Sasharia en Garde

  We rounded the last hill and there, anchored fore and aft in the middle of the river, lay a pirate ship.

  I had the haziest memory of ships from childhood, due to nighttime smugglings on and off, and being hidden in holds. Since then, I hadn’t learned much more beyond what I’d read in the novels of Patrick O’Brian, but when I saw that graceful, wickedly lean schooner with its tall, raked-back masts, the long gaff mainsails and the reefed topsail, the narrow hull with the half-deck forecastle and aftcastle, I knew instantly it could be nothing but a pirate ship.

  And I longed to be on it.

  “Like my Hurricane?”

  Reluctantly I shifted my gaze, to find Zathdar riding beside me, smiling. I asked, “What chance would you give for me sneaking back into the tower?”

  “Why?” he countered, his smile fading, his eyes watchful.

  “Because at the very least I need to send a message to warn my mother. I vanished without leaving any word. I know she’ll be after me, soon’s she figures it out.”

  He stared down at his ship, brow furrowed. “If you go back to that tower and transfer between worlds, I’d say your chances of leading the king’s mages straight to her would be high.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t bother telling him I couldn’t even do a transfer.

  He moved forward again, a kind of nonverbal coercion, and to test it I said, “Aren’t you in a bit of a hurry to get us aboard that ship? I mean, I don’t see any danger on the road back up on the hill.”

  Elva’s head turned sharply, her mist-washed face wary.

  “Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.” Zathdar lifted a hand, indicating the forest-covered mountain we’d just ridden out of. “The search will be going out in rings. With the king there himself, instead of War Commander Randart, they will be even more determined to be the ones to nail you down. Then there’s the fact that they will have heard from the defeated warriors that I was there.”

  “And?” I winced, realizing the implications at last. “Oh, I didn’t think of that. What, a blockade?”

  “I expect the king’s messengers are riding belly flat to the ground to all the signal points right this moment, yes. And while I don’t mind running a blockade, I prefer to choose the time, and the place, if I can.”

  “So what you are proposing,” I said, “is that we all take ship, and you’ll let us off somewhere out of the range of the search?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds fair to me.” I was relieved at having made a decision. “Lead on.”

  Elva sighed in disgust. Devlaen did not hide his relief.

  We soon reached the pirate ship, which the crew had edged downstream while we were closing the distance. The lee rail had been anchored fairly close to an outcropping. A gangplank had been extended to a broad, mostly flat granite rock. A young boy ran over experimentally as Zathdar rode ahead of us.

  Zathdar dismounted and handed his reins to the boy. He hefted his travel pack from the horse and slung it over the opposite shoulder from his sword as he waited for us to dismount.

  The boy, maybe twelve, grinned as he collected my reins. The other two left their horses with him and retrieved their packs. I tucked my gear bag tightly under my armpit.

  Devli trod first over the gangway. One by one we jumped onto the deck, Zathdar last. Behind us, the boy mounted a horse and led the other animals back up the trail, where they were soon swallowed by the woods.

  “That kid going to be okay?” I asked.

  “Okay?” Zathdar repeated the English word.

  “Safe. Fine. Good.”

  “Ah. Yes. He’s my local eyes. His uncle runs an inn, so the horses will become part of his lending stock before we clear the estuary.”

  As he spoke the sailors divided into work parties, some pulling in the gangplank, others going to the sail ropes. Zathdar indicated we should go aft, down a few steps with a carved handrail, and into a cabin that spread across the back of the vessel, the walls and stern windows slanting in at a graceful angle. This had to be the captain’s cabin.

  Elva looked around with the air of an experienced sailor. Devlaen seemed more anxious to keep his balance as he clasped his bulky pack to himself. The siblings halted just inside the door of the captain’s cabin, blocking the way.

  So I turned my attention back to the smooth, slightly sloping deck. The crew seemed to be mostly made up of young people, females as well as males. Here and there a gray head was visible among the varying shades of brown, black, red, and blond. Some dressed gaudily like their captain, others wore plain homespun shirts and brown-dyed deck trousers. These were like hip-hugger bell-bottoms of my mom’s day. Almost all of the crew went barefoot.

  On a signal the sails loosed, placketing loudly until the wind caught and filled them so they belled in the slow-moving breeze. The ship surged on the river, water chuckling down the sides.

  “Go inside.” Zathdar’s open-handed gesture was just a tad ironic. “I assure you, there are no trapdoors.”

  Devli and Elva shuffled farther inside the cabin, gazes flicking warily this way and that. Zathdar’s head barely cleared the bulkheads, as did mine. A circular table had been built into the center of the cabin, around which were set cushioned low chairs. I chose the empty one between the siblings. Zathdar left the only vacant chair and moved to the stern windows, through which he peered out at the trail we’d descended.

  No pursuit appeared before we rounded a bend and a hill hid the trail from view.

  Zathdar faced us. “The short version of what I discovered at my rendezvous is that the king sent his son with a sizable force to take anyone found in the tower. Apparently the prince changed his mind when they arrived just ahead of you and found the place empty. He left the two ridings we met—all inexperienced men—and took the better ones as an honor guard on an art quest southward. He seems to have heard about some famous sculptor—”

  Devli snickered in a familiar teenage-boy way.

  “—or we’d all be guests of the king right now.” Zathdar made an ironic gesture, putting his wrists together as if shackled.

  “Art quest,” Elva repeated, laughing with her brother. “I’ve heard all about those art quests of his. What d’you want to wager that sculptor is pretty?”

  Zathdar spread his hands, obviously uninterested in sculptors, pretty or not.

  “What now?” Devlaen asked.

  I said, “Canary has a son? Why would he put a boy in charge of warriors?”

  Elva waved a hand. “He’s older than all of us. Didn’t you know? Canardan Merindar was married to someone else before he married the queen. A morvende. They had a son before the marriage ended. The gossip is, he ended the marriage so he could marry Queen Ananda, and the prince’s mother went back to the morvende.”

  “Well that would explain the prince’s interest in art. I mean, what I remember is that the morvende are the deep-cave dwellers who don’t have governments, but do lots of singing and painting and archive keeping. And magic.”

  Devlaen’s wistful expression made it clear where his own interests lay.

  “I never met any son, though.” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”

  “But he wasn’t in the country for a long time.” Elva jerked her thumb toward the west. “He got sent off to those barbarians at the other end of the continent to some military school. When he was done with their lessons in marching, he got sent off somewhere else, I don’t know where, but that’s not important. The important thing is that he’s about as sky-eyed as the queen. Won’t set foot on ships. Gets sick. Hates getting dirty, so he won’t drill with the castle guard, though he supposedly commands them. The king tries to get him to take charge of guard business, but if he passes by some house with a good mural, or some fine weaving, or hears a new melody, he’s as likely to leave the army sitting there in the sun while he chats with some old bard or sculptor or weaver. Especially if the artist is female.”

  “I’m surprised Canary hasn??
?t killed him,” I exclaimed. “Unless he’s mellowed since the days he wanted my parents dead. Probably me, too,” I added.

  “Oh no.” Elva waved her hands. “He wanted you alive. To bring up and then marry off to the idiot prince, according to the gossip my mother was hearing from castle people, before she was turned off. Then nobody could complain about your father being ousted.”

  “What?” I jerked upright. “I never knew that!”

  Zathdar said, “It’s true. That’s why your father had to hide you before he could act.”

  Devlaen smacked the table. “My mage tutor says the king probably would have killed off Prince Jehan a long time ago if there wasn’t a severe shortage of heirs.”

  “There’s also the fact that though he’s an idiot, the prince managed somehow to make himself popular.” Elva made a disgusted face. “Even though he never gets anything done.”

  “Maybe because he never gets anything done. He never gives orders, just hands out money, and follows after any pretty bard or artist. Our mother says that the government is a mess,” Devlaen put in. “Ma told us the king is now trying to arrange a marriage to any suitable princess who will accept a bumbling fool so he can get grandchildren and train them in his wonderful ways.”

  “Ah, speaking of wonderful.” Zathdar indicated the cabin door. Three sailors entered, each carrying a tray. Good smells filled the cabin as they set the trays on the table.

  Zathdar slapped together a sizable sandwich between slices of very fresh bread and ducked out. His voice drifted from the deck as he issued rapid orders.

  The thundering sails and the groan of wood smothered most of his words. I caught a few: lookouts, signals, line of sight. I suspected that the rest of Zathdar’s fleet was guarding the river mouth from the sea. As soon as we joined them, they’d be running for open water, spread as far as possible so as to spot any fleets on the horizon.

  “So what do you want to do?” Elva asked, recalling my attention. “I mean, after he puts us ashore again.”

  I needed time to consider my words. I took a bite of a rice-and-cheese stuffed cabbage roll. It tasted like a pot sticker or spring roll.

  When my father taught me that last bit of magic, he’d told me there were two plans. The best one was that he’d come himself to get us. The second best would be his old teacher, Magister Glathan, coming for us. That would mean Dad had had to hide in a certain place, but I had memorized the release spell. The magister wouldn’t know it in case they caught him and tried to get it out of him.

  The worst would be that no one came.

  And the worst had happened.

  Nobody had said if Dad or Magister Glathan were alive, but I knew where to go to find out about my father. I also knew what to do. What I did not know was whether or not I could trust these people. If Dad was alive but under protective enchantment, what good would it do to perform the spell, just to bring him back straight into danger? “I wish I could contact my mother. She is going to be so worried.”

  “If they find her, she’ll be a prisoner,” Devlaen said soberly.

  I sighed.

  Zathdar reappeared, the fringes on his bandana dancing in the freshening wind. “Soon’s you’re done I’ll show you your cabin.” He turned from me to Elva. “If you don’t want to bunk in the crew quarters, you can share with her. There are two bunks in the forward cabin.”

  Elva looked mutinous, but Devlaen half raised a hand as if in supplication. Elva scowled at Zathdar. “I’ll stay with the princess. Since you already have a navigator.”

  Princess. I laughed.

  Everyone turned my way.

  I waved a hand. “Never mind. It’s the princess thing. Took me by surprise. Not that I actually am one. My dad was replaced by a new king.”

  “But people remember. Your father was very popular. That’s why we’ve found so many people to help us.” Devlaen pointed to his sister and himself.

  Elva grinned. “And so was Princess Atanial.”

  “Atanial.” Sartoran for “shining sun”. I’d forgotten that. My throat tightened, causing me to breathe deeply the way Mom had taught me. I didn’t know if I wanted her to find out I was here or not, and have to deal with all the memories and the pain of the questions we could not answer.

  So I rose and Zathdar led us forward along the gangway. We dodged around busy crew members. I noticed that nobody stopped or saluted or any of that. Some of the sailors (and they looked to me more like sailors than like my idea of pirates) sang as they hauled on halyards. Others high on the masts talked cheerily.

  The forecastle cabin was narrow but pleasant, two bunks built into the sharply curving bow with storage built below each bunk, scuttles for air, and two little fold-down tables on either side of the door. Someone had set neatly piled clothing on one of the bunks, both of which had soft cotton-wool blankets on them.

  Zathdar stood on the deck immediately outside the door, for there wasn’t much space inside. He ducked his head under the low, carved lintel and indicated the pile of clothing with an open hand. “Donations. Hope something fits.”

  Elva threw her knapsack onto the other bunk.

  “There’s a cleaning frame down in the crew’s quarters. We all share it.” Zathdar nodded at my bag. “If you want that stowed below, I can take it.”

  “No thank you.” I kept the bag gripped in my arms.

  They looked at me, and Elva said diffidently, “What do you have in that thing, anyway?”

  “Just a lot of boring paperwork of the sort you need on Earth. And a few childhood keepsakes.”

  “Oh.” Elva turned away and busied herself with unpacking her knapsack—all three things.

  Zathdar leaned there still, arms over his head and braced against the lintel, one hand dangling beside his fringed bandana. He didn’t look the least bit threatening, but Elva set aside the knapsack and scowled at him, her shoulders tight, arms crossed and held close.

  “I’ll send over the remains of the meal in case you get hungry.” He turned away, letting sunlight stream into the cabin, and ran up onto the aftdeck to oversee our emergence from the river into the sea.

  Chapter Eight

  Sun remembered the ancient castle. It had belonged to the crown (whatever family was currently wearing it) for centuries, with occasional zigzags into the hands of rebellious dukes and princes, and once it was a mage school, established by a princess whose older sister was the heir.

  On their very first arrival through the World Gate, Math had conducted her all over the castle, relating its colorful history and pointing out with boyish delight various sites of magical traps and illusions. Ever since the old mage school was closed, Math had said, the mages keep insisting they got them all, but then people discover new ones. In fact, Magister Glathan—he’s my tutor, I hope you will come to love him as I do—made me go through until I discovered one, as my own master’s test.

  The one Prince Mathias had discovered lay behind what appeared to be solid wall. Beyond that illusory section of wall, Sun remembered, someone had built a cozy little room. There they spent their first night in this world, and their last. The first in a fire of young and ardent love, the last in close-hugging sorrow at the imminence of parting, their tired, bewildered ten-year-old daughter pressed between them for comfort. That they gave. They also kept her between them for safety, which they could only try to give.

  Sun turned away from the dining hall, and lifted the tapestry, peering into the mold-walled passage. Even dimly lit by the weak glowglobe, it clearly had not been disturbed for a long time. She trod carefully to the end, avoiding leaving footprints on the mold splotches, but instead of passing down the narrow circular stairs, she turned to the left and cautiously put out her hand.

  Cold, damp air chilled her fingers. Yes, the illusion was intact. She held her breath and plunged through. Safely inside, she clapped once. The glowglobe lit, though it, too, was very dim.

  Thick, rotting cloth hung on an old rod over the illusory door. She pushed the curtai
n along the rod, which would block light breaking the illusion, and turned around.

  The windowless little room appeared to be untouched. There was the narrow cot on which Sasha had lain her last night in this world, after Math taught her some spells. Difficult spells—far too complicated, one would think, for a child. But Math and Glathan had been desperate, and Sasha brave and determined until she could stay awake no longer.

  Sasha had curled up on the bed, and the mage left to walk the perimeter as well as to give them privacy.

  Math and Sun had sat shoulder to shoulder, guarding their daughter’s slumber while they talked and talked, making promises and contingency plans.

  All in vain.

  Sun turned in a slow circle. There was the old carved chest, its pattern of running horses so heartbreakingly familiar. She lifted the lid, sniffing in the scent of cedarwood, and pulled out one of the soft yeath blankets, and a sturdy tunic of Math’s that she herself had packed away. It was brown livery, the silver-and-crimson firebird of the Zhavalieshins stitched on the front.

  No more sorrow. You’ve wept enough. So you are back at last. Find Sasha. And then find out what happened to Math instead of wasting the rest of your life wondering.

  She lay on the cot under the blanket, clapped the globe out and fell asleep, waking suddenly when men’s voices brought her sitting up in alarm. She pressed her hands over her mouth, then remembered the illusory wall. She could hear anyone in the passage outside, but if she made noise, they’d hear her.

  “. . . not much of a secret, if you ask me,” came an unfamiliar tenor voice.

  “More of a shortcut.” That deep, slightly husky voice was familiar, a voice from nightmares. It belonged to Dannath Randart, Canary’s right-hand slimebag. “But the king said, add it to the patrol sites. It and the main stairway through that old refectory are the only way to the Destination chamber, and he seems to think someone is using magic to come or go.”