Ironcrown Moon
As he dressed, Niavar thanked them all.
Raldo said sheepishly, “I’m sorry I didn’t have anything that would fit.”
“Just be thankful it wasn’t your horse that fell,” Kilian said to him.
They resumed their journey, with the fat man bringing up the rear and mumbling prayers under his breath, trying vainly to forget the frightful image that Kilian’s words had evoked, and the pitiless tone of the voice that had spoken them.
Beynor’s voyage up the Malle was not as carefree as he’d hoped, but at least the Salka swimming around him remained unnoticed, and no one in authority challenged him as they passed the teeming wharves and docks of Holt Mallburn. The strong sea breeze that blew during the hours of hot sunlight kept his dinghy’s sail well filled throughout the first day on the river. Assisted by his unseen Eminent hauler, he forged nimbly upstream past less fortunate boats and reached Twicken by the time the sun dipped low and the breeze slackened off.
“There are food stalls and small shops on the waterfront of this town,” he bespoke Ugusawnn. “I’m going to put in, tie up, and buy something to eat. Don’t worry, I won’t try to leave the boat. Just see that you stay out of sight.”
The only response was a surly growl on the wind.
He lowered the sail and rowed to the public landing-stage, where he tied up, paid the toll, and began restowing the various bundles in the boat. After a few minutes a stout, pink-cheeked matron in a clean gown came along, carrying a wide basket covered with a cloth. She stopped at each vessel having people aboard, offering cold meat pies, but sold only a few.
“A fine evening, goodwife,” Beynor said, when his turn came. He proffered a silver quarter-mark coin. “I’ll gladly take two of your pies.”
“I don’t have the change for this,” she admitted. “Business has been slow this evening. The big crowd came to the riverside this morn to see off the royal barge—but I couldn’t get my baking done in time for selling to them. My old dad came over poorly, and I’ve had to nurse him most of the day. If you care to trust me, I’ll step over to yonder inn and get the change there.”
“You look like an honest woman,” Beynor said. Her easy friendliness might have its uses. He gave a winning smile and opened his purse. “I’m very sorry for your hard luck. I’ve had a bit of that myself today, out on the water. Gave my ankle a bad knock, and now I can barely walk. I don’t want to go tramping about ashore if I can help it, but I’ve not much food left in the boat, and no drink at all. If I gave you more money, could you also fetch me some loaves of good wheat bread from the inn, and maybe some butter and jam, and some boiled eggs in their shells if the kitchen has such things? And ask the pot-boy to roll over a firkin of ale for me. I’ll gladly pay you for your trouble.”
“Oh, you poor lad! Of course I will. Just guard my pies whilst I’m gone. Is there anything else you’re needing?”
“Fresh strawberries?” Beynor ventured, “I live on an island far up the coast, and earn a good living from sealing. But I haven’t such luscious things for four years, since last I came to visit my people up in Mallthorpe Greenwater.”
“If anyone on the Twicken waterfront has any, I’ll bring them to you,” the woman said. “Imagine! Four whole years without strawberries!”
“I’d also be most grateful if you could send my way any old-clothes vendor who might be out and about this evening. As you can see, my garb is unsuitable for the warm weather you enjoy here, although it served me well in the chill at sea. I’d buy more comfortable things if I could.”
The woman was thinking. “You’re a tall, thin one, just like my old father. And he, poor soul, spends much of his time abed these days and has small need of street clothes. After I see to your provisions, I’ll slip away home and look in his coffer. There might be something you can use.”
“I’ll pay whatever you think is fair,” Beynor said. He gave her another quarter-mark and she bustled off.
After a minute or two, Ugusawnn spoke truculently on the wind.
What did you say to her, groundling?
“I only asked her to fetch more food and some clothes for me. She had some interesting news to report. The royal barge left here this morning. It’ll be upriver at Tallhedge by now, and tomorrow it goes to Mallthorpe Castle and stays for two days before going on to Boarsden. We’ll have to get ahead of it to set up the ambush. The distance from here to the Big Bend is nearly ninety leagues. You may have to do some night hauling to get us there in time.”
I will do what is necessary.
“Good. You and your warriors can give the barge a good look-see while it’s tied up at Mallthorpe, so you’ll be clear about what I expect you to do later.”
Ugusawnn gave an ill-tempered grumble.
“The matter has to be handled just right. You must follow my orders exactly, or—”
Or WHAT, you insolent heap of whale puke?!
“Eminence, I’m not trying to insult your intelligence, or that of your warriors. I’m only anxious that we succeed. Be easy in your mind! When the present King of Didion and his family are dead, we’ll have taken the first step in destroying Conrig Wincantor’s Sovereignty—and giving the Salka back their ancestral home.”
So you’ve said…
“Believe it,” Beynor assured him, with all the coercive power his great talent could summon. “Believe it!”
Snudge and his men reached the south gate of Elktor at about the tenth hour after noon. It had been locked for the night an hour earlier; but Vra-Mattis had previously bespoken the Brothers resident at the castle, warning of their coming, so they were admitted with alacrity. They paused in the shelter of the guardhouse, and Snudge showed the royal writ to the sergeant of the guard. By then the rain was coming down steadily, but the intelligencer had managed to sleep in the saddle in spite of it and felt much refreshed.
“Sir Deveron,” said the sergeant, handing back the parchment with a salute, “one of my men will lead you to the castle if this is your wish. Count Olvan is in residence. He’ll be eager to tell you of the search for the fire-raisers being conducted in this region, as well as offering his hospitality.”
Snudge thanked him. “We’ll tarry here a moment while my windvoice announces our arrival, then welcome an escort.”
While the novice attended to this, Snudge beckoned the other riders to come close to him. “If it’s true, as I believe, that the fugitives have gone into the mountains at some point above this city, then they must necessarily travel much slower than heretofore. Mat and I will confer with the Brethren at the castle and make contact with Zeth Abbey as well. We’ll ask that all windsearching now be concentrated in the area of Roaring Gorge.”
“Will we go after the villains at once if they’re overseen, sir?” asked the armiger Valdos.
“All of you are in need of sleep,” Snudge said. “We’ll likely wait until morning. Vra-Mattis and I will confer with the resident wind adepts to see if there are new developments. But it’s likely the fugitives have also stopped to rest— especially if they’re mounted. We’ll ride out with a force of Lord Olvan’s rangers tomorrow.”
Vra-Mattis pushed the hood of his cloak back from his face and announced, “They’re awaiting us at the castle.”
One of the guards joined them, having fetched a horse. “Mortal steep road up the castle knoll,” he said with a grin. “Those poor beasts of yours look about done in, so I’ll take it nice and easy.”
He set off. Snudge motioned for Mat and the armigers to follow, while he and Gavlok brought up the rear.
“Do you really think someone will be able to scry out our quarry?” the lanky knight murmured doubtfully. “Surely these local magickers have already combed the area to the best of their ability.”
“My hope is that I myself might catch an oversight of the thieves from the high vantage point of the castle, now that I’ve recovered my strength somewhat. We can always pretend that Mattis found them, and he can direct the searchers with my prompting.”
“Ah.” Gavlok smiled. “The lad nearly popped the eyeballs from his skull when I revealed your wild talents to him earlier. He was very impressed with my tales of your prowess—defeating Iscannon, taking Redfern Castle, and opening the Mallmouth Bridge. I had to caution him not to make his hero-worship of you too obvious.”
Snudge gave a brief bark of mirthless laughter. “Me, a hero? I think Vra-Mattis—and the High King—will find another name to call me if I have no luck finding those two wretches and the stolen trove!”
Chapter Twelve
Riding on muleback, Felmar and Scarth traveled eastward for about nine leagues along the Beorbrook track from Elktor. They were still without a firm plan of action, and tonight their only wish was to get as far away from Kilian as possible. The rain increased to a near-blinding downpour. Soon it became obvious that they could go no further. Even the surefooted mules were starting to balk as they sank into deepening mud.
Dropping the cover spell briefly, both Brothers cast about with their talent for a likely place to take shelter. They had purchased a piece of stout canvas that could be used as a tent in a pinch; but the deserted croft, when they scried it, was a much more attractive option, even though it looked more like an animal lair than human habitation. The hut was situated in a sheltered moorland hollow where stunted junipers grew, backed and hemmed about by outcrop-pings of bedrock. It was well out of sight of the track and looked reasonably secure from windwatchers as well. A rill of clear water ran nearby and there was even a patch of rain-flattened grass for the mules.
The entrance was an inverted V formed by two slabs of rotting wood. There were no windows and the interior was dark. Felmar struck a flame at the tip of his finger with his talent and peered inside, alert for wildlife, but the place was empty except for some ancient sheep droppings. The fieldstone walls and the turf roof were still sound and the dirt floor almost dry, except in the corner where a smokehole above a simple hearth let rain drip in.
“This is as good as we’ll find tonight,” Felmar decided. “Let’s hobble the mules and get our things inside.”
A little later, after Scarth had chopped up dead branches from the small trees with his woodsman’s axe and got a fire going, they were reasonably comfortable. The canvas covered most of the dirt floor, and saddles and pads made acceptable beds. Felmar was finally able to remove his hated female disguise. The two of them shared some of the harsh brandywine that Bo Hern’s good-wife had sold them at exorbitant cost, and ate some of her excellent honey-raisin oatcakes.
Then they decided it was time to examine the Trove of Darasilo.
For the next two hours, they pored over the books and the two bags of moonstones they had taken from the crypt in Gala Palace. The fragile volumes contained pictures of countless sigils, along with blocks of indecipherable text. The trove included one hundred and twelve milky translucent carvings of varying shapes, most rather small and some duplicates. Many stones were strung on golden chains or decaying leather cords, and all of them were minutely incised with arcane symbols or exquisite tiny pictures that gave tantalizing hints of their function.
“This book shows fewer stones,” Felmar noted as he turned crumbling pages, “but the illustrations are larger and more elaborate than those in the other one, and the descriptions are much longer. I suspect that my book describes the more important sigils. Let’s see how many of those we can find in the collection.”
To their vast disappointment, only four of the carvings matched the criterion: a moonstone finger-ring; an oblong sigil that looked just like a tiny door, complete with simulated latch; a thing about the size of a man’s little finger that was shaped like a carrot or an icicle; and a short rod or wand with a drilled perforation at one end, incised with the phases of the moon.
“Well,” Felmar said with an ironic smile, “at least there are two for you and two for me. Shall we draw straws for first pick?”
Scarth gave him a startled look. “Are you suggesting that we somehow keep back these—these important sigils for ourselves?”
Felmar set the stones aside, put more wood on the fire, and sighed. “I’m only joking.”
He unsheathed his knife, picked up a stick, and began to trim off splinters. “Here’s something we have to consider, Brother. Lord Kilian promised to bespeak us when he was well into the mountains and there was only a small chance of the thread of his windspeech being traced back to him. Very soon— perhaps tomorrow or the next day—we’re bound to hear his call. If his talent has sufficiently recovered from the strictures of the iron gammadion, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to scry us as well.”
“We won’t answer him! And if we keep the cover spell in place, he won’t be able to find us.”
Felmar gave an exasperated grunt. “Kilian devised the spell of couverture we’re using. You can be sure he knows how to puncture it—or even turn it off completely. We can only hope that his powers remain weak for a while longer, giving us a chance to put more distance between us. The mountains will help block his windsight if he does obliterate the cover spell.”
“But eventually, he’ll be able to find us, Pel! And if he thinks we’re running away from him with the trove, he’ll come after us and kill us.”
“True. That’s why we can’t simply ignore his call on the wind. When it does come, we must answer him, so his suspicions aren’t immediately aroused. But what we ought to say… as yet, I don’t know.”
“What would he do ” Scarth said carefully, “if we didn’t take the trove with us when we fled? What if we hid it in some safe place and told him where to find it?”
Felmar paused in his whittling. His eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Brother, you may have hit on the solution! He’d certainly be furious at us for abandoning the trove—but not to the point of chasing us down. He’s a fugitive, too, and his life depends upon getting over the border into Didion as fast as possible.”
“He’d know he could retrieve the things sooner or later,” Scarth said. “He could even scry them in their hiding place and know we were telling the truth.”
“Yes. Good point! If we spin a plausible yarn, I think Kilian would be satisfied to let us go our own way. When he bespeaks us, why don’t we say that we were unable to follow the path to Roaring Gorge. We only escaped a search party by the skin of our teeth. They’re hot on our heels and we don’t want the trove to fall into their hands. Our only chance now is to travel cross-country— north into the trackless mountains.”
“That’s no lie, either.” Scarth’s long face was somber. “The story sounds good to me. We could leave the trove right here—maybe hide it up in the roof of this hovel.”
Felmar resheathed his knife. He had made four tiny wooden sticks of differing lengths. “Ready for the magical moonstone drawing?”
Scarth frowned. “I thought you were just fooling.”
“Come on! Just for the fun of it.” Felmar put his hands behind his back, fumbled, then held out a fist with the stick ends peeping out. “Take any two. Longest chooses his important sigil first, then we take turns, on down to the shortest. Each man says what his sigils are capable of. Then we decide who’s the greater sorcerer.”
“Oh, hell. Why not?”
Scarth won the first and third choices. He picked the ring and the icicle. Felmar got the miniature doorway and the wand.
“A pity we can’t take these with us,” Scarth mused. “I suspect this ring might be a Weathermaker, like the one Conjure-Queen Ullanoth owns. And maybe the moonstone icicle can freeze a person in his tracks! Can you better that?”
Felmar rubbed his fingers over his own treasures. “This thing of mine looks like a door. It must be a door! Conjure it and it opens into a better world—one full of sunlight and good food and friendly, carefree folk who don’t have to work for a living.”
“Take me with you when you step through,” Scarth said wistfully, “and I’ll concede you the sorcery contest hands down… What do you think that other thing of yours does?”
&n
bsp; But Felmar was tiring of the game. “Who cares? Probably nothing that would be of any help to us. We’d better turn in so we can make an early start tomorrow. Help me get these regular sigils back into their sacks. Let’s wrap the four important ones in the linen hood from my goodwife disguise before we tuck them in with the others.”
“You’re still thinking about keeping them when we run?”
Felmar shrugged. “Only thinking. We could probably sell them for a pretty penny to a magicker up in Didion—or better yet, in Moss. Would Kilian even know they were missing when he scried the two bags of sigils? Seems to me it’d be nigh impossible to count the things, all bunched together like that. And he might not be able to fetch them for years.”
They discussed this interesting topic at some length, passing the brandy flask back and forth, speculating on what the four stones might be worth. Why, they might even offer them to the Conjure-Queen herself! She’d know their true value.
“She c’d perteck us from Kilian’s revenge, too.” Scarth gave a tipsy giggle. “Maybe help us join the Glaum’rie Guild! I w-wouldn‘ mind takin’ a job at the Mossback court.”
“Better’n holin‘ up in the Diddly morass f’rest of our lives.”
Neither of the Brothers had tasted hard liquor since entering the Order, where it was forbidden because of its deleterious effect on talent. But when Bo Hern’s wife offered plum brandy in addition to the other provisions, they’d hesitated only a moment. Hard times lay ahead of them. Ardent spirits were medicinal. They banished aches and pains and helped a man sleep when his mind was plagued by fear and worry.
Scarth and Felmar hadn’t planned to empty the flask that first night, but somehow it happened anyway. With all their troubles forgotten, they settled into inebriated slumber.