Last to descend from the rigging, Jaric found that the boatswain and second watch had already launched a longboat. Corley stood with knuckles buried in his beard, briskly selecting his oarsmen. Clad unfamiliarly in dress colours, he wore bracelets on both arms and a maroon doublet with the Kielmark's badge of rank embroidered in gold on his right shoulder. But genteel trappings could not blunt his dangerous air of command; fine cloak and hose only emphasized weapons whose hilts bore no ornamentation but the oiled sheen of purpose. As Jaric swung from ratlines to deck, the captain called out to him.
'Fetch your things, boy. Shore party's nearly ready, and I've no mind to linger in this port.'
Jaric pushed past the crewmen, heading for the companionway and his cabin. As he rounded the mainmast, he caught sight of a figure huddled in shadow beyond. Taen sat on a bight of rope, hair tumbled like ink over slim shoulders, and her face hidden behind clenched and bloodless fingers. That, and an impression of unbreathing stillness about her person, roused Jaric to sharp anxiety.
He hurried to her side. 'Taen?'
She started slightly and looked up. Blue eyes remained unfocused in her elfin face and her skin was chalk-pale. Her hands trembled; the instant she noticed, she hid them in the crumpled cloth of her shift. 'I left your shirt on your berth. Better go there and gather your things. Corley's irritable.' When Jaric hesitated, she forced a smile. 'I'm going to miss you, that's all.'
Something very different troubled her. Only once before had she sounded this strained, and that was the time her brother had done murder. But having had his innermost will overturned and bound to a sorcerer's service, Jaric was wary of involving himself in the particulars of Vaerish mysteries. He shrugged away concern with a forced grin. 'Miss me? Not likely, but when you leave, certain sailors on this vessel are going to be left at a loss. What do you suppose they'll make of the beans they've hoarded as winnings?' He paused and touched her thin shoulder. 'You'll be safe on the Isle of the Vaere.'
Taen looked up, too quickly. At once Jaric knew he had been careless, that his distress over Emien's fate lay too near the surface of his thoughts. He ducked behind the blocks of the main halyard, and left before Taen's intuitive powers could probe his distress. In haste, he caught his heel in the line left flaked on the deck.
'Clumsy!' Taen called as he stumbled. 'Watch out! You'll break your silly nose.'
Jaric hurried on without rejoinder; and because for the second time that day her Dreamweaver's powers would not answer will or reason, Taen never guessed his silence was involuntary. Wrenched by the innocence in her upturned face, and the trembling fingers she had stilled with the same courage she had used to engineer Cliffhaven's defence, Jaric watched ocean, pinrail, and shrouds shatter through a lens of unexpected tears. He feared for Taen. He never realized how much until now. Her fragility had never seemed so poignant, for once her brother reached Shadowfane, her presence would be known to the enemy. Landfast's great libraries must contain an alternative to the Cycle of Fire; if not, there would be no haven. Kor's Accursed would not rest until they had destroyed the Dreamweaver who had wrested away their conquest at Cliffhaven.
* * *
Taen was gone from the deck by the time Jaric returned. He carried sword, dagger, penknife, and a spare shirt bundled in the green folds of his cloak; heavy on the thong at his neck hung the Keys to Elrinfaer and the stormfalcon's feather. Looking for the Dreamweaver's dark head among the crewmen, Jaric found the longboat already laden and waiting. He cursed Corley's efficiency as the boatswain caught his elbow and impatiently steered him to the rail. 'Get aboard, boy.'
Reluctant to leave without saying farewell, Jaric grabbed the beaded wood and resisted. 'Have you seen Taen?'
The boatswain shook his head, copper earrings swinging. 'Cap'n's temper's up,' he warned. 'Don't try him when he's hurrying.' And he pushed Jaric firmly towards the battens.
Callused hands tugged Jaric's bundle free, tossed it carelessly down to the oarsmen in the longboat. Hustled from Moonless's decks, Jaric descended into shadow and stumbled awkwardly into the rocking longboat below. The instant his feet touched floorboards, Corley ordered the craft cast off. Oar shafts bit into the sea. The strong backs of six crack seamen bent to their stroke, and Jaric half tumbled into the last empty seat.
His bundled weapons landed in his lap, thrown without gentleness by Corley. 'Put on your sword belt, boy. I didn't blister your hands at practice these days only to see you robbed in the streets because you kept your steel swaddled in wool. Hereafter you'll never walk strange shores without arms, understand?'
Jaric bit his lip against anger. He rose, braced his knee against the aft oar bench, and buckled on sword and dagger while frantically searching the faces at Moonless's rails. The officers had already begun to disperse the crew; Taen was not among them. Wedged uncomfortably between the bony frame of the ship's purser and an empty water cask, Jaric watched Moonless shrink astern as the pull of the oarsmen drove the longboat towards the main wharf at Landfast. The creak of leathers in the rowlocks and the rhythmic splash of the looms replaced conversation for what seemed a very long time.
'Boy?' said a voice over the rumble as the rowers shipped oars.
Jaric lifted his eyes from Moonless's tracery of masts and saw the purser regarding him, hooked features keen with interest. 'I'll tell the lass you looked for her.'
Jaric considered the man's hooded eyes, then the clever fingers laced in his lap, their precise, waiting stillness seldom found in honest trade; rumour held that the purser had courted women and stolen their jewels before he took sanctuary on Cliffhaven. 'Thank you,' Jaric said, and left the issue there. He did not trust the man enough to add that Taen acted oddly, and might need help. On that matter the boy resolved to speak directly to Corley.
The longboat drifted to the wharf, caught and steadied against the swell by her forward oarsmen. Jaric rose at once. But blocked by men lifting casks, and buffeted in the swirling commotion of the landing, the boy took several minutes to reach the piling and pull himself on to the damp boards of the dock. He looked, but could not locate Corley's maroon tunic in the bustle. Though he called, his shout became lost amid the clatter of hooves and iron-rimmed cartwheels as two wagons passed on the street; whips cracked, and drovers yelled for clearance with deafening persistence.
'Cap'n's gone, boy,' said the nearest of Moonless's seamen through the tumult. He paused to tie a red scarf above his creased eyes. 'In a hurry he was, to finish his business ashore.' Misinterpreting Jaric's concern, he added, 'Not to worry, then, he left instructions fer yer Callinde. She's to be towed in an' given free dockage, same's if she were one o' the Kielmark's own. Harbour-master'll tell you where. If he cusses, spit on his rugs and ignore it.'
Jaric turned away from the seaman's grin. Bitterly concerned, he realized he would have to catch Corley in the streets. Not an instant remained for talk. Leaving the seaman, the boy dodged Moonless's rolling water casks and ran. The wharf was a maze of activity. Forced to twist and duck through stacks of baled cargo and drying fish nets, and jostled by brawny, half-naked longshoremen, Jaric raced headlong for the town.
VI
Landfast
Crooked, narrow, and jammed with carts and stalls, the streets of Landfast were a difficult place to locate a man in haste to finish an unknown errand. After running down three dead ends and tripping twice over the same grape-seller's basket, Jaric abandoned his search for Corley. Frustrated, sweating, he braced his arm against the sun-warm bricks of a hostel to catch his breath.
The press of commerce swirled around him, overlaid by the spiel of a woman selling cakes for coppers. Two straining mules and a wagon laden with beer casks rumbled by. The spinning hubs of the wheels narrowly missed Jaric's hip. When he made no effort to step clear, the drover cursed and brandished a whip; but Jaric's sword and dagger, and the scowl beneath his tangled hair, made the man continue without further argument. The boy himself remained unaware that his appearance had intimidated a stranger t
wice his age and weight. A flock of geese flapped around his boots, arched necks lifted away from a girl with a stick who prodded them to market. She smiled invitation at him, her small feet dancing beneath lifted skirts.
Yet Jaric shrank and turned his face away. Even now he could not forget the teasing he had received from the serving wenches at Morbrith. The teeming streets, and the racket with attendant strange smells and bustle, made Landfast a world removed from Seitforest, where he had wintered. The beginnings of self-reliance he had learned in the trapper's trade became displaced by uncertainty; even his feats of seamanship lost significance, until every recent accomplishment seemed delusion wrought of dreams. With the dust of the city in his nostrils, the resolve made in the open air of the ice cliffs now seemed vain folly. How inadequate were his hopes to safeguard the Keys to Elrinfaer, far less protect Taen Dreamweaver from the brother she had lost to Shadowfane.
Jaric straightened, and pushed off from the wall before the tremble in his gut became an outright urge to run. His last and most sensible option was to write a note addressing his concern for Taen's welfare and trust the crew of the longboat to deliver it to Corley. Ink and paper could be found with the archivists, where Jaric intended to apply for work to earn bread and board. Although his plan now seemed futile, to do nothing invited despair. Resigned, the heir of Ivain Firelord tucked his bandaged wrist under his sleeve, and hastened to overtake the cake seller.
She accepted his copper with quizzical expression. Then, with her trays balanced against a packing crate, she raised a plump hand and tucked her hair in her cap while Jaric asked directions.
'You'll want the residence of the Grand First Archivist, then.' Belatedly discovering her fingers were still sticky with sugar, the woman abandoned vanity and let her arm fall. 'Go up the east stair, boy. Pass two courtyards, and you'll find the door between the chequered towers beyond Lionsgate.'
Jaric phrased his thanks with court courtesy. He moved to depart but the passage of mounted couriers in plumed helmets forced him to leap back, or be trampled. Raised in an earl's household, he instinctively shielded the woman from the horses' streaming trappings.
'You have the manners, then.' The cake seller studied him curiously. She looked beyond scuffed boots and uncut hair, and either his slenderness or his uncertainty aroused her sympathy. 'Have a cake, boy. And I won't keep your copper.'
Jaric shook his head with startling vehemence. Painfully he had discovered that motherly behaviour was inspired only by the helpless. Ignoring the cake in the woman's outstretched hand, he shoved his way back into the press. Nothing in Landfast could bring him to turn back, even when a pony shied back in its traces, showering straw on the cobbles and earning blasphemies from an oat-farmer's wife.
Inland from the harbour the crush of traffic became less frantic. Warehouses and seaport trade gave way to guildhalls and houses. The streets rose steeply, cleft by switchback turns and a chaotic crisscross of alleys. Jaric found his way with difficulty, for the thoroughfares here were jammed with people and beggars on foot. A few lanes were sparsely travelled, like the street of cloth weavers with its clatter of looms and the heated reek of dye pots. Jaric spotted Lionsgate long before he climbed the east stair. Supported by pillared arches, cats carved of amber marble reared above the tilted slates of the rooftops. Jaric squeezed past a trio of quarrelling merchants and stopped, his purpose obscured by awe.
To one side, between the shaded facade of two buildings, he saw a circular plaza of sand-coloured marble. Grilled gates closed off the access, and neither people nor carts passed through. Deserted in sunlight, patterned stone inlay described the four points of the compass, and the centre bore the stars and fire-burst symbol of Kordane's Brotherhood. Jaric turned towards the place, impelled by curiosity. But at the end of the access lane, a voice called out in challenge.
'Halt, boy! None may pass this way.'
Jaric started back, even as a sentry stepped smartly from the shadows by the gate and lowered an enamelled ceremonial spear. His helm was plumed and decorated also, but the facings were steel; and his weapon was tempered and honed to a killing point. Aware of the boy's confusion, and the plain sailor's linen that clothed him, the guardsman eased his stance. 'You'd be new to Landfast, then, boy?'
Jaric nodded. 'I'm trying to get to Lionsgate.'
The sentry gestured down a side street. 'That way, boy.' Then, seeing Jaric's eyes still fixed on the forbidden plaza, he lowered his weapon and leaned on the shaft. 'No man goes there but priests initiated to the mysteries. Yonder's the entrance to the sanctuary towers of Landfast.'
'There?' Scepticism coloured Jaric's tone as he regarded the polished paving. No door was visible.
'The stair leads underground, and the locking mechanism that hides the entrance is a secret kept by the Inner Echelon.' Suddenly out of patience, the sentry seated his spear butt with a clang against the cobbles. 'Now get along, boy. Regulations forbid me to jabber with passersby, and the captain of Kordane's guard has a mean way with slackers.'
Reminded that his own errand would fare poorly by delay, Jaric hurried on down the side street. Houses with jutting balconies shut out the light. The air beneath was sea-damp, and smelled faintly of garbage. Town sweepers did not pass here to clear the gutters, and apparently the resident tenants were too lazy to tidy their door walks themselves. Since their shutters were latched closed in full daylight, Jaric wondered whether this was an alley of brothels. Ahead lay an intersection, and beyond, a small square, the final ascent to Lionsgate. The staircase to the arch was all but empty, since commerce slowed in late afternoon. Anxious to speak with the Grand First
Archivist before the libraries closed at eventide, Jaric tackled the steps at a run. Near the top, panting, he spotted the twin towers the cake seller had described, their bases faced with bands of chequered agate. The doorway framed between bore a device of scrolls and crossed swords, symbolic of knowledge's double-edged legacy.
Jaric leapt the last triplet of stairs and hurried headlong through the arch. The shadows slanted steeply towards sunset. The longboat must not leave the quay without his message to Corley.
The entrance to the scribes' hall stood open in the heat. The tiled foyer within proved invitingly cool, and musty with the smells of ink and old parchment. A clerk in brown robes rose from an ambry as Jaric entered. He banged the doors closed with ill-concealed annoyance, and stared at the boy who confronted him, a hand-woven cloak of green wadded under an arm tanned as a sailor's.
The clerk sniffed, unimpressed. 'Are you lost?'
Jaric shook his head once, sharply. 'I've come to ask for work.'
The clerk twitched his lips. 'We don't hire swordsmen.'
'I'm not a swordsman.' Jaric stepped forward, desperate to save time.
'Fisherman, then,' said the clerk. He gestured, openly vexed. 'Get back to your nets. You're too old for apprenticeship.'
Jaric stiffened. His eyes narrowed. 'Are you deaf? I said work, not apprenticeship. I know my craft.'
The clerk's brows lifted. He glanced again at the sword, noticed heavy calluses on the boy's hands, and took a step back. Muttering for his visitor to wait, he walked precipitously towards the stair. Jaric paced back and forth before the ambry through what seemed an unreasonable span of time.
At length the clerk reappeared. He leaned over the balustrade, an overweening sneer on his lips. 'The master in residence will see you. Mercy on you if your claims were boasting. The man dislikes nuisance, and the Grand Magistrate's his drinking crony.'
Too annoyed to react to threats, Jaric bounded up the stair, unbuckling his sword belt as he went. He followed the clerk down a carpeted hallway, past door after door which opened upon rooms of books. His escort showed him into a chamber; rich rugs were slashed with sunlight which spilled through lancet windows. Jaric paused past the threshold, dazzled.
The clerk poked sharply at his elbow, 'Are you an oaf? Bow before your betters, boy.'
Jaric ignored the prompt. Squinting
, he took a step towards the broad desk with its stooped, white-bearded occupant. Then, suddenly timid, he stopped. The towering shelves of books, the ink-smell, and the still air wakened unwanted memories of his childhood at Morbrith. Once the silence of the copy chamber had been his only refuge from the cruel jibes of his peers.
'You come from the Kielmark's brigantine?' rasped the elderly man at the desk. His spectacles glinted white, unfathomable as the eyes of dead insects.
'Yes, Eminence.' Jaric lifted his burden, carefully laid weapons and cloak on the marquetry table near his elbow. 'But I'm not in Cliffhaven's service.'
'That I know.' The master in residence raised a crabbed hand and beckoned the boy closer to his chair. 'Pirates have small use for written words.'
Jaric stifled an unwise urge to contradict. Plain in his thoughts lay the Kielmark's personal study, walls lined floor to ceiling with volumes any prince might treasure.
The books had not been for show, he knew; once in curiosity he had pulled one down and found it clean of dust.
The elderly scribe leaned forward. 'You're very quiet, boy.'
'Oh, he talks, all right,' offered the clerk from the doorway. 'The question is, can he write?'
'That's quite enough!' The old man stood. A collar ornate with embroidery and pearls dragged at the cords of his neck. 'You have work to do, yes? Well then, leave me to mine!'
After a venomous glance at Jaric, the clerk spun and departed. As his steps faded away down the hallway, the master in residence returned his scrutiny to the applicant standing by his chair. One hand was bandaged; the other bore marks from the sword and the sea. And gold hair fell untrimmed over the muscled leanness one saw in the shoulders of the young who trained for posts in the Governor's guard. Still, this boy had features too sensitive for a fighter; and his manner, a queer mix of diffidence and impatience, harboured no arrogance at all.