “then you can carry it until we touch Crete. There Minos and his wizards can break the spell soon enough. And no doubt brazen Talos can take it from you, if he must. For no man carries any weapon into the Minoan games.”

“We shall see,” Theseus said, “when we come to Crete.”

Phaistro made a gesture toward the flagship. “Now,
Captain Firebrand,” he said, “come aboard my vessel. You will be my guest of honor, until we land. I’ll leave a crew to sail this ship. The priests will be waiting for you at the docks.”

Theseus shook his head. “This ship is my prize,” he said quietly. “I am sailing her to Crete, carrying gifts to Minos, and I require no aid. I’ll deal with Minos and his priests when I meet them.”

Dark red of
anger mounted once more into the admiral’s thin face. His quivering mouth opened for some command. But his eyes dwelt anxiously upon the bright ready sword of
Theseus and the strange yellow beauty of Tai Leng. Abruptly he muttered something to his officers, led them back toward the flagship.

“Sail on, Captain Firebrand!” Phaistro shouted hoarsely from his own deck. “We shall follow you to Knossos.”

His marines cast the lashings loose. Theseus and the golden woman were left once more alone upon the prize.

“Beware, Captain Firebrand!” The melodious singsong of Tai Leng carried a faint whining undertone of Snish. “Those who claim enchantments which they don’t possess are indeed in danger from the warlocks of Knossos. I know!”

“We shall see,” Theseus repeated, “when we arrive in Crete.”

The south wind that brought the fleet had dropped into an utter calm. But the black mountain of the storm still loomed in the north, and now a fresh cold wind blew out of it again. The yellow sail filled. And the Cretan ships came about and sailed close to the prize, back toward Knossos.

That change of the wind, Theseus knew, was a perfectly natural thing. A thousand times he had seen the wind
blow against a storm, and die, and rise again out of the cloud. And yet he could not help a shudder, at the way the winds seemed to serve the wizardry of Crete.

The sun had not yet set when another long galley came out of the southwest. It bore no sail, and the mast was unshipped, for it came against the wind. But swift-flashing oars brought it on at racing speed, and presently Theseus could
see that its standard was the golden eagle of Amur the Hittite.

The galley hailed the black flagship. The admiral’s sail was briefly lowered, and oars brought the two vessels prow to prow. Two men leaped across to the flagship, and the black sail went up again.

Across two arrow-flights of water, Theseus watched the two strangers hurry aft. He could see that one of them wore the long black robe
of a Minoan priest, that the other was garbed in the yellow of Amur.

The admiral, in his own purple, met them before his high cabin. The priest handed him something thin and white. He unrolled it, into a papyrus scroll. For a few moments he was motionless, as if reading. Then the three began waving their hands excitedly.

No word of their conversation reached Theseus. But he
saw each of them,
in turn, point in his direction. He was wondering, with growing apprehension, what they were talking about, when the liquid voice of Tai Leng softly called: “Captain Firebrand!”

Theseus turned to the tall yellow woman leaning on the steering oar. Her smooth exotic face was intent, her long slanted eyes fixed on the distant group. Again Theseus found space to regret that her allure was all illusion.

“Captain, you wish to know what they say of you?”

“Of course I do.” Theseus stepped quickly to her side—and saw that mocking hint of Snish come back into her golden beauty. “You can tell?”

“Eavesdropping is among the simplest bits of magic,” Tai Leng assured him—and her singsong had a nasal hint of Snish. “Even I have mastered that. Except, of course, that I cannot eavesdrop upon a more powerful
magician.”

“Well,” demanded Theseus, “what are they saying?”

“The priest has brought a letter from Minos to the admiral. He read it aloud. It contains new orders with regard to your fate, Captain Firebrand.”

Theseus glanced apprehensively back at the three. “And what are the new orders?”

“Evidently Minos has consulted the screed of the future—and discovered that he was unwise in ordering you
to be brought to Knossos for the games. Because the letter contains orders that you are to be slain at once.”

The hand of Theseus slipped automatically toward the Falling Star. “Your body,” Tai Leng went on, “is to be sealed in a lead-lined casket, and secured by certain powerful talismans that the priest has brought with him, and dropped into the sea where it is deep.

“Only your sword is to
be carried back to Knossos, as proof that you are dead.” The golden princess shuddered. “That makes matters appear very grave,” said her nasal singsong. “For both of us.”

“A
ND WHAT
,” inquired Theseus, “are they saying now?”

The slanted smoldering eyes of the golden girl—which showed, when Theseus looked closely, a curious yellow hint of the popping eyes of Snish—peered back at the three long-robed men on the other galley.

“The yellow-robe,” Tai Leng told him, “is Amur the Hittite, himself. He is the richest man in the world, and probably the most crafty.
He is no wizard, but his wealth can bind warlocks to serve him.”

“I’ve heard of Amur,” said Theseus. “What does he want?”

“Amur,” said the yellow woman, “learned of the same prescience that caused Minos to dispatch the new orders for your death. And the Hittite, being a crafty man, formed a scheme to turn the situation into silver and gold.”

“And what is the scheme?”

Tai Leng watched for a
while, silently. “Amur is unwilling to reveal his plan, before the Minoan priest,” she said at last. “But soon you will know. Because he and the admiral are coming aboard, to speak with you.”

Theseus saw that the flagship was veering toward them.

“Whatever his plot is,” warned her nasal singsong, “it means no more good for you than the papyrus from Minos. For Amur is sometimes called the scorpion,
and his craft is a venom that poisons men.”

Once again the Cretan marines grappled the trader, lashed it to the flagship. Small brown officers assisted Admiral Phaistro and Amur the Hittite over the rails. Theseus walked to meet them, staring curiously at the Hittite.

Amur was a swarthy man, with the powerful hooked nose of his race. His dark eyes were beady, cunning, set too close together.
Shaven, in the Cretan fashion, his face had a bloodless, waxen look. His limbs were thin, but his body seemed fat, bloated. He was laden with golden jewelry. His hungry eyes flashed about the empty decks, then glittered at Theseus with a concentrated malice.

“This is my ship, that my nephew commanded!” His voice had a husky, whispering quality. “Where is the amber and tin and silver that he brought
from the north coasts? And the bales of fur, and the blond slaves?”

“You might go fishing for them,” Theseus grinned. “Or ask the wizards.”

Amur stepped close to Theseus, and his eyes glittered craftily. “I have asked the wizards,” his dry voice rasped. “I climbed to the high tower of the great Daedalus himself, and paid him five talents of silver for the spinning of his shining ball—the warlocks
think of nothing but robbing honest men with their fees!

“But he showed me your red-sailed galley, Captain Firebrand, fleeing up into the islands with my treasure. I have spoken to Phaistro, who is my friend.” Amur leered at the purple-robed admiral. “And another fleet will be dispatched, upon a favorable wind, to intercept the pirate.”

His hands drew into thin, tense claws, and Theseus saw
that the yellow fingers were heavy with golden rings.

“All my treasure will be recovered,” grated the flat voice of Amur. “To the last grain of silver! The pirates will be captured, for my slave pens.” The small eyes gleamed. “And you, Captain Firebrand, shall restore my five talents of silver—twenty times over.”

Theseus waited, thoughtfully fingering the inlaid hilt of the Falling Star. Here
was another type of man, it came to him, whose power was almost as evil as wizardry. Amur stepped back from him, anxiously.

“Hold your blade, Captain Firebrand,” he rasped anxiously. “For I have come to save your life.” He came nearer, dropped his voice. “The warlocks have read the tablets of time,” he whispered swiftly. “They find indications of your victory if you enter the Minoan games.”

Theseus touched the Falling Star, and grinned. “I read the same omens in my blade,” he said.

The close-set eyes of Amur narrowed. “Minos has dispatched orders for your death,” he rasped. “But I have come to save your life for the games. For Minos requires no proof of your death but your sword, and the body of a slave can fill the weighted box we sink into the sea.”

Theseus grinned again. “Your
own body could!”

Amur flinched, but his hoarse whisper raced on: “I shall
take you to Crete aboard my own galley. And there is a wizard in Ekoros who has certain things to hide. For a few talents of silver—and to save his cowardly life—he will turn you into a black Nubian. I shall send the Nubian to Minos from my slave pens, a gift for the games. And the Nubian—unless the warlocks have lied—will
win.”