Magesong (19 page)

Reyin stood in the shadow of a deserted cooperage, waiting
for his breath to calm and studying the ships along the old wooden dock.  The
weird that he followed had led him past the great stonework quays lined with
magnificent galleons, and now told him that what he sought lay close, very
close.

He had dismissed the two-masted felucca as soon as he had
seen it, thinking that his quarry would be on a passenger ship, but his focus
kept drifting back to it.  The crew had put a jolly-boat over the side near the
bow of the ship and were now lowering the anchor into it with a cable.  It took
four men to lower the massive iron spade and four men to receive it in the
boat.  They lowered it straight over the side, allowing it to swing freely, and
it bumped the hull of the ship, sending hollow echoes across the water.

A man came out of a little deck-house at the stern and
called for quiet.  The ship's lantern hung from the forestay, where the crew
now worked, and Reyin couldn't see his face clearly.  But he knew the voice. 
He had heard it earlier at the Libac estate.

The crewmen settled the anchor into the bottom of the small
boat, and two of the men at the rail passed oars to those in the jolly-boat
while one climbed down to seat himself at the tiller.  The oars were fitted to
the locks, the sailors pulled, and slowly they glided across the calm waters of
the harbor, two men at the rail of the felucca paying out the long heavy cable.

Reyin had travelled by sea many times and knew exactly what
they were doing.  They were preparing to warp the ship away from the dock.  The
men in the jolly-boat would row a hundred yards out, drop the anchor, then come
back to the ship and haul away on the cable.  They would pull the ship all the
way out to where they had anchored, and if there was any wind at all they could
then raise sail and be gone within minutes.

With the crew of the felucca absorbed in warping, Reyin
crept forward, crossing the harbor road, all too aware of the brightness of the
full moon.  From behind a heavy wooden pile at the foot of the dock he saw that
the gangplank had been raised, but the gap remained narrow enough for him to
easily leap across and haul himself aboard.  He looked carefully for a guard or
watchman, very much expecting to see one.  Nobody was there; all were occupied
with getting underway.

As if to prompt him, a thick cloud passed across the face of
the moon, the entire harbor falling under its shadow.  He crouched low and
stole from pile to pile, keeping the hull of the ship between himself and the
men working at the opposite rail.  The middle of the ship looked like the best
boarding place — less water to jump and the freeboard was lower there.  He
heard the men in bow talking now.  Without hesitation he made the leap, slipped
over the rail, and listened.  They were still talking.  Good.  Their own voices
would muffle any slight sound he made.

Walking on the balls of his feet, his heart racing, Reyin
went aft to the deck cabin.  The tiny window on the starboard side looked
rusted shut, the filthy glass letting only blurred images pass through.  He
heard a low droning from the back side and tiptoed to the corner.  Slowly, he
leaned his head out and discovered two small aft-facing windows open to the
warm night air.

The intonations of a ritual chant sounded from the windows,
and Reyin decided to take a quick look, confident that the magician inside
would be completely focused on his spell.  The man Libac had called Orez, now
wearing an embroidered scholar's robe, was on his hands and knees inside a
circle inscribed with charcoal.  The cardinal points of the black circle were
marked by a glass orb, a burning brazier, a bowl of water, and a jagged
crystal, and in the center lay a steel dagger.

A canvass duffle peeked out from underneath a narrow bed.

Reyin knew the invocation.  It would summon a storm.  Even
with a precise ritual, storm-bringing often proved chancy — a dangerous way to
cover an escape.  Along the circumference of the circle the magician wrote the
names of the winds to be invoked, maintaining the peculiar rhythm of the chant.

Reyin waited.  It was in the canvass bag.  He could feel it
from where he stood.  Would the supplicant be so entranced by his summoning
that he would not sense the relic being taken away?  He glanced out to where
the jolly-boat had stopped.  They were shipping oars and changing positions in
an effort to get rid of the anchor without upsetting the boat.  He returned to
watching through the window.

The sorcerer now took up the knife and nicked the palm of
his left hand just enough to let the blood run, his voice taking on an ululant
quality, the chant getting louder and wilder.  He lay face down in the circle,
placing his bleeding palm over a point between north and east on the eldritch
compass-rose, and the chant became a wail, the howling of a typhoon.  If the
men at the bow heard that terrible sound, they chose not to acknowledge it.

This was the apex of the spell, what Reyin had been waiting
for.  He quickly went around to the door of the cabin.  As he reached for the
handle, he felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach, nearly paralyzing him.  There
was nothing for it now.  Gingerly, he eased the door open a little way and
slipped through.

He stood less than three feet from the supplicant's leg,
only two steps away from the canvass bag.  He didn't dare breathe, didn't dare
think, but the spell was at its loudest now and would be over in a few
seconds.  He took the two steps, slid the sack holding the artifact out from
under the bed, tucked it under his arm, spun on his toe, and was out the door
before he knew what he did.

Then he froze.  The outline of a huge sailor with something
long in his hands now stood at the docked side of the ship, cutting off his
escape.  The man turned slightly and Reyin saw that he faced away, toward the
harbor road.  It occurred to him that he could run and jump past the man onto
the dock, and then it would be a foot race that the bulky sailor was sure to
lose.  He braced himself, then noticed the flared end of the object in the
crewman's hand.  It was a blunderbuss, probably loaded with a handful of pistol
balls.  No, he would have to go over the far side, into the open water, and if
anyone spotted him he would just have to swim for it.

He went quietly to the portside rail.  The crew of the
jolly-boat were still out there, but the two men attending the cable were
gone.  Then the moon tore free from the cloud that had imprisoned it, flooding
the ship with bright moonlight.  And they were there, standing only ten feet away
from him, one holding a long dirk, the other pointing a horse pistol directly
at Reyin's chest.

"If you move, even a finger," the mate said,
sighting along the barrel of the enormous handgun, "or if you just say a
word, I'll kill you."

But as he said that, a black figure slid silently down a
loose rope, grabbing the hair of the two seamen from behind with each hand. 
Powerful arms drove the two heads together, the impact of their skulls making
the sound of a keg being tapped.  They sank to the deck like boneless sacks of
flesh.

The horse pistol slipped from the mate's limp hand, the
wheel lock releasing the instant it struck the deck.  Sparks flew from the
mechanism, and the weapon fired with an ear-splitting report.  At once the big
sailor turned and fired from the hip in his panic.  Lead balls whizzed past
Reyin's ear.

"Boarders!" the sailor bellowed, throwing down his
spent firearm and reaching for the cutlass at his hip.

Farlo rushed to Reyin's side.  "Is that it?" he
asked, pointing to the bundle under Reyin's arm.

Reyin blinked.  "Yes.  It is."  His voice seemed
loud in the ringing silence and sudden light.

At the doorway of the cabin stood the sorcerer holding an
antique lamp that spit out a foot-long tongue of flame.  His eyes shined
blackly.  He raised his left hand, as if to touch the flame or draw it to him,
and now Reyin saw the large ruby ring on his middle finger, and saw the jewel
glow more brightly as the lamp flame diminished and went out, its fire pulsing
hotly within the gem.

"Run," Reyin said to Farlo, backing toward the bow
of the ship.

The supplicant cast his hand toward them, and Reyin, as he
turned, felt sharp heat plough a burning furrow up the side of his leg.  A
stream of fire ran from his knee to his hip, now continuing up the side of his
doublet, branching across his chest and spreading into a wave.  Stunned by pain
and shock, Reyin could do nothing.

Then he felt himself lifted, a broad shoulder in his gut
driving him up and back.  Falling, upside down.  Enveloped in water.  Holding
it close with both arms.  Farlo dragging him deeper.

Farlo towed him by what remained of his doublet, and Reyin
hugged the device containing
E'alaisenne
tight against his body.  Reyin
felt himself lifted by it.  It was buoyant, and Farlo struggled furiously to
take them deeper.  They were passing underneath a great black shape — the hull
of the felucca.  He was taking them under the ship.  Farlo quickly tired of
fighting to swim deeper, changing to a level stroke, and Reyin had no choice
but to be hauled along, the encrusted hull and sharp keel jabbing and scraping
and cutting him.

They surfaced gasping for air in a shadowed place, a bizarre
ceiling close to their heads.  Farlo had brought them up under the dock.

They rested there, clinging to the piles, only long enough
to take a few deep breaths.  Farlo waved for him to follow and Reyin nodded. 
As they worked their way toward shore along the underside of the dock, Reyin
heard muffled voices from the felucca.

" . . . seen them come up."

"Break out some pistols . . . lantern."

Then a shout, "Get back to the ship!  Row quickly,
boys!"

They were more than halfway to shore when they heard,
"Malor, they're under the pier.  Get the plank down.  Ahoy boat!  Make
straight for the dock!"

"They've figured it out," Farlo hissed.

"Worse than that.  He
knows
.  Let's get out of
here."

Farlo swam like a madman, reaching the last timbers within
seconds.  He scrambled up the shoring before he noticed that his friend lagged
far behind.

Reyin stayed for a moment.  Reaching up and gently brushing
the planks and timbers with the tips of his fingers, he whispered, "
Nikte
Mok Helardre, Ishdeveulen Alazz
."

He found Farlo crouching in a moon shadow below the edge of
the pier.

"Take a look," Farlo said.

Reyin lifted his head a little.  The huge sailor, a pistol
in each hand, walked alongside the sorcerer, who had rekindled his ancient
lamp.  The sailor scanned the water on both sides of the dock.  The other man
seemed to see nothing, as if he were sleepwalking.

"What do you think?" Farlo said urgently.  "I
say we make a dash for it."

The jolly-boat swung into sight around the stern of the
ship, heading for the far end of the pier.  After a few final pulls, they upped
oars and made ready to dock.

"Wait," Reyin whispered.

The other magician suddenly stiffened and pointed straight
at their hiding place.  "Malor, they are over there."

At the same time, the jolly-boat scrapped against the wharf
and the crew poured over the side.

"Hurry boys!  This way," Malor yelled.  The
sorcerer tapped him on the arm, and they started down the pier, not waiting for
the other men.

Gripped by the fear of magic, Farlo tugged at Reyin's
sleeve.  Even after all that Reyin had told him, he had not been prepared for a
man who could throw fire.

"They'll be on us in moments — let's run while we still
can."

"Wait.  Just a few more steps."

Malor was half a stride ahead of his master when the planks
under his feet gave way.  The break rippled across their path like rifled
cards, leaving a ten-foot gap beneath them.  They clawed the air as they
plunged into the dark water, Malor losing his pistols, the lamp hissing out.

"Now," Reyin said, scrambling up the embankment
and onto the harbor road.  He crossed the street at a dead run, Farlo at his
elbow, heading for the deep darkness that lay in an alley between two
warehouses.

From behind he heard someone shout, "There they
go!"

They ran down the alley, slipping on garbage and stumbling
over debris.  Soon the way branched left and right in the face of another
warehouse, and they stopped and stood panting.  The moon looked down along the
cross-alley, lighting it well.  They could see, to the left, that it ran into a
wide street where one-horse buggies and pedestrians passed.

"Shall we?" Farlo said between breaths, holding out
his arm to usher Reyin toward the street.

"You go ahead," Reyin said, looking back at the
way they had come.  "But let me borrow your knife first."

"What are you going to do?"

"Leave them something to look at.  Wait for me halfway
down, and whatever you do, don't look back.  Not even a glance."

A minute later Reyin joined him.  "They're coming up
the alley."

They ran once again, but when they turned the corner Reyin
stopped and threw his back against the wall, hugging the canvass sack to his
chest.

"Farlo," he said, his eyes tight against the pain
that now claimed its full due.  "I'm exhausted.  My mind has gone numb and
my leg feels like it's still on fire.  We need a place to hide-out and rest for
a few hours."

"The Barrel — The Topmast Inn.  Remember the night
watch?  They had never even heard of the place.  No one will ever find us
there."

Reyin eyes half opened. 
"Oh, he'll find us alright.  Or it is this, rather," he patted the
device within the canvass sack, "that he will certainly find, given enough
time.  But The Barrel isn't far from here, and I'm too tired to do anything
else.  Let's go."