TWOLAS - 03 - Warhost Of Vastmark by Janny Wurts
The pair vanished before anyone mustered the presence to protest.
'Damn him to Sithaer!' cried an outraged scout, a shocking, purple cheek turned toward his dumbfounded companions. 'We've all been most foully enchanted! Two days past, not even Dharkaron's fell vengeance could have kept me here, and now look! We're stuck nursemaiding cows through another blighted month for a prince who holds none of our allegiance!'
Passages
Under dank evening fog in the straits of the Cascains, Arithon's trusted seaman awakens aboard Talliarthe to a gagging weight of blankets and the bruising clamp of fingers which pin him helpless. 'Go on, tie him,' whispers Tharrick to the widow, then adds rough apology to the victim: 'I'm sorry, man. You'll have the sloop to sail back. It's not fair to Feylind, but Mistress Jinesse wants her children beyond reach of Arithon's design . . .'
In another remote cove far north of Perdith, under cover of blown clouds, the brig Black Drake rides at anchor to take on fresh water; and the man on watch screams warning, too late, as against unlit shores, five armed galleys from Alestron sweep down, to close in and entrap her bold captain as the known cohort of Arithon s'Ffalenn. . .
One month prior to summer solstice, under fair winds and clear skies, a fleet of galleys flying the s'Ilessid royal star sails for King Eldir's court at Ostermere, and under bristling armed guard, locked chests belowdecks contain the named sum of five hundred thousand coin weight, fine gold, raised by Tysan's merchants to deliver Princess Talith from the hands of the Master of Shadow . . .
VI. OSTERMERE
Twenty-five days before the hour appointed for Talith's ransom, the fishing smack Royal Freedom tacked a harried course through the merchant vessels moored in the harbour of Los Mar. Her passage up the shores of the westlands had been rough, battered through the last weeks by squall lines. In salt-crusted stays and sprung caulking, in peeled paint and tattered sails, she showed the rough wear the angry sea could mete out as she reached the end of her voyage.
Mewed up in a hold still redolent of mackerel, and tired of salt meat and green cheese, Lady Talith knelt on damp blankets and combed her fingers through the dirty, cropped ends of her hair. By nightfall, she would be free. She could find a room at an inn, and ask for hot food and soak out her itches in a bath. To be clean again, to walk on plank floors that did not heave at each step, anticipation made her want to sing aloud. Laced through the taint of tar off the ships' rigging, fugitive gusts through the hatch wafted tantalizing scents of baking bread. She picked out heavy incense, and the ripe, earthy smell of dry land. Through the slosh of rank water in the bilges, she drank in the sounds of a harbourside beyond view. The indignant slang of fishermen vying for right of way wove through the wind-snatched cries of hawkers, each with his baskets of salt crabs, or trinkets, or ripe cherries, ferried between ships in oared lighters.
Los Mar was a worldly port built at the junction of a land route. Although the settlement had been but a fishing village at the time of the high king's downfall, when the royal port of Telmandir downcoast had been overset into ruin, the caravan trade brought in wealth. The city had libraries and scholars, and learned men from across the continent knew the beauty of its illuminated manuscripts.
A woman alone should have no trouble hiring horses and an escort, and finding suitable lodging at an inn.
The Freedom's patched canvas at last rattled slack. When the splash of her anchor dragged the rode smoking through the hawse, Talith savoured her triumph. She had bested the Master of Shadow. By her own design she would see herself restored to her husband's side at Ostermere.
A thump sounded topside. The hatch cracked and the burly seaman who captained the Freedom slithered down the ladder into the closed space of the hold. 'Princess,' he greeted, and gave a small bow, 'we're secure in the harbour of Los Mar.'
'Well done.' Talith dug under her blankets and drew out her cache of jewels. 'With my thanks, take the payment I promised.'
The sailhand cupped the silk pouch in a calloused hand, picked open the drawstring, and peered inside. He gave an admiring whistle. 'My lady,' he said, 'the price is by far too generous.'
Before she could protest, he upended the hoard. Rubies, sapphires, citrines and pearls spilled in a tumbling swathe across the rude ticking of her berth. The uneven flare of the tallow lamp nicked sparks out of dimness, each stone a fleck of coloured fire as the seaman stirred through the collection. 'You'll need to hire yourself a retinue,' he chided. 'You can scarcely travel, either, clad in the pitiful rags of one gown.'
At Talith's exasperated silence, he gave a sly chuckle. 'Your Grace, for plain truth, we were leaving the Cascains anyway to try our fortunes elsewhere. Your plans fell in through sheer luck. We'll take due reward for the service, but not all the jewels you own.'
The snarls of gold braid, the thread ends which napped the strands of pearls that had once roped the sleeves and waistlines of her state gowns vanished back into the sack; the finer pieces set as jewellery in gold bezels; the rings, the pins, the gold wire bracelets and shimmering necklaces remained in a twinkling array on the blanket.
'Keep your baubles,' said the deckhand. 'For the leavings off your dresses, we're content.'
Touched by the unexpected sense of honour shown by the seafaring rogue, Talith scarcely minded that his hurried, last instructions involved patience and more waiting aboard the Royal Freedom.
'An associate of ours will come under cover of darkness, your Grace. He'll bring decent attire and see you safely on your way.'
So began the slow crawl of the hours. Shut in confinement until sundown, Talith fretted in the dimness. She endured the slosh of the bilge, stirred to noisome vapours by the swing of the Freedom on her cable. Too excited to rest, she counted the chime of the watch bells on the galleys. The dip burned low and smoked in puddled tallow until the weak, streamered flame flickered out. The needle of sunlight shot through a checked board in the hatch faded from gold to magenta, then faded with the glow of twilight.
Night fell over the harbour at Los Mar to the tireless refrain of wavelets slapping wood and the distant grind of drays. Nearer at hand came an off-key warble of lewd song, or the shouts of hired lightermen as sailors departed for shore leave.
The list of Freedom's hull as a boarder caught her rail was scarcely more than the rocking tug stirred by the change in the tide. Talith started up from her berth, head tilted to listen. Soft footfalls crossed the deck: too regular for the burly joiner who had captained, and too assured for a common seahand. The next instant the hatch opened with all the deft speed of someone familiar with its fastenings.
The princess glimpsed a male figure in dark clothing pass in silhouette against the sky. Despite the encumbrance of a package beneath one arm, he slipped into the hold with a grace that stunned for its dreadful, uncanny familiarity.
Talith's foreboding exploded to viperish anger. 'You!'
'There's a greeting that could never be mistaken for a fish.' The intruder paused, his negligent fingers left braced on a rung as he sketched her a courtier's bow. 'Welcome to Los Mar, princess.'
Riled pink in humiliation, Talith snapped, 'You presume rather much, your Grace of Rathain! Tell me, what would you have done if I'd lacked the courage to escape?'
'Courage? Escape?' Arithon paused through a soundless breath of surprise. 'But the format was your own device. My men had simple orders. They were to bring you and your private stock of jewels here to Havish by my appointed date. Since they were bound to leave my service for reasons of their own, I asked them to take you willingly. Am I to blame if your enterprising nature made their crossing a joy to carry out? It's nobody's dark secret that Ivel's entertainment is snide observation and deceit.'
Masked in darkness though he was, his stifled ring of humour was unmistakable. 'Keep your driving obsessions as you like, lovely lady. But if you stay angry and hard bent on hatred, you'd best be prepared to become somebody else's ready tool.'
'Yours, do you think?' Stiffened back to coolnes
'I exploited what faults you presented to hand,' Arithon corrected, unruffled. He tossed his burden on the blankets, then moved on by touch and spiked a fresh candle on the dribbled bracket of the sconce. The new flame he kindled lined his lingering, wry malice as he added, 'I know of no ties that bind you to mistrust. Don't confuse me with your husband, my dear. I've never loved a weakness that can be nurtured into dependency.'
Stung deep by that unpleasant truth, Talith endured the stilted interval as her tormentor bent to her rumpled berth, retrieved his parcel, then slipped the knots of its wrapping.
Inside, folded neat from the tailor's, lay a dress of magnificent tawny silk, roped in sapphires and pearls. To the last gem and setting, the ornaments were the same ones she had paid to the seamen as reward for her passage. Arithon plucked up a fold of saffron fabric and let it slide in a sensuous ripple from his fingers. 'You'll receive the rest of your bullion and gems along with a wardrobe to replace the one you mangled. I will not be accused of petty thievery,' he finished. 'It's demeaning. Your ransom will cover the seamstress's fees, and leave plenty left for my mercenaries.'
Outflanked for the first time in her life, Talith had no words to strike back for this latest ingenious indignity. 'Am I allowed to bathe before I change?'
'But of course,' said Arithon s'Ffalenn, and gave her his arm without comment for the miserable, shorn state of her hair. Talith could do little else but bear up and allow his escort from her squalid accommodations aboard the Royal Freedom.
In quiet ceremony and impeccable style, she was installed in quarters befitting her station back on the Khetienn. The brigantine lay anchored under s'Ffalenn royal colours to the restive, drumming thuds of the bloodstock loaded on at Vastmark.
On the flood of the next tide, she re-embarked to complete the last leg of her passage to Ostermere. Invited on deck, the princess watched the gabled slate roofs of Los Mar vanish into the haze of grey dawn. Given her first clear view of the harbour, an anomaly snagged her attention: the dilapidated fishing smack, Royal Freedom, had departed during the night.
A disagreeable chill ruffled her skin where she stood, hands clenched to the dampened rail. Her plight was sealed. There could be no further opportunity to exploit, not on an offshore passage. When next the Khetienn made port, her captivity would fall under the capable arbitration of the Fellowship of Seven. Upon neutral ground and in stylish hospitality, she and her abductor would become the guests of the High King of Havish.
* * *
Seven days before the summer solstice, under limestone cliffs snagged in fog, Arithon docked his brigantine at the central wharf in Ostermere. The rampant leopard pendant of the s'Ffalenn royal line slapped in plastered folds at her masthead, weighed down by smoking veils of drizzle. The crew of the Khetienn were no less handy in the wet. Brisk teamwork saw the heavy, tanbark canvas stripped from the yards and the lines dressed shipshape on deck. The gangway thudded into place, dripping silvered rungs from rope railings.
Present at the quayside, bunched under cerecloth awnings sagged awry by the damp, King Eldir's delegation waited to acknowledge the arrival. The young king had his pride. He maintained propriety despite unfavourable conditions. Beside the equerries attendant upon their liege, and the muscled bulk of the realm's champion in his ankle-length surcoat and mail coif, the welcoming party consisted of Havish's High Chancellor, lean as a hard run hound, and distinct in his disdain for sodden velvets. To his left, the ministers of Ostermere's trade guilds flocked in ruffles of wilted lace, three of them stiff as sticks, and the fourth, merry-faced and corpulent, but sniffling and blotting his reddened nose in the unkind gusts off the sea. The caithdein of Havish, Lord Machiel, stood a half pace aside. Least troubled by wet, he presented a broad-chested, imposing presence in the traditional unrelieved black. He had a wedged, balding head that once had been blond, and about him still the wary stance of a man unforgetful of his forests and the threat of stalking headhunters.
The sovereign he stood steward for was square-jawed and serious, a brown-haired young man of twenty-two. Eldir's straightforward nature set small store by the dragging weight of Havish's royal tabard, with its gold hawk blazon and embroidered pleats of scarlet silk. The king might have worn a labourer's woollens, for all the care he paid his massive jewels. An heirloom band of ancestral rank crowned an earnest brow, lined now in a faint, troubled frown.
To meet him, Arithon s'Ffalenn was clad in the costly restraint he had displayed for Talith's landing at the Cascains. Since he had not descended the switched-back thoroughfares from the upper citadel through the weeping, inclement morning, he was dry, his expression all scorching irony as he appeared with the captive princess on his arm.
They descended the gangway together, his step all but lost in the billow of the lady's lavish silk. Runoff from the awning fringed the air in between as he made his bow, acknowledged prince to foreign sovereign, before King Eldir's staid person. The pair could not have been more unlike: Havish's crowned ruler all stuffed finery and unpolished, granite directness, the Shadow Master before him slim and poised as killing steel, his green eyes glinting with self-mockery.
At his shoulder, the Lady Talith, her beauty heightened by a carriage that made of any artifice an afterthought. Etarran-born, scornful of the courtesies exchanged by old blood royalty, she waited, a monument of victimized pride.
As Havish's High Chancellor cleared his voice to intone a memorized, formal greeting, the Master of Shadow met Eldir's level glance, then cut in with ice-breaking honesty. 'I think we can dispense with the language. Your weather has summed things up neatly. No doubt, given choice, I'm the last living spirit a king should welcome to his noble realm of Havish.'
Eldir's firm lips twitched in surprise just barely curbed. Too practical to hold the remark as anything less than plain truth, he did not smile as he said, 'My realm has survived the Mad Prophet's misadventures. What could you bring that's any worse?'
Arithon's smile turned wicked. He moved, swept the flat of his hand down the dripping fringes, and in the interval while the waterfall lessened, drew the lady fully under cover. 'I bring you the wife of Lysaer s'Ilessid.' He slipped her slender fingers into the hand of Havish's suddenly flustered young high king. 'Princess Talith, once of Etarra.'
State manners fell short of a counterthrust. Shoved headlong beyond his depth, Eldir lost his breath, eyes pinned to her tawny magnificence. His wild blush clashed with his tabard. He could scramble together no sharp wit to respond as Arithon admitted, regretful, that Dakar was included in Rathain's delegation, if currently in the hold overseeing the unloading of a royal gift, which thundered hooves in indignant fury against the Khetienn's lower timbers.
Unable to stand upon dignity, King Eldir abandoned himself to a rare, deep burst of laughter. 'Welcome to my kingdom, Lady Talith. Though for the mountebank who brought you, I reserve the same grace until he shows better manners than to present you as potential trouble.'
The challenge floundered into awkward silence. The moment spun out to pattered rainfall while the ministers swivelled their hatted heads. The realm's champion craned his neck to peer past his coif, while, most perceptive, the caithdein closed a step toward his king. His cool regard surveyed Arithon's sudden, rigid stance. But the Master of Shadow had taken no umbrage. His glance had merely skimmed the delegation and fixed on the one wizened figure overlooked.
Crammed like wadded rag between the jewels and damp velvets of state panoply, Sethvir of the Fellowship stepped forward. If the Sorcerer had chosen to be last acknowledged, the effect of his presence was profound.
Arithon s'Ffalenn's veneer of manners cracked away. His face turned ice pale, and his movement, pure reflex, drove Eldir's ministers to fly back as though he jumped them with a knife.
But the sharp surge of speed that dropped him to one knee before that robed and bearded figure held no threat, but only abject humility. 'Warden,' said A
The Sorcerer he addressed raised a fragile hand and traced his crown of black hair. As though the prince asked his audience in private, he spoke. 'We should fear, you think? Since your strike at Minderl Bay, the Mist-wraith's geas has deepened its hold and grown worse. Your suspicion is well founded. At each encounter, its curse becomes more troublesome to manage.'
'You do see,' Arithon said, muffled. He looked up. The wells of his eyes were open and wide, his expression unmasked before horror. 'This exchange for the ransom could launch a disaster. If you ask, I could leave at the outset.'
Sethvir's crinkled features rearranged in reproof. 'We are guarded already. Ease your mind.' He thrust his other hand from the rim of his cuff and raised Rathain's prince to his feet. His glance held a glint like steel behind mist for the warning, not needed, that Arithon had voiced without heed for pride or witnesses.
Too late, if Rathain's prince now strove to mask how he cared, that the chancellor's glance turned cold in reserve, and Eldir's courtiers kept their marked distance. To Talith's trained eye, seeking weakness in an enemy, that incongruous moment of sacrifice rocked the very roots of her conviction.
King Eldir said something banal and polite. Sidelined from preoccupied thought, Talith answered, unmindful of the rain that clung, silver on gilt, in the cropped ends of her hair. She deferred to the royal wish and let herself be led from quayside. Solid in his duty, but without distinctive grace, King Eldir handed her into the dry comfort of his carriage. Footmen closed the lacquered door. She was left her peace and privacy as the coachman on the box took up the lines and set his matched team to a jingling, smart trot. Grooms brought a horse for the visiting prince, then the caparisoned mount of the king. Attendant men-at-arms clambered into wet saddles; the equerries retrieved banners sluiced to their poles from the deluge. Hazed by fog, peered at by curious, wet knots of bystanders from doorways and windows, and from archways spanned dark over puddles, the procession wound from the quayside. Enclosed by Ostermere's streaked limestone and tarnished copper brick, they ascended the tiered levels from the trade quarter to the high, buttressed citadel which guarded the seat of Eldir's council. Calls from the teamsters and the grinding of dray wheels and the slapping splash of boys running errands sounded thin, unreal, a fabric of noise webbed over scarce-buried tension.