“Codders! Then the whoreson slew him!” Snudge frowned fiercely in thought. “Wil must have listened in on our talk of the sigils. As Duke Feribor’s creature, he would have thought it imperative to send a message to his master about the magical moonstones. He’d use Mat’s windvoice, as he must have already done on other occasions. I don’t believe Mat realized who the earlier messages were intended for. They could have contained nothing important, anyway. But this final one, with its news of me having the ability to use high sorcery, might have troubled him when he recovered his wits. Mat might have confessed to me what he’d done, and Wil Baysdale couldn’t allow that to happen. Now Feribor knows we have the means to go invisible, as well as a quick way of reaching Maudrayne.”
“We’ll surely get to the princess before he does,” Gavlok said. “How long has he been at sea? Three days? I’ve lost count.”
“Perhaps a little less than that. But with fair winds, a fast frigate could easily get him to Northkeep and the shaman Bozuk late tomorrow. Feribor is under orders not to search for Maudrayne, but I’m certain he’ll disregard them. The temptation would be irresistible. He might offer the shaman an additional bribe to serve as his guide to her hiding place. The old magicker is blind, but there’s nothing wrong with his scrying ability. He could do the job.”
“But you said we’ll shortly be on her doorstep! I realize we can’t do anything until you’re fit again, but surely you’ll have recovered long before Feribor can get to her.” He broke off, staring at his friend with sudden concern. “Won’t you? I mean, you said you’d just be unwell for a few days.”
“The fact is,” Snudge said, “I don’t know how long I’ll be afflicted. Perhaps, since this will be my first use of the Great Stone, the consequences won’t be too severe.”
But even as he spoke, he didn’t believe it.
After a brisk two-hour ride, during which they encountered no other travelers, the king’s men came to a section of the Wold Road that traversed a stretch of open ground. Beyond it on their left rose thickly wooded low mountains and a rough little track that led towards the Lady Lakes. It was possible to see for nearly a league in all directions, and the soggy landscape was empty of other human beings.
“This place will do as well as any for our embarcation,” Snudge said, reining in. “Valdos, Hanan—gallop your horses up and down that side track a ways, then churn up the mud around here. We want to make it look as though we were set upon by a gang of kidnappers. Word of our supposed abduction will reach Rockyford soon enough.”
And from there, the news would fly on the wind to Gala. Snudge had debated with himself whether to tell Lord Stergos the details of his plan. But in the end he’d held off, fearing that the Royal Alchymist would consider himself duty-bound to inform the High King about Concealer and Subtle Gateway. Every instinct warned him not to risk letting this happen. Let Conrig think what he would of their abrupt disappearance. With luck, Stergos would counsel his brother to have patience.
Snudge dismounted and began to unstrap his pack. Gavlok, Radd, and Hulo followed suit. The two Mountain Swordsmen tied big bundles to each other’s backs. They carried most of their food. The pair had also acquired a pair of stout staves back at the fortress, and extra arrows for their shortbows.
“I wish we could take the horses with us.” Gavlok looked at his fine tall chestnut with regret. The mounts would be abandoned here, with all of their tack.
“They’ll do us no good where we’re going.” Snudge was curt. “We can only hope that local villains will come across them soon and take them off into the wilderness.”
Finally the excited squires finished their trampling and the mounts were shooed away down the Lady Lakes track, although they did not go far. All members of the party had shouldered their burdens save Snudge, who would simply rest his pack between his feet so as to keep his body unencumbered. He called everyone to draw close to him. His face had gone very pale.
“Friends, let me be frank. I know not what will happen when I make use of this Beaconfolk sorcery. The creatures that some call Great Lights and others deem the Coldlight Army are obscure and terrible. Even the Mosslanders, who are most familiar with them, know little of their true nature. The Lights savor pain. They torture with whimsical cruelty, as wicked boys sometimes torment hapless bugs or animals for the fun of it. If they fancy themselves offended, they may cast the person who insulted them into the Hell of Ice for all eternity, as we would consign a worn boot or a broken pot to a midden-heap. I myself am willing to risk such a fate out of duty. But here and now I give each of you the opportunity to withdraw from this mission—to decline to accompany me, with no stigma attaching to the act. To any man who would leave, I will give a signed note of quittance, and never think less of his courage.”
They stared at him in silence, while the rain streamed over their leather cloaks. Finally, Gavlok’s squire Hanan Caprock spoke up with cheeky bravado. “The horses are gone, and it’d be a devil of a job catching them. So I figure we’re all bound to go with you, Sir Deveron, even though we’re scared stiff. Let’s just get on with it! Maybe it won’t be so futterin‘ wet on the other side of your magic Gateway.”
When the explosion of laughter faded, Snudge said, “When we arrive, I’ll probably be prostrate and useless. Sir Gavlok is your new commander until I recover, but I appoint Hulo and Radd to organize the camp in the ravine as they think best for the security and comfort of the group. You squires are forbidden to wander off on your own. All of you, remember there are magickers inside Skullbone Peel. To avoid being overseen by them, be as silent and wary as an animal. Use rocks and vegetation to screen your movements so no lookout spots you with his ordinary vision. Windwatchers ordinarily don’t keep constant vigil; it’s too taxing. But they’ll be on you like hounds if they suspect intruders are prowling about—and the highly talented ones can scry you in darkness as well as in daylight.”
He drew from his shirt the chain with the sigils and grasped the door-shaped moonstone carving tightly. “Well, it’s time to go. Crowd close to me now. Make no noise, no matter what happens, and don’t move a muscle until we arrive and are safe.”
Their damp bodies pressed against him, and he heard only the sounds of their breathing, the creak of their harness and packs, and the anonymous rumble of someone’s stomach. Gavlok said, “Shhh!”
Snudge closed his eyes and intoned “EMCHAY ASINN,” and told the sigil where to take them.
He was alone, seeming to drift in a cold night sky with no land or sea perceptible beneath him. The uncountable stars were hard and brilliant as gems, at first unwinking against a background of utter blackness, then growing dim as other Lights, many-colored and strangely shaped, began to burgeon and overwhelm them with swelling radiance.
None of the Lights resembled the familiar auroral formations of the Boreal winter sky; there were no flickering beacons or curtains moved by cosmic winds or luminous arcs or glowing clouds. These shining insubstantialities writhed and danced with hectic, intelligent purpose. Some of them showed eyes or evanescent limbs. All of them had what appeared to be mouths that seemed to form words of the Salka language. They asked questions, and he replied.
CADAY ANRUDAY?… What do you want?
EMCHAY ASINN… Transport all of us.
KO AN SO?… Who are you?
SNUDGE.
He braced for the onslaught of pain but it held off. Instead, a wild cacophony of hisses, crackles, and shrill whistles assailed his ears, almost as though millions of small birds were trapped in a confined space, clamoring in fury. The throng of Lights whirled about him at vertiginous speed and their noise resolved into the speech of many individuals, fully understandable for all that the words were churned together.
His name his name we need his name! Snudge? SNUDGE?! It is. It’s not. It’s a trick!
Snudge? A snudge is a JOB not a name. His name his name we need his name we must have it to bind him!
We need his name to own him. This one is tryi
ng to cheat us. But he is Snudge! He was accepted twice over by us!
He was given power and gave pain. As Snudge. For a Great Stone for the Great Link it’s not enough. His name his name we need his own true name!
He is Snudge. We accepted it and him. Snudge. He cheats he holds back he slips away!
He pays the price whatever his name. Let be.
Rage rage against the rule-twister! Hurt him kill him damn him to the Hell of Ice! His name is Snudge but it is not. Let be.
Indifference. Eat his pain. He wins. Laughter. The jest is on us. FOR NOW.
The chaos of colored Light flared in blinding brilliance as the laughter became thunder.
Then they were gone, leaving him wrapped wholly in pain. He moaned aloud, felt himself lose balance and start to fall. Down through the jet-black starless void he plunged, down and down and down.
Strong arms took hold of him. “Easy, sir,” Hulo Roundbank’s voice said. There was firm earth beneath his feet, a smell of wet leaves and the sea.
He forced open his eyes and gave a gasp of agony. Daylight made the suffering all the worse. But he had to know whether the Gateway had opened to the right place, whether all of them had passed through safely.
He saw the eroded stone walls of a steep ravine, an overhanging ledge, thick brush growing ‘round about that gleamed wetly with leftover rain. Gavlok and Hulo were on either side of him, holding him up. Hanan was on his knees a few ells away, shorn of all his cocky courage, losing his breakfast while Valdos patiently held his head. Only Radd Falcontop seemed to be missing.
But then the stocky Mountain Swordsman stepped out from the tangled vegetation as silently as a ghost.
“I climbed to the rim of the ravine, Sir Deveron. Saw a little keep on a baldtop hill maybe half a league away. It’s Skullbone Peel, sure as dammit. Don’t worry. No one saw me. There’s plenty of cover up there, and naught about but a few birds.”
Snudge gave vent to a great sigh, unclenched his fist, and let Subtle Gateway drop away on its chain. “We’ve done it,” he said aloud.
His eyes closed, and he fell into a dark pit of ice, surrendering completely to the pain.
Chapter Twenty-One
Duke Feribor Blackhorse, Lord Treasurer of the Realm, had been confident he could bamboozle the Tarnian magicker and compel him to cooperate. Blind Bozuk wanted money—enormous amounts of it. By agreeing to pay the shaman’s original outrageous fee without dickering, King Conrig had undoubtedly suggested to the old rascal that even more gold might be forthcoming, given a bit of crafty maneuvering. Feribor intended to beat him at his own game.
But not for the Sovereign’s benefit…
The shaman and the duke were now face-to-face across a table covered with a fine red-damask cloth, in the commodore’s cabin of the crack frigate Peregrine Royal, the swiftest warship in the Cathran Navy, presently docked at the deepwater quay of Northkeep Castle. The duke had politely declined the hospitality of its chatelaine, Lady Freda—Sealord Liscanor was regrettably away from home—and arranged to receive Bozuk on shipboard. After regaling the ancient shaman with a splendid meal and ample amounts of fine wine, Feribor got down to business. He dismissed the ship’s officers, had the table cleared—except for the wine ewer and goblets—and commanded the first of the money-chests to be brought in and opened.
Then he and the blind man were left alone, and the game commenced.
The evening was now well advanced. Rain beat dismally against the stern windows and it was quite dark outside. The luxurious cabin was lit with gilded lanterns, and their mellow light glittered on the gold coins that Bozuk had piled in neat stacks. His eyes were shuttered pits but his manner was that of a sighted man, and Feribor was quite convinced that his guest scried everything.
“Two thousand and five hundred gold marks,” Bozuk said, fingering the last of the coins. “Half of the amount pledged. I suppose you intend to hold back the rest until you get your hands on Maudrayne and the child.”
“This is what my Sovereign has commanded. You are to tell me where the Princess Dowager resides. My windvoice, Brother Golan, will bespeak the information to Gala Palace, and from there it will fly on the wind to the Royal Intelligencer, one Deveren Austrey, who is already on his way to your country. Austrey will conduct the apprehension. When the High King is satisfied that Maudrayne and the child are alive and in custody, I shall pay you the remaining half of the reward.”
The shaman tilted his nearly hairless head and offered a gap-toothed grin. “And meanwhile, you cool your heels here in Northkeep, keeping me and my money hostage on your great ship.”
Feribor was suave. “You will be entertained in the most lavish style for the length of your visit.”
“And yet, I have a feeling that you hold something back, lord duke! I sense another proposition lurking in your clever mind, one you would have got ‘round to after plying me with more drink. Well, I shan’t refuse another beaker of your wine. But why don’t we cut right to the chase? You’d prefer to nab the woman yourself, rather than waiting upon this Austrey fellow. And once you had her, you’d use her to bring down Conrig Wincantor and claim the throne of Cathra and the Sovereignty of Blenholme for yourself.”
Feribor threw back his head and roared with laughter. “You sly old rapscallion! And to think I once thought I’d find myself dealing with no more than a greedy bumpkin!”
“I am both,” said Bozuk with cool off handedness, “and much more. Have I fathomed your scheme correctly, then?”
“You’ve hit on it, I don’t deny. The lady and the boy are the keys to Conrig Wincantor’s ruin, and there will be many other great lords in Cathra besides myself who’ll rejoice to see him cast down. The Sovereignty is a political millstone about Cathra’s neck, as is Conrig himself, with his insane ambition to emulate Bazekoy the Great. My plan was to force him to recognize Maudrayne’s son as his legal heir. In time—perhaps a very short time, now that Somarus sits the throne of Didion—Conrig would perish in some ill-advised battle. Without him, Blenholme would soon become as it was before—four states who trade and squabble as the spirit moves them. While I—“
“While you,” Bozuk said softly, “dispose of the boy-king and his half brothers and take the throne to which you have a legitimate claim, through your mother Jalmaire, who was old King Olmigon’s only surviving sibling.”
“You’ve studied up on Cathran genealogy.”
Bozuk cackled with laughter. “But there’s something I know and you don’t know, that would make a second deplorable massacre of royal children unnecessary. And give you the throne even before Conrig was dead.”
“What?” Feribor inquired with arch skepticism.
“First,” the old man said blithely, “the other half of the money. Now! And then the other five thousand marks in gold… with which you intended to bribe me to guide you to Maudrayne.”
Feribor went white. “You can’t have known about that! How did you know?”
“You and I are fox kits of the same dam, Feribor, brothers beneath the skin, guileful and wicked and having goals we would kill for, if need be! I want a secure old age in a warm country. You want a throne. Bring in the money and we’ll both win this game of wits.”
Without another word, Feribor strode to the cabin door and barked out an order. Then he returned to his seat at the table and sat in stony silence, flexing and unflexing his strong hands into fists, as though crushing something invisible.
Bozuk sipped wine while his sightless eyes seemed focused on the columns of golden disks lined up before him. After a while, the ship’s captain ushered in the bo’sun and his mate, carrying naked swords, and a file of seamen bearing money-chests.
“Is there anything else, my lord duke?” the captain inquired, when the open boxes rested upon the table and the men had withdrawn to the corridor.
“There is,” Blind Bozuk declared in a firm voice. “Outside on the quay, near the foot of your gangplank, you will find my servant Tigluk. He is a man of middle age, st
rongly built and having a notable black beard. Tell him this: ‘The master orders you to bring the banker Pakkor Kyle, a dozen of his well-armed lackeys, and the armored cart to this ship.’”
The captain looked to Feribor for confirmation. “My lord?”
“It must happen this way,” Bozuk addressed the duke without heat. “Either we do this thing together, forced to trust one another by circumstances, or we will not do it at all. You cannot coerce or harm me.” Again he smiled—mostly toothless, cheeks furrowed and white-bristled, balding head dotted with age spots like the egg of some enormous bird. Bozuk looked incapable of swatting a fly, but behind that unprepossessing, empty-eyed face Feribor Blackhorse somehow saw the shadow of a snarling wolf’s-head.
“Do as he says,” the duke told the captain, who saluted and left the cabin.
“And now you wish to know the other secret.” Bozuk opened one of the three newly arrived chests and again began to stack coins. “It’s one that Maudrayne Northkeep has already shared with her brother Liscanor, when she also told him about her son. Liscanor, in turn, informed High Sealord Sernin of it, and before long all of the other sealords of the Company of Equals will know it, too.” He paused. “They’ll know it, but be unable to prove it. Yet.”
Feribor scowled. “Bazekoy’s Ballocks! Get on with it, old man!”
Unfazed, the shaman continued in a leisurely fashion. “When I learned of the secret myself, lip-reading as I scried the Tarnian leaders discussing it, I freely gave the information to King Conrig, since he hesitated to pay my reward and I feared he’d slough me off as a backcountry crank. But he soon learned better. Oh, how distressed—how stricken with fear!—Conrig must have been to hear his windvoice repeat my dire words. But he agreed at once to pay all that I asked.”