Dragonsight (16 page)

‘To underestimate your adversary is to court death,’ Jelindel mused. ‘But I sense no malice in that one.’

They finished their drinks. Jelindel and Osric rose to go. Daretor lounged back, and looked as if he were settling in for the rest of the day. ‘I think I will stay awhile,’ he told them.

As they left, Daretor watched the man in the corner. He seemed suddenly flustered, as if he did not know whether to follow Jelindel and Osric or stay. At the last minute, he made up his mind, and nonchalantly left. Daretor went after him, maintaining a safe distance. He lost him once or twice, but picked him up on each occasion. It seemed the man was in no immediate hurry, for he stopped at stalls, halted twice to curse at holy shrines, and once he kicked a beggar who would not leave him alone. Stopping at a market stall, he haggled with the vendor over the price of a melon. The bartering ended when the man swept half the produce from the stall.

To Daretor’s surprise, the man had tracked neither Jelindel or Osric. Instead, he headed for the docks, and after speaking briefly with a one-armed man, boarded a caravel.

Daretor leaned against an empty water barrel, pondering what he had seen. He was sure that the man had been watching them at the tavern. But it would seem Jelindel had been right. Perhaps the man meant them no harm. Putting him out of mind, Daretor turned back to the city and went looking for those who earned a living by knowing more than was good for them.

Chapter 6

SEA GATE

O

nala, the High Priestess of the Temple of Verity in D’loom, was new to the post and keen to prove herself. She knew the so-called ‘Archmage’ Jelindel dek Mediesar, and was not impressed that she had sought an audience. Onala hadn’t forgotten her first meeting with Jelindel when she was a mere neophyte. Jelindel had ensnared her with a binding word and humiliated her in front of her fellow seniors. Onala did not forget that sort of thing, and she looked forward to putting Jelindel in her place.

The High Priestess donned her most impressive vestments in a leisurely manner: a burgundy-trimmed robe with flared cuffs, a black velvet mitre with stiffened wings bordered with exquisite silver and gold embroidery. She placed her ceremonial crosier with its staff-long tassels by the table.

Onala kept Jelindel waiting two hours. Finally she sat behind her desk in a high-backed chair that looked more like a throne. Satisfied, she had Jelindel ushered in by a fawning neophyte. Her brown tabard with the Temple’s rising sun emblazoned in golden yellow across the front were the only colours allowed such lowly clerics.

‘Leave us,’ the High Priestess said imperiously to the neophyte, who seemed to almost worship the famous archmage. Only at Onala’s command had the infatuated girl scuttled out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

‘Close it,’ Onala added.

Jelindel smiled faintly at the click behind her. The bullying of the recently appointed High Priestess brought back memories, even fond ones. Onala thought the smile somewhat mocking and her face tightened.

‘I am quite busy today,’ Onala said. A look of disdain swept her face at Jelindel’s weather-beaten appearance. ‘You are lucky I am able to see you at all.’

‘I am grateful for the audience,’ said Jelindel. Her obvious sincerity caught Onala by surprise.

‘How may the Temple be of assistance?’ she asked, affecting weariness.

‘I am seeking information about the earliest human language on Q’zar.’

‘Quech. Any third-year servitor would know that.’

Jelindel ignored the jibe. ‘What do
you
know of it?’

‘I know what everybody knows, which is little enough. It was called Quech, as I have just said. No living being knows how old it is or where it originated. Why do you ask?’

‘Is it possible to study the records?’

‘With the proper permission,’ said Onala.

‘I don’t have much time.’ ‘I cannot help that. You must obtain permission from the Temple in Arcadia. You of all people should know that,’ Onala pointed out.

‘I had hoped –’

‘You hoped in vain.’

‘So I see.’ Jelindel rose to her feet, bade the High Priestess good day, and made to leave. Onala allowed herself a brief smile of satisfaction.

At the door Jelindel turned and for a second Onala’s innate timidity surfaced. She stifled a squeak.

‘It was wrong of me to try to bypass our ancient ways,’ Jelindel said in a tone that was nevertheless ambiguous. ‘I’ll pray to White Quell for forgiveness. Fare you well, Onala.’

Onala did not trust herself to reply.

When Daretor and Osric returned that evening they found Jelindel pacing the floor of the tavern room they had lodged in. Before they could even open their mouths Jelindel came to a sudden stop, eyeing them belligerently.

‘We’re going about this the wrong way, I am sure of it,’ she said.

‘I take it,’ said Daretor, ‘that you fared poorly at the Temple?’

‘On the contrary,’ Jelindel said, her voice rising, ‘I learnt a great deal. I learnt that the High Priestess is an insufferable fool who should be stuffed into a barrel of rancid whale blubber and dropped in the middle of the Tanglesea Ocean. No, I take that back, she should be kept alive to suffer the stink.’

‘There’s no need to lose your temper,’ Daretor said.

‘Who’s losing their temper?’ Jelindel said, stamping her foot and waving her hands. Daretor and Osric tried to give her their attention while not looking directly at her. ‘Oh, you think this is funny, do you? Well, what did you two find out?’

Osric sat down and with relief pulled off his fur-lined boots. ‘I found out that I prefer riding dragons to walking cobblestone streets.’

‘Enlightening. What else?’

‘No one at the university knows anything, nor are there any records going back that far. None of them could understand why I was interested in what they called a “dead language” anyway.’ He massaged his feet as he spoke. ‘One professor insisted that there was no original human language on Q’zar, which seemed to hint that it had to come from somewhere else. That is all he seemed to know.’

Daretor had found some bread and cheese left over from breakfast and was busy finishing it off when Jelindel turned to him. ‘Well?’

‘Fa’red was here.’

‘What?’

‘He came three days ago and, according to my source, left this morning. Apparently he was heading back to Dremari.’

‘Did your source say why he came here?’

‘He did not. But he had a guess.’

Jelindel and Osric both looked at him. ‘And?’ Jelindel asked.

‘He met with one of the pirate captains, and they conferred for several hours. It seems Fa’red seeks to replace the Preceptor, starting with the prince here in D’loom. Why not? The entire coast is overrun by pirates, and there are rich pickings to be had. And where there are pirate lords there are pirate lordlings, smaller fry that seek some sort of security, otherwise they will be rammed and burned as the more powerful pirates consolidate against them. Quite possibly Fa’red is playing both sides of this game.’

‘Out goes the prince, and in strides Fa’red as overlord or regent. Mind you, the pirate lords will find themselves in even deeper water with Fa’red at the helm,’ Jelindel mused. ‘One step out of line and it’s the last mistake they’ll make.’

‘By the way, remember the man I thought was following us this morning? He went from the tavern to the docks and there boarded what turned out to be a privateer.’

Jelindel considered this. ‘The one belonging to the same pirate captain Fa’red was speaking with?’

‘The same.’

‘So what is going on?’ Osric asked.

‘Apart from the obvious fact that there is a conspiracy, I wish I knew,’ said Jelindel. ‘Whatever it is, I am sure Fa’red means to delay us or stop us if he can. He’s effectively cut us off from leaving by sea, but then he must surely know we arrived by other means.’

That night they had a stodgy meal of fried potatoes mashed with over-cooked greens. They had already been two weeks on their quest, and time was in depressingly short supply.

Jelindel finally pushed her plate away, having barely touched her food. ‘We need to attack from a different angle,’ she declared.

‘And that would be?’ Daretor asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘We race here and there to find the Stone People, and get no closer to solving the problem. There is one who knows exactly where they are.’

Osric frowned for a moment, then exclaimed, ‘Fa’red.’

Jelindel stood up. ‘I am going to pay him a visit –’ She stopped as though sensing something.

‘No need,’ said a voice. She knew before turning that Fa’red had silently entered the room behind them. She turned as an intense red light blasted towards her. She put up her hands to ward it off, but she was unprepared for the sheer ferocity of the magical attack. The impact threw her halfway across the room. Her head slammed into the edge of a table and she lost consciousness.

In the blackness that followed, she thought she heard a jumble of noises, followed by distant mocking laughter. The sounds followed her into sleep.

Everything was blurry. Jelindel managed to open one eye but quickly shut it again. Blinding pain throbbed behind her temples and the room swayed. Her stomach lurched and she clamped her mouth shut to hold down the little food in her stomach.

Slowly forcing herself into a sitting position, she peered around. It was a small cabin, well appointed, and dimly-lit. A large metal cage swung from the ceiling, moving in the opposite direction to the swaying of the room. The effect was sickening and she felt bile fill her mouth. As she moved, her foot kicked something. A bucket. She grabbed it and vomited.

She sat up, half afraid she might be sick again, and looked at the cage. This time she realised there was a body crumpled inside.

She tried to rise but couldn’t co-ordinate her legs properly. She slid off the bunk and crawled on hands and knees across the heaving floor. She collapsed twice before regaining her balance. Reaching the cage, she grabbed hold of it to dampen its swings, and looked inside. A pale face looked back. Daretor. He managed to smile at her.

‘I think we really are on a boat this time,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Salt.’

‘Salt,’ she agreed, sniffing the air.

‘I think I’d rather be back on the dragon,’ she said, cupping her mouth as another spasm took hold.

Daretor sat up and gripped the bars. ‘Funny they should lock me up and leave you free,’ he said. ‘You’re the dangerous one.’

She rested her forehead on the bars. ‘I’m only a danger to myself right now,’ she groaned.

‘Can you get me out of here?’

Fighting the throbbing in her head, Jelindel concentrated. She flicked her hand at the lock and muttered a minor incantation. Nothing happened.

Perplexed, she tried again. ‘Nothing.’

‘The blue weirdling light,’ Daretor said, ‘that gathers on your lips …’

‘What of it?’

‘I didn’t see it.’

Jelindel looked at him, trying to assimilate this information. She crawled back to the bunk and climbed up. Here a small mirror had been fixed to the wall. Gazing closely at her own image, she muttered another spell, one she used almost every day of her life. Then she sat back, stunned.

Slowly she turned to Daretor. ‘He has taken my powers,’ she said, so quietly he could hardly make out the words.

The door burst open and a large man with a scar on his left cheek entered. He was completely bald. With him was the one-armed man Daretor had seen the day before, talking to the one who had followed them through D’loom.

‘Welcome to the
Sargasso
,’ the scarred man said. ‘I am Captain Helnick. Bring her.’ The one-armed man grabbed Jelindel by the hair and dragged her from the room. He was immensely strong. Daretor roared abuse and strained in vain at the bars of the cage. Helnick smiled at him. ‘Wait your turn.’ He slammed the door behind him.

The one-armed man, whose name was Tarlig, dumped Jelindel on the middle deck. Helnick stood over her. ‘You have two choices,’ he said. ‘Work, or go over the side. It makes no difference to me.’

She uttered a quick spell and flung it at him. Nothing happened. He laughed. ‘Perhaps you need a spur,’ he said. ‘Shall I have the man downstairs flung overboard, still locked inside his cage? His life is in your hands.’

Jelindel stared at him a moment then let her head droop in defeat.

‘As I thought,’ Helnick laughed.

Tarlig shoved her aft to a storage compartment that contained mops and buckets. He set her to scrubbing the deck and later sent her to the galley, where she worked under the guidance of the cook.

Later still, Jelindel and Daretor were moved from the cabin to a chamber low in the ship. That first day, the ship encountered high seas, and the floor ran with stinking bilge, all of it slopping across the deck. That night, coming back covered in bruises and cuts from the attention of her guards, Jelindel could not find a dry place to lie down. She slumped in a corner. For the first time since the death of her family, she felt utter despair.

Daretor buried his face in his hands when he saw her. ‘If I get out of here, I will kill them,’ he vowed. ‘It is as simple as that.’

‘Me first,’ Jelindel muttered.

The unsavoury looking man from the tavern served them one meal a day in the early evening. He said his name was Hakat. Despite his unpleasant appearance he did not treat them badly, but he refused to enter into any kind of conversation.

One evening, after Hakat had brought their meal, Jelindel sat close to Daretor’s cage. They had fallen into the habit of talking in whispers, in case anyone was listening.

‘Helnick makes out that the crew doesn’t know where we are bound,’ Jelindel told Daretor. ‘But they’re extremely calm about what’s happening. It’s my guess they’ve done this trip many times.’