Read Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 Online
Authors: The Usurper (v1.1)
At
noon
the avalanche thundered down upon them.
The wind that had propelled the
Vargalla
so swiftly down the Idre
faltered and died before the barge hove in sight of Andurel, prompting the
boatmaster to reef his sheets and shout for his oarsmen to man their stations.
Before the great sweeps were unshipped, however, Hattim Sethiyan came out on deck
accompanied by his mysterious cabinmate to countermand the order. Startled, the
boatmaster halted his crew and dropped a drift anchor to hold the vessel on
course in midstream. Sunset approached and he had counted on docking by
midnight
, but if the Lord of Ust-Galich delayed them
for any length of time he knew they would face either a night passage or an
overnight anchorage at the closest riverside settlement. Both alternatives
irked him, for he had a woman in the city and had built up a thirst for good Andurel
ale, which was shared, he knew, by his crew. Consequently his face, as Hattim
came toward him along the swaying deck, was empty of its customary
obsequiousness, bland obedience replaced by a frown of irritation. The frown
faded as Hattim’s companion drew closer and the riverman found himself
transfixed by twin points of strangely glowing red light. He opened his mouth
to protest the delay, but the words clogged on his tongue and he lowered his
gaze, eyes fixing on his boots.
Hattim and Taws climbed the steps to
the raised poop, ignoring the curious stares of courtiers and crew alike, and
took up position beside the captain.
“Listen to me!” Hattim’s voice rang
over the deck, commanding attention, drawing all eyes to where he stood.
At his side Taws threw back the hood
of his enveloping cloak and silent curiosity was replaced with a concerted gasp
of horrified revulsion, for every man there had listened to stories of the
Messenger and recognized the mage for what he was. Several made warding gestures,
but even as their fingers shaped the sign so did Taws’s work patterns in the
reddening light of the lowering sun, those patterns creating a flickering blue
radiance that grew, becoming a steadily enlarging corona of incandescence that
crackled and spat like witchfire. Eyes wide with horror locked on that fire,
caught by it as the eyes of a rabbit are caught by the hypnotic gaze of a
weasel. Not a man moved, either to protest or flee, and the mage shaped his
magic like an infernal potter building some blasphemous creation on a hellish
wheel. His voice was a sibilation dry as grave dust, the susurration of
bleached bone on bone until the final syllable. This he shouted in a timbre
that seemed to rock the
Vargalla
as
would a thunderclap bursting low overhead, and as he said it he spread his arms
wide, unleashing the blue fire he had built.
It flashed from his splayed fingers
in a myriad darting lances of brilliance, illuminating the barge, licking over
the horror-struck features of the courtiers and the crew, filling their eyes
with its unholy radiance, leaching them of all expression. Then it was gone and
Taws turned to Hattim, the angulation of his mouth approximating a smile.
“They will remember nothing,” he
said, “just as I told you. They will know only that a favorable wind sped them
downriver, and that a malaise confined you to your cabin.”
“And you?” Hattim asked softly, the
question whispering over dry lips.
“I shall join you in Andurel,” the
mage intoned. “And give you what I promised. Avoid the Sisters when you
land—use your malaise as an excuse to find your quarters quickly and await my
coming.”
Hattim nodded, then started back as
the thaumaturgist began to murmur again in that unfathomable tongue. This time
there was no blue fire, only a shimmering of the air, a rubescence more akin to
flame than sunset, and a sulfurous reek that grew with the glow surrounding the
gaunt figure. Then Taws was gone and Hattim gasped as he saw a black-winged
bird standing where the mage had stood, the head turning back and forth to fix
him with a beady, crimsoned stare. It hopped on predatory talons to the rudder,
stretched its wings wide, and beat upward, spiraling above the barge before
straightening its course and winging southward toward Andurel.
Hattim shivered, aware that the hair
on the nape of his neck stood upright, coldly prickling. He shook himself,
tearing his gaze from the dwindling black speck in the sky to the silent deck
of the barge.
“Lady curse it, the damned anchor’s
slipped! Bring it aboard and dip those sweeps. Put your backs into it and we’ll
make wharfside ere
midnight
.
Jump to it!”
The boatmaster’s bellow instilled
fresh life in the crew and sent Hattim starting backward. He collected himself,
seeing his courtiers stir from their rigid stance and move toward him, concern
on their faces.
“You are recovered, my Lord?”
He stared at Mejas Celeruna, trying
to find in the plump man’s solicitous features some memory of Taws, some
recollection of the glamour. There was none and he marveled at the mage’s
power, saying, “I am, my friend, and I thank you for your concern.”
“We were all concerned,” Tarkas
Verra said quickly. “Mayhap it was the wind.”
“Mayhap,” Hattim agreed, essaying a
wan smile. “Though that appears to have deserted us.”
“Better a delayed arrival than you
suffer river sickness,” beamed Celeruna unctuously, the sentiment echoed by the
others.
“We should dock by
midnight
,” announced the boatmaster. “If that be
your wish, Lord Hattim.”
“Aye,” Hattim nodded, “it is my
wish. Let us make all haste—and if we dock by
midnight
there’s a barrel of ale to be quaffed.”
“Thank you, Lord,” beamed the
riverman. Then louder, “You hear that, lads? Lord Hattim pledges a barrel if
you stroke fast enough to dock by
midnight
.”
A cheer greeted the announcement and
the oars went down, carving white water from the sun-crimsoned surface of the
Idre as the
Vargalla
leapt forward
and Hattim gathered his courtiers about him, leading the way back to his cabin,
where he plied them with his finest wines, accepting their congratulations on
his recovery even as he marveled at the efficacy of the cantrip that had robbed
them so effectively of troublesome memories.
How well, he thought. Taws had
planned it all, even to their late arrival. At such an hour he would easily
avoid the prying Sisters, who might just sense some change in him and alert
Darr. At
midnight
he
would easily find privacy and a speedy entry to his quarters; and Taws would
meet him there, ready to set in motion the next step. His smile became genuine
as he contemplated his ascension: the question of its price did not enter his
mind.
His retinue was grateful for the
brief comfort of those luxurious quarters after the disagreeable days spent on
deck and happy to quaff liberally of the wines there. He ordered the brazier
damped now that Taws was gone, explaining the excessive heat as a palliative to
his malaise, though he resisted the temptation of drunkenness himself for he
wanted his wits about him when they arrived in Andurel. Pleased to find their lord
once more restored to good spirits, and fuddled by the glamour set upon them,
the courtiers posed no awkward questions, content to lounge on the cushions
scattered about the cabin as they listened to the rhythmic splashing of the
oars driving them steadily southward.
Whether by Taws’s design or some
natural coincidence, there was no moon that night, the Idre a nigrescent ribbon
on which were reflected the barge’s running lights and the myriad stars that
shone from the cloudless sky. The oars spilled phosphorescent waves upon the
water as the
Vargalla
sped toward the
city, the horn mounted on the prow belling a warning even though the river was
empty of traffic.
Then the boatmaster’s shout brought
them to the deck as Andurel hove in sight. At this hour, and at that distance,
the great city appeared as a band of canescence across the river, stretching
into the darkness on either side as if it floated above the water, a raft. As
they drew closer lights became visible along the waterfront, where taverns plied
their trade, and farther back, rising to the heights of the
White
Palace
, in houses and salons catering for a trade
more salubrious than the sailors and wharf rats frequenting the lower
establishments. Hattim found a place at the prow, clutching for a handhold as
the boatmaster bellowed, “Reverse oars! Ship oars!” and put his rudder over to
bring the barge gliding smoothly into the quay. Crewmen sprang across the gap
to secure the mooring lines and the gangplank was running out before the
curious gathered to see who plied the Idre so late.
Hattim was gratified to see that his
unexpected arrival had forestalled any formal welcome, the only officials a
trio of harbor bureaucrats who mumbled embarrassed greetings when they
recognized the sunburst of Ust-Galich at the masthead and saw that the Lord
Hattim stood before them. Hattim dismissed them, calling for Mejas Celeruna to
organize litters to bring his party to the palace, and tossed a purse to his
boatmaster, who caught it and weighed its value in one expert motion, bowing
low in thanks.
“I desire no formalities,” he
informed Celeruna. “I am tired now and would find my bed immediately. See to
it. ”
“A Sister Hospitaler, my Lord?”
Celeruna asked solicitously. “A palliative for your malaise?”
“No!” Hattim snapped, experiencing a
flush of unease. “A sound night’s sleep will doubtless restore me. And as the
hour is late, I would not disturb the king. I shall pay my respects on the
morrow.”
“As you wish, my Lord.” The portly
sycophant bowed elaborately and set to locating palanquins.
Drowsy porters were found and Hattim
climbed into a sedan, drawing the curtains as the bearers lifted the poles and
began the ascent of the wide avenue leading from the dockside to the palace. As
they progressed up the slope he grew wary, nervous of entry into Darr’s domain,
thinking that if some Sister were abroad she might sense the glamour set upon
his retinue or the taint he felt sure his agreement with Ashar’s minion must
leave on him. He had come too far, he told himself, to turn back now, knowing,
too, that he must face Taws’s wrath should he renege, and experienced a greater
fear of that anger than thought of discovery could arouse. He steeled himself
as the outer walls grew visible through the small porthole in the litter’s
forward wall and he saw torchlight burnish the breastplates of the guards
there, lending a roseate coloration to the halberds that lowered in formal
denial of entrance.
Then Mejas Celeruna was bustling
forward to announce the arrival of Hattim Sethiyan, Lord of Ust-Galich, and the
halberds lifted in salute. Hattim sighed, slumping on the cushions as Celeruna
continued on to smooth the way past further watchmen into the central court of
the
White
Palace
.
A captain of the royal guard
appeared there, armored and—to Hattim’s eyes—menacing, leading a band of
stone-faced soldiers who watched impassively as the Galichian party climbed
from the palanquins.
”
My Lord Hattim,” the
captain bowed briefly, “you were not expected. The king has found his bed, else
he would doubtless have arranged more suitable a welcome.”
“A favorable wind.” Hattim explained
vaguely. “Though one that brought a touch of river sickness. I would not have
the king disturbed, but would go immediately to my chambers.”
“As you wish, my Lord,” the captain
agreed, and turned to send a man hastening in search of a steward.
Hattim glanced round, pleased that
no Sisters were present, and waited for the steward to appear.
He came running, slowing to a more
dignified pace as he approached the Galichians, expressing profuse apologies
for the absence of suitable formalities, which Hattim waved away, repeating his
explanation.
“My Lord is tired,” Celeruna
declared pompously. “His chambers are ready? See that a fire is lit and food
and wine set out. He would not be disturbed.”