Wren followed him through a low door into a wide, empty room with a big, battered table in the center. Windows glowed with indirect light from below the awning that the slanted roof formed. The sun here in the south was very hot and very bright, and no one wanted it blasting straight through the window glass.
On the table lay markers for two or three different gambling games, and on a tray there were several packs of hand-painted cards. This was the room Connor had talked about, where he’d spent his time listening for word about pirates, or Andreus, or mages, or something he could help fix.
Longface and Captain Tebet crossed to the battered doors at the other side of the room, then stopped. Connor and the Harbormaster watched through the windows as the last of the naval party disappeared down the switch-backed road to the harbor. Guards led two very fine horses up to the royal messengers, who mounted, and rode up the path to the royal city high on the mountain.
As soon as they were out of sight, the Harbormaster muttered something, then slipped out.
Connor spoke in Dock Talk for the benefit of Captain Tebet and Longface. “He’s going to get the prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” Wren repeated.
Connor said, “The king has a standard judgment for pirates, but this fellow, the Admiral said, was an exception, and the Harbormaster agreed. He’s just a boy, no older than you were when we all first met. He ran away from being a cabin boy in the Purban navy because there were too many rules and beatings, and he thought a pirate’s life would be freedom and good times.”
Wren remembered back in her orphanage days, weeding vegetables and thinking that being a pirate would be fun. Or at least play-acting a pirate would be fun. “So he joined up?”
“Yes. He didn’t think much of the pirate life once it came to attacking small traders and taking their goods, and he was already thinking of jumping ship when their captain decided that their pickings were too slim and to throw in their lot with Black Hood.”
Wren shuddered.
“I guess Andreus promised them plenty to come. Anyway, this fellow was in that attack. He’s terrified that Andreus will come after him, so we shifted him away from the jail with the others and hid him. He was especially afraid because he said he has some secret knowledge, but he won’t talk unless he’s protected by a real mage.”
The Harbormaster returned, leading a small, skinny boy with pale hair and eyes. His hands were scabbed from scrubbing and hard work, his face almost green with fear.
He looked at Wren. “Are you the magicker?” he asked in Dock Talk. Wren had gotten pretty good at that language during the long days in the gig.
Wren nodded.
The boy said in a low, fervent voice, “Can ye turn me into something else? Something that
he
won’t find? I’ll tell ye everything. Everything.”
Wren said, “I don’t dare transform you. The magic is so strong that he could probably put tracers on you.”
The boy looked terrified. He looked at the Harbormaster. “But you promised,” he whispered.
Wren took his thin, rough hand. The boy instantly pulled away, his shoulders hunching, but she had his attention back. “I can remove any tracers on you. And as for getting away, a disguise, now that I can do. I’m really, really good at disguises. And we won’t have to depend on magic that can be traced.”
The boy sagged in relief. “A disguise! And I’ll go far inland, as far as I can. I never want to see the sea again. Ever. Sheep tending sounds good to me.”
Wren looked up. When the Harbormaster gave a nod, she said, “Done.”
The boy sat up, then sighed. “All right, where d’ye want to begin? I confess, I want to be away soon. Before
he
comes a-searchin’.”
“Now that the Okidaino mages know what he’s up to, they’re probably down there laying magic traps all over for him,” Connor said.
The boy just shook his head. “Nobody traps
him
.”
The Harbormaster said, “Never mind that. Begin with his citadel. What it looks like, and what protections he’s got.”
The boy asked for paper and chalk, which were brought. “The castle itself is on the highest mountain. One road leads up, and it has guard towers at every turning . . .”
Even though he couldn’t draw very well, a clear enough picture emerged—a daunting one.
“ . . . and on the lowest wall, between the start of the mountain road and the harbor, stand all the gargoyles. All the land between the walls and the harbor’s been paved over in stone, so the lookouts can see everything. And so can the gargoyles. They are mages, every one. All the ones he caught. They sit out there on the walls as a warning of what happens if anyone crosses him. And there are worse things. Oh, much worse. He calls that demonstrations.”
“Yuck,” Wren breathed.
“The harbor is patrolled day and night. The clearing has spy birds over it day and night. The castle, well, everyone says he has magical traps everywhere inside.”
“Did he say what those are?” Connor asked.
“No. Just gloats. But we know one, for he used it against one o’ his former allies who thought to try to overthrow him. Main road doesn’t just have guards, it also has traps. You get past the first gate, and terrible things happen to you if you don’t know all the secret signs an’ things. Nobody uses the main road, except if they know the signs.”
“Does he put tracers on everyone in his fleet?” Wren asked.
“I don’t know what that is. He said if we got caught, if we talked, it meant death. He said his reach is all over the world, and we could never escape. No matter how far.” He blanched with fear. “And we know it’s true, because he always brings back something of the ones he kills. Puts the things out on the lower wall betwixt them gargoyles, so’s everyone can see. Killer Diel’s sash with the skulls ‘broidered on it. Captain Rumko’s pearl-handled knife. Things famous in the south seas here. Everyone hears about ‘em.”
Wren leaned forward. “About the mages.”
The boy said quickly, “He does punishments out below the wall, where not only them on board the ships can see, but he says the mages can see and hear.”
“Why?” Wren asked. “Is he collecting mages just to have a set of gargoyles?”
The boy looked around carefully, as if he expected Andreus to be lurking in the corners. “He gets them from all over, because he needs them for his plan,” the boy whispered. His skin looked clammy, and he trembled as he spoke. “See, I was scrubbin’ the deck just outside the skylight when he was talkin’ to the new captain. Nobody noticed me. They never did, except to kick me and give me more work. But I heard it all, in Djuran, which I speak ‘cause I came from Ourna.”
Wren frowned, trying to remember why that name seemed important, then she remembered: one of the three small islands caught between the two powerful enemies, Sveran Djur and Shinja.
“He traps mages, and they get a choice, see. Help, or be a gargoyle and watch him win. Every so often he unfreezes them just enough to ask if they’d join him. If not, they go stone again. In ugly forms. He says it hurts more, that way. But he said ‘after the plan’ he won’t need ‘em anymore, and the pirate captains who win can do what they want to the gargoyles.”
Captain Tebet muttered colorful curses under her breath.
Wren said, “What were the mages supposed to help with? What is this plan?”
The boy leaned forward, and whispered even lower. “He’s drawed together a big fleet.”
“Fleet?” Wren asked. “For what?”
“Launch against three kingdoms.”
“When?”
“As soon as the last of us arrived.”
“Who was to be last, do you know?”
“Yes,” the boy said. “The fleet that attacked you.”
Wren gasped. “Then that means . . . the big plan is soon?”
“The first plan, not the really big one.”
“What’s the first plan?”
“The three kingdoms. “
“And then?”
“Once he gets control of the targets—he calls the kingdoms he wants to attack the targets—he’s going to use them to turn on the Emperor of Sveran Djur.”
“Is one target Okidai?” the Harbormaster asked quickly.
The boy shook his head. “I don’t think so. They’re all somewhere north.” He wiped his hair back from his face with shaking fingers.
Up north—like Meldrith? Wren bit her lip.
Wait. Wait. Don’t start a panic.
The boy hadn’t named any countries, and what could Meldrith offer Andreus toward his big plan? Wren didn’t claim to know much about military matters, but it didn’t make sense to conquer a place already in bad shape, if you wanted to use that country’s resources against someone else.
One thing she did know: someone had to be told. And soon.
Wren said, “Well, you did your job. Now for mine. I said I’d break that tracer.”
She pulled her book from her tunic and flipped through the well-worn pages. While everyone watched, she picked the most powerful of all the spells that dissolved tracers, and performed it.
“ . . . Nafat,” she said, and clapped her hands.
Bluish sparks flared around the boy. When they faded, he didn’t quite smile, but he did look less like he was going to die of fear at any moment.
Wren said, “Now I’m going down into the harbor to shop for your disguise. No one ought to see you if you want to really disappear without a trace.”
The Harbormaster said gruffly, “I have a room I’ll stick you in. You may’s well get a good meal into you while you’re at it, for you’ve got a long walk ahead if you want to get yourself lost inland by nightfall.”
The boy bobbed his head, wringing his scabbed hands together.
“I’ll go with you,” Connor said to Wren as he picked up his staff.
They were soon walking down the road, Connor with his head bent, his brow furrowed. Wren’s own thoughts were such a jumble she knew she was scowling as well.
She lifted her head. Way, way above two jackdaws drifted, very still except for an occasional flick of wingtips. Wren said, “I
know
I’ve seen them before.”
Connor shifted his staff to one hand and lifted the other to shade his eyes. “Those daws again,” he said.
Wren gasped. “You recognize them?”
“I don’t know if they’re the same pair. But two daws have shown up along my trail for the past year.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
He shook his head. “They are silent.”
Wren sent a wary glance skyward. “I wish I could scry them, but my stone is gone. And I can’t use anything else to scry because someone blocked me.”
Connor looked puzzled. “Andreus?”
Wren said, “Or whoever told him where I was. You know, there was something odd about my last scrying with Tyron. Huh! No help for that now.” She took out her book, flipped back to the tracers pages, and, with her gaze firmly on the birds overhead, she tried two different spells in order to determine if the birds had been enchanted with tracers.
“Nothing,” she said. “Well, that’s a relief. They can’t be Andreus’s, or I’d have found a little whiff of Andreus’s stinky magic binding their minds and bodies to his will.”
She looked away, knowing what she should do. She also knew just how many people would yell at her if she tried to do it. “Anyway. I’ll think about it later. I never even asked you about your trip, and you’ve been gone a whole lot longer than I have. Where’s Tip, first of all? Nothing bad’s happened, I hope? He was a wonderful dog.”
“Still is.” Connor grinned. “He found himself a mate, and a pack, back in the Brennic Marshes, and stayed there. As for me, there isn’t much to tell.”
“Hah!” Wren snorted. “Not the impression I got from that fellow Longface on the ship. Or from Captain Tebet.”
Connor shrugged. “A few encounters with brigands and the like, while I was a caravan guard, and some river pirates after. It was fun—most of the time. Never boring, anyway. But that’s the sort of thing I could do just as well at home, if I were to join my brother’s Brown Riders on the border.”
Wren stopped in the middle of the trail and put her fists on her hips. “What are you not saying?”
Connor gave her a rueful smile and a shrug of the shoulders. “That it sounds fine to say
I’m
going
out
into
the
world
to
find
myself
but it doesn’t work. At least not for me.”
Wren gazed at the last of the morning mist rising from the harbor like bits of distant spider web, floating away softly over the water and vanishing. She sensed Connor turning in the same direction, and sneaked another peek at him. How could she have missed how grown up he seemed, all of a sudden? He’d always been tall, but . . .
Her thought seemed to spiral upward, like the mist, then vanish into . . . feeling. Only she couldn’t quite define the feeling—it was like the friendship she’d always felt, but stronger. Like dawn had brightened to midday. “I take it you changed your mind about the Summer Island, and finding out your past?”
Connor lifted one broad shoulder slightly, and began spinning the staff in his hands. “The past seems to be little more than songs and bits of story. The question about my place in the world seems to travel right along with me.”
He threw the staff up, and caught it with his other hand. Then he spun it again.
“So you didn’t learn anything?” Wren asked.
“Nothing surprising. I already knew I’m good at chasing brigands. I could have done that with Rollan, like I said. I like the sea, but I find I much prefer the mountains, and we have plenty of them at home. Finally, I realized it’s kind of stupid to think I can ‘find myself’ when I started lying to people as soon as I left our border.”
Wren watched the whirling quarterstaff shift from one of his hands to the other. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention, though the pattern was an intricate one.
Wren said, “Hiding your talents isn’t really lying.”
“Hiding my talents also isn’t self-discovery. But the lies were about my real name. I hated being Prince Connor at home, but I was used to it, and people were used to me. When I began meeting strangers I found myself making up lies to hide the royal connection, for a lot of reasons. Some of them are stupid, but one reason is a good one. A prince without all the trappings of royalty—outriders and banners and horns, and especially wealth—is regarded much the same way a sea captain without a ship is regarded: like a blowhard. People want princes to be in their proper place—far away—or handing out largesse if they are near.”