The stubble-cheeked man was clad in long coveralls of some tough, rough-sewn cotton fabric. His long-sleeved shirt was greasy at the wrists with fish blood and oil. He sat on a portion of the breakwater facing the sea, long pole in hand, two small metal buckets at his side. One held bait, the other fish. The bait bucket was the fuller of the two. By his side sat a tousle-haired boy of perhaps six, simply dressed and holding a smaller pole. He kept sneaking looks at the commanding figure that now towered silently behind him and his father. The expressionless fisherman ignored them both.
“I see by your pails that the fish are as disrespectful of you as you are of me.”
The man did not flinch. “’Tis a slow morning, and we had a late start.”
No honorific, the necromancer mused. No title, no “Good morning, Lord.” By his slow yet skillful manipulation of the pole, Hymneth determined that the fellow was not blind. His reply had already marked him as not deaf.
“You know me.”
The man gave the rod a little twitch, the better to jog the bait for the benefit of any watching fish. “Everyone knows who you are.”
Still no praise, no proper acknowledgment! What was happening here? It made no sense. Hymneth was fully aware that others were watching. Surreptitiously, covertly as they could manage, but watching still. He would not have turned and walked away had he, fisherman, and child been on the far side of the moon, but the presence of others made it imperative that he not do so.
“You do not properly acknowledge me.”
The man seemed to bend a little lower over his pole, but his voice remained strong. “I would prefer to be given a choice in who I acknowledge. Without any such choice, the actual execution of it seems superfluous.”
An educated bumpkin, Hymneth reflected. All the more important then, to add to the body of his edification. “You might be more careful in your choice of metaphors. The use of certain words might inspire others, such as myself, to employ them in another context.”
For the first time, the fisherman looked up and back. He did not flinch at the sight of the horned helmet, or the glowing eyes that glowered down at him. “I’m not afraid of you, Hymneth the Possessed. A man can only live so long anyway, and there are too many times when I find myself thinking that it would be better to die in a state of freedom than to continue to exist without it.”
“Without freedom?” The wizard waved effusively. “Here you sit on these public stones, on this beautiful day, with your son at your side, engaging in a pursuit that most of your fellow citizens would consider a veritable vacation, and you complain of a lack of freedom?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” The fellow’s tone was positively surly, Hymneth decided appraisingly. “Ultimately, nothing can be done without your approval, or that of your appointed lackeys like the stone-faced old soldier who waits silently in your chariot. You rule ultimately, tolerating no dissent, no discussion. Throughout the length and breadth of all Ehl-Larimar nothing can be done without your knowledge. You spy on everyone, or have it done for you.”
“Knowledge is a necessary prerequisite of good governance, my man.”
“Ignoring the will of the people is not.” Again the pole was jiggled, the long, thin wisp of a line punctuating the surface with small black twitches.
“It’s a dangerous thing for people to have too much will.” Stepping closer, Hymneth knelt directly behind the man so that he could feel the warm breath of the Possessed on his own dirty, exposed neck. “It makes them restless, and upsets everyone’s digestion. Much better simply to live and enjoy each day as it comes, and leave the matter of willing to another.”
“Like you.” Still the man did not flinch, or pull away. “Go ahead—do your worst. It can’t be any worse than the rest of my luck this morning.”
“My worst? You really do think ill of me, don’t you? If you were more worldly, my man, you’d know that I’m not such a bad sort, as absolute rulers go. I have no intention of doing anything to you.” The front of the helmet turned slightly to the right. “Fine boy you have there.” Reaching out a mailed hand, Hymneth ruffled the child’s hair. The expression on the face of the six-year-old was of one torn between uncertain admiration and absolute terror.
For the first time, the fisherman’s granite resolution appeared to falter ever so slightly. “Leave the boy alone. Deal with me if you must.”
“Deal with you? But my man, I am dealing with you.” Reaching into a pocket, the necromancer removed a small stoppered glass vial. It was half full of an oily black liquid. “I will not trouble you with the name of this elixir. I will tell you that if I were to sprinkle a couple of drops of it onto this fine stalwart young lad’s hip, it would shrivel up his legs like the last overlooked stalks of summer wheat. They would become brittle, like the stems of dried flowers. Walking would cause the bones to splinter and shatter, causing excruciating pain no doctor or country alchemist could treat. Then they would heal, slowly and agonizingly, until the next time he took a wrong step, and then they would break again. And again and again, over and over, the pain as bad or worse with each new fracture, healing and breaking, breaking and healing, no matter how careful the young fellow strove to be, until by adulthood, if he survived the pain that long, both legs had become a mass of deformed, misshapen bony freaks useless for walking or any other purpose except the giving of agony.”
His helmeted face was very close to the fisherman’s ear now, and his commanding voice had dropped to a whisper. The man’s face was twitching now, and several tears rolled down his stubbled cheek.
“Don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”
“Ah.” Within the helmet, a smile creased the steel shrouded face of Hymneth the Possessed. “Please don’t do that—what?”
“Please ...” The fisherman’s head fell forward and his eyes squeezed tight shut. “Please don’t do that—Lord.”
“Good. Very good.” Reaching over, the warlock ran a mail-enclosed forefinger along the young boy’s cheek. The little lad was quivering now, manfully not crying but obviously wanting to, shivering at the touch of the cold metal. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? I’m leaving you now. Remember this encounter with pride. It’s not every day that Hymneth the Possessed stoops to converse with one of his people. And be sure to respect my departure appropriately.” The silky voice darkened ever so slightly. “You don’t want me to come back and talk to you again.”
Straightening to his full, commanding height, he returned to the chariot and stepped aboard. “Let’s go, Peregriff. For some reason the ocean doesn’t hold its usual cheer for me this morning.”
“It’s the woman, Lord. The Visioness. She preys on your thoughts. But her misgivings will pass.”
“I know. But it’s hard to be patient.”
Peregriff ventured an old soldier’s smile. “The time spent in extended contemplation will make the eventual resolution all the more agreeable, Lord.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s true.” The sorcerer put a hand on the older man’s arm. “You always know the right thing to say to comfort me, Peregriff.”
The white-maned head dipped deferentially. “I try, Lord.”
“Back to the fortress! We’ll have a good meal, and deal with the turgid matters of state. Let’s away from the stench of this place, and these people.”
“Yes, Lord.” Peregriff rattled the reins and the magnificent mounts responded, turning the chariot neatly in the limited space available. As it turned, Hymneth glanced in the direction of the breakwater’s edge. The people there were standing, poles set aside, hats in hand and heads bowed reverentially. The head of one particular man was set especially low, as was that of his son. Both were trembling slightly. Seeing this, Hymneth let his gaze linger on them for longer than was necessary, even though he knew it was petty of him to find enjoyment in such trivial exercises of power.
Then Peregriff chucked the reins forcefully, shouted a command, and the chariot leaped forward, racing down the breakwater back toward the
harbor, the city, and the stern cliffs of the Curridgians. Food awaited, and drink, and contemplation of the as yet unattained comeliness of his special guest.
Something darted out in front of the chariot, scrambling frantically to avoid the pounding, approaching hooves of the scarlet stallions. A black cat, skittering across the chariot’s path.
“Look out,” the necromancer yelled, “don’t hit it!”
Even though it brought them dangerously close to the edge of the breakwater, Peregriff obediently and expertly utilized the reins to angle the galloping chargers slightly to the right. Spared, the unprepossessing cat vanished into the rocks. Looking back sharply, Hymneth tried to locate it, but could not.
Having guided the striding stallions back to the middle of the breakwater, his chief attendant was looking at him uncertainly. “Lord, it was only a mangy stray cat. No loss if it were killed.”
“No—no loss.” Hymneth found himself frowning. What had that singular moment been about? For just an instant, something had burrowed into and infected his state of mind, causing him to act in a manner not only unbecoming but atypical. Whom had he been panicked for—the cat, or himself? It was very peculiar.
Two inexplicable incidents in little more than as many minutes. First the fisherman, then the cat. It was turning out to be an idiosyncratic morning. One that, for reasons unknown and despite Peregriff’s best efforts to cheer him, saw him finally reach the fortress still unsettled in mind and more ill at ease than he had been in years.
II
As a conduit for goods from the interior and imports from the exotic south and east, Lybondai provided refuge on a daily basis to a goodly number of extraordinary sights. But even in a port city as worldly and cosmopolitan as the pearl of the southern coast, the somber sight of a jet-black, five-hundred-pound cat with the legs of an overmuscled feline sprinter and the teeth and mane of a fully mature lion padding through the harborfront marketplace succeeded in turning heads.
“What makes you think they’re all staring at you?” Drawing himself up to his full, if limited, height, Simna ibn Sind strode along importantly over the well-worn diamond-shaped paving stones.
Ahlitah the black litah snorted softly.
“There are a thousand and one humans milling around us and I can scent thousands more. There are cats, too, the largest of which would provide me with less than an afternoon snack. You don’t need a kingdom to rule and pay you homage, Simna. You do that tirelessly yourself.”
Glancing upward, the swordsman saw two young women leaning out of a window to follow their progress. When he grinned and waved up at them, they drew back within the painted walls, giggling and covering their mouths.
“There, you see! They were looking at me.”
“No,” the big cat replied. “They were laughing at you. Me, they were looking at. Rather admiringly, if I do say so.”
“Be silent, the both of you.” Etjole Ehomba cast a disapproving look back at his garrulous companions. “We will try making inquiries at this harbor pilot’s shack first, and if we have no luck there we will move on to the ships themselves.”
Hope segued quickly into disappointment. At least the harbor pilots were understanding of their request and sympathetic to their situation. But they were no more encouraging than the ship mates and masters. Among the latter, the kindest were those who brusquely ordered the visitors off their ships. Sadly, they were outnumbered by colleagues who laughed openly in the faces of the supplicants. These were fewer than they might have been, for those who caught sight of Ahlitah lurking behind the two humans wisely decided it might be impolitic to make fun of the inquiry, no matter how outrageous its content.
The last captain to whom they presented the request Ehomba mistook for one of the lesser mates. He was a strapping redhead, freckled of face and taut of sinew, with a broad chest on which curly hairs posed like tiny frozen flames and a mustache that would have been the envy of an emperor tamarin. But when questioned, his bluff good humor and kindly nature proved no substitute for reality.
Letting go of the line he had been holding, the young shipmaster rested hands on hips as he confronted Ehomba. As he preferred to do at such moments, Simna remained in the background. By now the swordsman was thoroughly bored with the endlessly negative responses to their inquiries, which had taken most of the day, and predictive of the response they were likely to receive. In this the young Captain did not disappoint him.
“Take passage across the Semordria? Are ye daft?” A soft growl caused him to glance behind the tall, dark southerner to see the slit-eyed mass of muscle and claw lying supine on the deck behind him. He immediately softened his tone, if not his opinion. “No one sails across the Semordria. At least no ship that I be aware of.”
“Are you afraid?” Simna piped up. It was late, and he no longer much cared if he happened to offend some local mariner stinking of fish oil and barnacle scrapings.
The young Captain bristled but, perhaps mindful of the lolling but very much alert Ahlitah, swallowed his instinctive response like a spoonful of sour medicine. “I fear only what is unknown, and no one knows the reaches of the Semordria. Some say that the stories of lands far to the west are nothing more than that: the imaginative ramblings of besotted seamen and inventive minstrels. From the crews of the few ships that venture out one of the Three Throats of the Aboqua to sail up and down the legendary western coasts come tales of creatures monstrous enough to swallow whole ships, and of underwater terrors most foul.” He turned back to his work.
“I command this ship at the behest of my two uncles. They have given it unto my care, and as such I have responsibilities to discharge to them. Even if I were so inclined, or sufficiently crazy, I would not contemplate such an undertaking. Best you not do so, either.”
“I can understand what you say about a responsibility to others.” Ehomba spoke quietly, having heard the same narrative from the captains of more than two dozen other vessels. “I am traveling under similar conditions.” His gaze drifted southward. Toward home, and as importantly, toward the grave of a noble man of far distant shores whose dying request had implored the herdsman to save a mysterious woman he had called the Visioness Themaryl.
Pulling hard on the line, the Captain spoke without turning to look at them. “Then you’d best get it through your head that the Semordria is not for crossing. Leastwise, not by any ship or captain or crew that sails the Aboqua.” And that was the last he would say on the subject.
“Now what?” Simna stretched as they descended the boarding ramp to the wooden quay.
“We find a place to sleep.” Already Ehomba was scanning the inns and taverns that fronted the main harbor. “Tomorrow we try once more.”
“Hoy, not again!”
A grim-faced Ehomba whirled on his friend. “What would you have me do, Simna? We cannot walk across the Semordria. Nor can we fly.”
“Pour drink enough down me, bruther, and I’ll show you who can fly!” The swordsman’s tone was belligerent.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen—there’s no need to argue between yourselves. Not when I’m here to help you.”
They turned together, tall herdsman and stocky easterner. His attention having been diverted by a barrel full of bait fish, Ahlitah ignored it all. The three fishermen who had been making use of the barrel lifted their poles from the water and silently and with wide eyes edged out of the cat’s way.
Ehomba studied the stranger. “Who are you, that you want to help those you do not know?”
The man stepped forward. “My name is Haramos bin Grue. I was passing by this very spot when I chanced to overhear your conversation with the captain of this ignoble vessel. Of course he refused your request.” The stranger eyed the nearby craft dubiously. “I wouldn’t trust that bass barge to convey my ass safely from one side of the harbor to the other, much less across the great Semordria.” He winked meaningfully. “You need a proper ship, crewed by men who are used to making such a crossing. Not fair-weather amateur sailors such as
these.” He swung an arm wide, dismissing the entire harbor and every boat docked or riding at anchor with a single wave.
Ehomba considered the individual who was so casual in impugning the professional capabilities of everyone he and his companions had sounded out that day. Pushy, to be sure, but did he know what he was talking about or was he merely being boastful?
It was impossible to tell simply by looking at him. A stump of a man, several inches shorter than Simna ibn Sind but without the swordsman’s incident-inspired musculature, bin Grue was nonetheless a solid specimen, from his short arms to the profound gut that, interestingly, did not quiver when he walked. A tart-smelling cigar protruded from one corner of his mouth, around which his very white, very even teeth were clamped as if on a loose coin. His eyes were deep set and his cheeks bantamweight duplicates of his belly. A fringe of wavy white hair crowned his large head, which protruded above the halo of fluff like a whale shoving its snout through old pack ice. Virtually nonexistent, his neck was a ring of squat muscle on which the impressive head sat and swiveled like a fire-throwing turret on a Vendesian warship. He did not speak words so much as saw them up into individual syllables, spitting out one after another like hunks of rough lumber awaiting the attention of some absent master carver.
For all the man’s affability and fine clothing, complete to high-strapped sandals, long pants, and puff-sleeved overshirt cut in a wide V down to the middle of his chest, Ehomba was uncertain as to his motives. Still, there was no harm in learning what he might have to offer.
“You know where we might find such a ship?”
“I certainly do. Not here, in this backass dimple on the Premmoisian coast. To find real sailors, you need to go north.” His eyes glittered with a recollection that might have been his—or bought, or borrowed. “For a ship to take you across the Semordria, you need to go to Hamacassar.”
Ehomba glanced over at Simna, who shrugged. “Never heard of the place.”