“What is going on here?” the captain demanded, striding toward the seneschal. “Desist! What are you —”
The seneschal grabbed the man’s throat and, with a wrenching swing, slammed him into the mast. Fury burned in his eyes as he squeezed, pressing his bent knuckle in between the bones of the man’s clavicle. The captain gasped and flailed helplessly, his eyes blinking in an attempt to remain conscious.
The seneschal pulled the captain back and battered his head against the mast again, and again, over and over, shaking the mast, pounding relentlessly until blood spattered the mains’l in stripes and flecks, bits of the man’s brain caking the timber.
Finally, with a vicious tug, he dragged the captain’s corpse to the outer rail, the side of the deck aligned with the open sea. He snatched the binnacle, the box containing the man’s beloved compass and navigational maps, lashed it quickly with a length of rope and tied it around the dead man’s neck, then tossed his body overboard. He stared as corpse hit the waves and sank. Then he turned back to the crew; he took a moment to straighten his triangular hat and brush the green-gray matter from his cloak.
“I do so hate being questioned,” he said casually.
Fergus stared in dismay over the side.
“Why, if I might ask, did you toss the binnacle too, Your Honor? How are we to navigate now?”
The seneschal inhaled. “I wanted the captain to have clear directions to the Underworld,” he said, his tone light. “And we don’t need those petty tools. Faron will guide us with the scales.”
The sailors looked to one another doubtfully. “Yes, sir,” Fergus said.
“And now,” the seneschal continued, striding up to the first mate and stopping before him, “now there is a question of you, sir. Do you wish to ascend to the captaincy?”
The man squared his shoulders and looked the seneschal directly in the eye.
“No,” he said, quietly and firmly. “I know that you will kill me in the end, whether I aid you or not. So I choose not to.”
The seneschal’s muscles rippled with anger. “I will not kill you in the end; you are wrong in that,” he said, his voice seething. He turned and walked away from the mate, then nodded to the twins.
The crossbows fired again within a breath of one another. The mate’s body only lurched once as it tumbled over the side.
“I will kill you in the beginning,” the seneschal said. He turned to the reeve. “Where is Quinn?”
“Here, sir,” came the sailor’s voice, shallow and thready. The seneschal motioned for him to come forward.
“It seems you have command now, Quinn. Prepare to weigh anchor, after securing the scull and once the cutter has moved on.”
The sailor’s blue eyes blinked rapidly in the unfiltered sunlight on the open water. “Moved on, sir?”
In reply the seneschal turned back to the cutter. He walked to the rail, studying the listing ship for a moment.
“Spill the sails,” he called to Quinn, who quickly repeated the order. The crew leapt to grab the sheets and discharge the wind, gathering the flapping canvas as quickly as they could.
The seneschal closed his eyes and drew Tysterisk, reveling in the gust of air, the rush of power that came forth with it, the harnessed wind itself. He opened his eyes and looked to the sails of the cutter, which began to fill with wind.
The Basquela remained at anchor, riding the shallow waves, as the cutter began to bear away, into the wind, sailing briskly out of the harbor toward the sluice. From any distance it appeared as if the harbormaster’s ship, satisfied, had departed from the Basquela, moving on to patrol the outer port.
The seneschal looked about the immense harbor, where many ships were passing, some moving into dock, others already moored, some dealing with their own inspections by other vessels of the harbormaster. The cry of the gulls, the glare of the sun, the slap of the wind as the cutter sailed away; ordinary business in Port Fallon.
“Bear away, against the wind,” he ordered Quinn. “Take us out of the harbor, across the sluiceway and around the point.” Quinn scrambled to obey.
When the Basquela was no longer in sight of the wharf, the seneschal tapped Clomyn on the shoulder.
“Here’s your chance to make up for your miss earlier,” he said, the gleaming blue of his eyes mirroring the sky.
Clomyn came to the rail. “Where, sir?”
“The mains’l, I think.”
The crossbowman sighted his weapon, out of range for a normal archer by more than three times. “Ready, sir.”
The seneschal touched the tip of the quarrel, and spoke the word kryv; ignite.
The tip of the bolt gleamed red for a moment, then blazed forth in a spark of dark fire. It hissed menacingly as it snapped to life.
The seneschal nodded, and Clomyn fired. The wind lay eerily still for a moment as the bolt soared over the ocean currents and out of sight.
Then, at the very edge of their vision, a tiny finger of smoke rose from the mains’l.
“Well done,” the seneschal said to Clomyn. He raised the sword and reached down into himself, where the element of air, of wind, was bound to his dark soul.
The breezes that scudded along the sea between the Basquela and the cutter picked up, gaining strength, then bound together; a small waterspout appeared for a moment as they passed over the waves, gusting toward the empty ship. A heartbeat later, the crew of the Basquela saw the cutter’s sails go full.
Within another heartbeat the cutter’s mains’l exploded in flame. The fire leapt high up the mast, then raced from the forecastle to die stern, all in the twinkling of an eye. All on the deck of the Basquela stood and watched, rapt, as the red-orange fireball resolved itself in black ash, burning caustically, the ship a bright, skeletal outline in the smoke.
“Bear a-hand, Quinn,” he said to the new captain, who was trembling slightly as the horns and bells began to sound in the distance. “Follow the coast. I want to drop anchor again in the morning. It is ungentlemanly to keep a lady waiting.”
15
YARIM PAAR
On the morning of the eighth day, the drilling stopped suddenly.
Ihrman Karsrick, who had finally become accustomed to the grinding rumble outside the windows of the Judiciary, leapt up from the breakfast he was sharing with the Lord Cymrian and hastened to the window. He looked out over the streets to the place where Entudenin stood, and the work had been progressing.
In the distance he could see that the internal ring of Bolg guards had broken in places; Firbolg soldiers and artisans alike were milling about, apparently packing up equipment, carrying it out of the tent to the large wagons that had brought it in eight days before. He could not see any sign of a restored fountain, no breach of water, no change in the tent, no pool on the ground.
“Gods, where are they going?” Karsrick said, crumpling his napkin in panic.
Ashe took another bite of his hot buttered scone and shrugged.
“They aren’t finished — they can’t be finished, it’s only been eight days. I don’t know whether to be thrilled or horrified,” Karsrick muttered, his eyes darting around the room to the window, at the Lord Cymrian and back again.
Ashe swallowed and wiped his mouth on the linen napkin. “Perhaps they are. Achmed does not waste time.”
“We must go to them, m’lord,” Karsrick insisted, hurrying across the conservatory to the door. “Where’s the Lady Cymrian?”
“I believe she is in the garden, singing her morning devotions.”
Karsrick summoned the chamberlain, clanging the bells so frantically that Ashe rose from the table and folded his napkin, his breakfast half finished.
“Ihrman, why are you so distressed? You have been beside yourself since the Bolg arrived; I would think their departure would gladden your heart immensely.”
Karsrick stared at him glassily. “There is no water, m’lord. They have dissembled Entudenin — disemboweled it, really — sliced away the relic’s upper arm, disturbed the
city for eight continuous days without stopping, robbing the entire square and all the streets surrounding the Marketway of any peace, any sleep whatsoever as they continued their hellish drilling into the dark hours of the night. They’ve destroyed the walkways and the fountainbed in and around the town square — and there is no water.”
Ashe sat back down to finish his meal. “All right, Ihrman, all right, calm yourself. Rhapsody will return in a moment, and then we can make our way to the square and ascertain precisely what is happening.”
When the duke, lord, and lady arrived in the square, the Bolg had half finished packing up the equipment. Karsrick hurried to the Firbolg king and tapped him nervously on the arm.
“Where are you going, King Achmed? Surely you are not ready to leave yet.”
The Bolg king turned around and regarded the duke as he would someone with cauliflower sprouting from his ears.
“Surely we are,” he said as if addressing a five-year-old or a mental defective. “It’s finished. We’ve done as much as we can. We hate this place, this place hates us; seems all in all like a good time to leave.”
The duke gazed in dismay at the disarray of his town square beneath the tent and beyond it. Clay dust was everywhere, piled in great heaps like miniature red mountains. Deep crevices had been dug that were hastily filled in, lending the appearance of new graves, while the cobblestones of the street and the bricks of the walkways were strewn about in abandon.
And worst of all, Entudenin stood, naked and dismembered, looking as sad and shriveled as it did eight days before, shorter, with a great hollow hole in it.
“It’s–it’s not finished!” the duke cried, waving his hands wildly.
“As far as we’re concerned, it is. We’ve done what we can do.”
“But there’s no water.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“You’ve broken the Fountain Rock down, sliced its arm off, delved the streets, made a colossal mess, and there is still no water. Yet you are preparing to leave?”
Achmed crossed his arms and looked for a long moment at Rhapsody; he narrowed his eves, inhaled, and addressed the duke in a barely civil voice.
“We, unlike you, have been following the phases of the moon, Karsrick,” he said, stepping out of the way of three Bolg soldiers carrying a long, heavy wooden box. “If there is water still available to Entudenin, it would be in its sleeping phase right now; five days or so hence, if there is water to be had, it should come back. It may, it may not.” He shrugged. “We’ve done what we can to make the Fountain Rock capable of withstanding the flow, should it return. We removed a great deal of debris and detritus from the feeder tunnel, and there is another place below the ground where the passageway is partially barred, near the Canderian border, which will be taken care of. I’d say we’re finished here.
“Since we cannot predict for certain how the cycle of the flow corresponds to the moon’s phases, I deemed it necessary to get the miners away from the subterranean chambers now. The force of water at Awakening was said to be violent, damaging in fact. I don’t want my men in harm’s way when it returns, if it returns. I will not lose any of my subjects on your behalf.”
“What he says makes good sense, Ihrman,” Rhapsody said, staring at the dry red geyser. “There is really no point in the Bolg remaining here, in the heat, now that the digging is done. I’m certain King Achmed is looking forward to returning home.”
“Please, sire, reconsider and stay,” Karsrick said, eyeing the building crowds that had come to investigate the silence. “I will host you and you artisans in the Judiciary —”
“Did you find me a stained-glass artisan?”
Karsrick stopped in midword, his mouth open, then closed it quickly.
“I put out a call to every legitimate guild, sire, but alas, no, I was unable to locate anyone qualified to do the level of work you asked for who was also available to travel to Canrif.”
The Bolg king exhaled. “Ylorc. It’s called Ylorc, Karsrick.”
“My apologies; of course. Ylorc.”
Achmed directed three soldiers carrying an enormous metal gear to a specific wagon, turning his back on the duke. “I wish I could say that your inadequacy surprises me,” he said sullenly, “but I was prepared for it. Grunthor — are we close?”
“Yes, sir. Just ’ave to pack the bit, and a few o’ the odds and ends.”
The duke trailed along behind the Bolg king as he continued to make preparations to leave.
“Please — just a few more days. Stay until the water returns.”
“No.” Achmed took hold of one end of a jointed timber, and Ashe caught the other end, helping him carry it to the waiting wagons.
“Why are you so insistent that they stay, Ihrman?” Rhapsody asked, coiling a great length of rope.
“I — in case — well, if there should be some residual need —”
Achmed gave the timber in the wagon a ragged shove, then turned to face the duke.
“He’s afraid the water will not return, which is a very good possibility,” he said to Rhapsody, staring at Karsrick in contempt. “And if that comes to pass, he wants the Bolg here to take the blame, and whatever ugly reaction the citizenry may visit upon whomever they blame. You’re a coward, Karsrick; when a man starts being afraid of the reactions of his own subjects to the point where he is unwilling to acknowledge his own decisions and take responsibility for them, he ceases to have any credibility as a leader, in their eyes, and in the eyes of those who rule alongside him.” He picked up a pair of wrenches waiting in a pile to be loaded and tossed them into the wagon.
“He’s right, Ihrman,” Ashe said. “Bid your thanks to the king and move out of his way.”
“I do appreciate the irony of your invitation,” Achmed said, signaling to the Bolg soldiers to pull forth the last wagon, the one that transported the bit. “You didn’t want us to come; now you don’t want us to leave. It’s touching.”
“Sire —” Karsrick protested.
“Have the bill of tender prepared immediately; I expect to be given the down payment within the next hour,” Achmed said to the duke, cutting his protest off with a mere glance. “And make certain those powdered mineral ores I ordered — the manganese, iron, cobalt, and copper — are delivered here, ready to be packed.”
Karsrick swallowed, and left the square, motioning to his aide-de-camp.
“Thank you for doing this,” Rhapsody said over the building din of the crowd as a dozen Firbolg workers ducked into the tent. She took Achmed’s hand as Ashe and Grunthor held the tent flaps aside. “I am sorry you were not able to find a stained-glass artisan, but I do appreciate your doing this for me.”
Achmed and one of the soldiers pulled open the gates of the wagon. “Once again, you overestimate your importance to me,” he said dryly. “Karsrick is paying me handsomely, satisfied with our work or not. And he is giving us a tariff waiver that extends beyond the ten-year proviso you negotiated with Roland four years ago. If his credit papers are not in Ylorc with the next mail caravan, I will stop all trade with him until they arrive.” The first two Bolg soldiers emerged from the tent, the blue-black rysin-steel bit in their hands, followed by four more; Achmed motioned them over to where the wagon waited. He lifted his voice for effect. “Who knows? If they don’t pay the balance, perhaps we’ll invade and round up some of the townspeople to stock the larders of the Cauldron.”
Rhapsody’s expression hardened. “Why must you do that?” she asked in annoyance.
“Do what?”
“Say things you do not mean, just to be ugly. Be deliberately obstreperous, obnoxious. Make people unnecessarily wary of the Bolg.”
The Bolg king watched as the enormous bit was loaded into the wagon, then wrapped in heavy canvas for the trip, more for the protection of the wagon than for that of the bit. Then he turned and smiled slightly at Rhapsody.
“Who is to say that I don’t mean it?”
“I am. Stop it. I know you better after f
ourteen hundred years, all but four of them alone with you and Gruntior in the dark, facing death daily. I know when you are bluffing and when you mean what you say. You didn’t just now.”
The Bolg king’s face grew serious. He took Rhapsody’s arm and led her to a sheltered side of the tent, away from the tumult of the onlookers and the noise of the Bolg preparing to move the equipment out. He looked down into her face, studying her for a moment, then sighed and looked away.
“You once asked me whether I desired the Bolg to be viewed by the world as men, or as monsters. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” Rhapsody replied. “I remember very well; you chose men, albeit monstrous men.”
Achmed nodded in assent. “Indeed I did, and that is what we are: both man and monster. But remember, Rhapsody, for all that you struggle to make the humans accept the Bolg for the men that we are, it is the monster in us that may prove to be their more valuable ally in the end.”
Rhapsody jumped at the sound on the other side of the tent of the wagon gate slamming suddenly shut.
“Why?”
“Don’t you remember your childhood nightmares?”
“Yes.” The corners of Rhapsody’s mouth twitched as a smile began, then was abruptly halted. Achmed was not smiling in return. “Because monsters never sleep?”
Achmed merely nodded.
“In any event,” she said, “whatever disappointments there have been in this undertaking — Entudenin is still dry, you did not find your artisan — perhaps there will be a better understanding now between humans and Firbolg. That alone was worth the price.”
Achmed shook his head. “Perhaps, though I would not say the Firbolg opinion has improved much. And it will take months to wash off this cursed red dust.”
The impulse to smile came again, and Rhapsody surrendered to it. “With good reason. But at least there has been some enlightenment on the side of the Yarimese; perhaps it will extend to other humans as well.”
“Perhaps. But in my experience, enlightenment has a very short life span. It tends to shrink, not spread. Do you want to say goodbye to Grunthor before we go?”