The Law of Isolation (10 page)

The city blanketing the shore before them was enormous. She’d thought Elathir a vast metropolis, but this city stretched at least three times as far, and the buildings were far more densely packed. Some of them had to be five stories tall. Straight inland, orange-tiled roofs rose in a gentle slope to a wide hill crowned with a cluster of stately buildings among green gardens. To the left, the land ascended sharply to a rocky crag, where a thick-walled fortress stood, topped with graceful towers. Low on the right, almost as splendid, stood a white stone edifice, dazzling among its red brick neighbors, crowned by a huge dome that shone like pure gold.

Nestled in the curve of the harbor were rows of docks, crowded with dozens of ships of all sizes. As they drew near, Nirel could see little boats plying among them. People crowded the piers and the city streets fronting the water.

“Look,” Gan called from a few yards higher in the rigging, pointing. “That one’s coming to meet us.”

Nirel spotted the boat he meant. It slid over the water, propelled by banks of oars on either side. That must be the pilot ship Captain Yosiv had told them about, come to guide them into a berth.

“I’d better get down there and be ready to help translate.” All of them had learned a little of the strangers’ language, and Captain Yosiv had become quite adept at making himself understood in their own tongue, but Nirel had picked up more than anyone else. It came easily to her, and she’d taken every opportunity to converse with the foreign sailors. When they laughed at her and corrected her pronunciation, she smiled back and took note of what they said. They seldom had to correct her twice.

Ozor had come to depend on her to be sure that he and Captain Yosiv were understanding each other correctly. He wanted her by his side when they met the Matrarcha they had heard so much about.

As far as Nirel had been able to puzzle out from the sailors’ talk, the Matrarcha was Ramunna’s equivalent of Guildmaster Dabiel, the one in charge of their Council. If they even had a Council; the sailors hadn’t been very clear about that. The Matrarcha seemed to have a lot more power and be held in far higher esteem than the Guildmaster, though. Her name was Verinna, like Captain Yosiv’s ship, but no one ever referred to her that way.

She scrambled down the ladder and headed to the bow. Ozor was there, accompanied by Tereid, Kabos, and a few others. Nirel fell in beside her father. They were dressed in the best clothes they had, although that wasn’t saying much. They’d fled Tevenar with only the clothes on their backs. Months of wild living followed by more months at sea had taken their toll. Ozor’s tunic looked decent, but the rest of them looked like the ragged band of outlaws they were. Nirel didn’t usually care much about appearances, but she disliked the thought of going before a foreign leader dressed in a fashion that might lead her to judge them unfavorably.

She put her chin high. Let the Matrarcha see she wasn’t ashamed, nor any of her company. They had knowledge she wanted, and she’d have to treat them well if she hoped to get it.

The pilot ship steered close, trailed by another. Its captain exchanged shouted words with Captain Yosiv. Then it proceeded to their ship, while the other stayed near the
Verinna
. Yosiv’s sailors tossed ropes to the pilot ship, so the folk of Ozor’s company knew how to respond when the pilot captain called to them. The ropes were bound fast to the stern of the pilot ship, and its rowers began to tow them into shore.

The process took long so that Nirel writhed with impatience before they reached the dock. Kabos put a steadying hand on her shoulder. No one spoke. Ozor had gone over what he expected of them multiple times. Now there was nothing left but to wait.

At last, the pilot ship drew them beside the wooden pier. Nirel saw Gan working among the others to throw ropes to the dockhands ashore. She felt smug that her position in the delegation relieved her of that task. But when her roving eyes spotted the group waiting for them on the dock, her stomach lurched, and for a moment she wished she were working beside him.

The woman in the middle was swathed from head to foot in rich, voluminous fabric. Each of the many layers of her clothing was adorned with elaborate, beautiful embroideries and lace embellishments. How did she move? Nirel wondered. She couldn’t even see the woman’s legs under the bell-shaped construction of cloth flowing from her waist.

Maybe the strange costume was the mark of her office, for surely this was the Matrarcha. But Nirel spotted a few other women among her retinue, and many in the surrounding crowds, dressed in similar, though plainer, garments. They all sported the leg-concealing bells.

The men were nearly as odd. Their breeches clung to their legs like a second skin above high boots. Their tunics had the puffed sleeves she’d found so odd at first on Yosiv’s men, and flared out over their hips. Plumed hats adorned their heads. Behind the cluster surrounding the Matrarcha, a large group of men dressed in identical blue outfits stood stiffly in straight lines. Each bore a long knife like Captain Yosiv’s at his belt.

Captain Yosiv disembarked from his ship and came to stand on the dock by theirs. Dockhands extended a length of board from the dock to the rail of their ship, and Yosiv beckoned for them to cross. Ozor squared his shoulders and set out with sure movements across the bouncy plank. Some of the others swayed and had to put out their arms to keep their balance, but Nirel navigated the board with little trouble.

Yosiv gave them a big smile. “Come. I take you to Matrarcha.”

Ozor inclined his head. “Lead on, my friend.”

They followed Yosiv, who led them to the group gathered midway down the dock. He bowed to the richly-dressed woman with a great flourish, sweeping the hat from his head and pressing it to his chest. “Matrarcha.” He spoke much more quickly than when he was speaking to Nirel, but she could understand most of what he said. “Your majesty, let me present to you Lord Ozor of Tevenar and his company.”

Nirel had a harder time following the Matrarcha’s response. As near as she could make out, the ruler said, “Greetings, Lord Ozor. We welcome to Ramunna the wizards from across the Eastern Sea.”

Ozor bowed, although not as low as Yosiv had. “Thank you, Matrarcha.” He made no effort to conform his speech to the odd rhythms and pronunciations of Ramunna, but spoke as was normal in Tevenar. Yosiv had coached him that an envoy from a foreign land was expected to employ a translator. “We greet you on behalf of the people of Tevenar.”

Nirel took a step forward. At the same time, a man stepped out of the group surrounding the Matrarcha and bowed. “My name is Gevan Navorre,” he said. His words were oddly accented, formal and old-fashioned sounding, but much closer to their own speech than anything Yosiv had been able to produce. “I am a scholar of history. Your language is much like that of ancient Miarban.”

Ozor frowned at the sudden change of plan, but adapted quickly. “It’s said our people came from Miarban, long ago. Will you interpret our words to the Matrarcha? Nirel here was going to, but her understanding of the language of Ramunna is still imperfect.”

Gevan’s brows drew together briefly as he glanced at Nirel, but smoothed again when he turned back to Ozor. “Gladly, if the Matriarch will allow me.” He turned and spoke in rapid Ramunnan to the ruler, who answered him just as swiftly.

Matriarch. Matrarcha. The more Nirel learned of the new language, the more she could see how it was related to her own. She was annoyed this man had taken over the position she’d worked hard to be ready to fill, but at the same time she was relieved the proceedings would be conducted with a fuller understanding than she’d been confident she could provide.

He turned back. “The Matriarch is amenable to this arrangement. She wishes you to know that she has desired above all things to meet the wizards our legends say fled beyond the Eastern Sea. She rejoices to welcome you to her realm.”

This was the point of difficulty. Yosiv had coached them on how to break the news that would gravely disappoint the Matriarch. Ozor bowed again and spoke the carefully prepared words. “I regret that her desire must be delayed a short while longer. Although wizards dwell in our homeland, none of them made the voyage to Ramunna with us.”

Gevan blinked. He turned and relayed Ozor’s words to the Matriarch. She looked equally taken aback, but quickly recovered. Gevan interpreted her reply. “How can this be? Captain Yosiv was specifically instructed to bring wizards.”

Yosiv quailed before the gathering rage in the Matriarch’s glare. Ozor stepped between them. “So Captain Yosiv informed us. Yet we were able to prevail on his goodwill to aid us.” He put his hand on Yosiv’s arm. “I and my company fled the tyranny of the wizards. They rule Tevenar and imprison any who oppose them. We escaped from their prison and fled their land. We seek a place where we can make a new home for ourselves, free of the wizards’ dominion. When Yosiv found us, we begged him to bring us to Ramunna. We agreed that once we arrived safely we would gladly share the records of our voyages, so that he can find his way to Tevenar himself. We ask only that, when he brings back wizards to help your majesty, we be protected from their enmity and given refuge in your realm against any attempt to return us by force to Tevenar.”

Gevan relayed Ozor’s speech to the Matriarch. She listened with narrowed eyes. Nirel couldn’t tell whether or not she believed Ozor’s story, or if she was inclined to agree to his request. Nirel shifted from foot to foot. The sun beat down on her head. Not far beyond where the dock met the land, a cluster of palm trees shaded an open square. She longed to sit in their shade and take a deep drink from the sparkling fountain playing there.

The Matriarch barked a few quick phrases at Gevan. He turned back to Ozor. “So there
are
wizards in your homeland? Do they wield the power of the Mother as the ancient writings describe? They are able to move things without touch, and see from afar, and heal?” He gazed at Ozor with an odd combination of eagerness and reluctance.

“They’re wizards. What else would they do?” A trace of irritation crept into Ozor’s voice. Wizards were a touchy subject with Ozor. In all the time she’d spent in his company, she still hadn’t been able to figure out the source of his animosity towards them. He knew far more about their abilities than most people of Tevenar. She wondered if he’d had a close association with a wizard at some point. If so, something must have happened to sour the relationship, because now he wanted nothing more than to escape their influence.

Gevan stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Tell me. How do they accomplish their deeds? Do they make use of devices? Lenses, perhaps, or other tools that manipulate the forces of nature?”

Ozor gave him a baffled look. “Why would they need devices? A wizard reaches out, and light comes from her hand, and she works whatever magic she wishes. As long as she’s touching her familiar.”

It was Gevan’s turn to look baffled. “Familiar?”

“The animals they touch to do their magic.” Ozor waved his hand. “Dogs, cats, birds, pigs, donkeys…”

Utter confusion shone on Gevan’s face. Ozor grimaced. “Enough about wizards! If you want me to give you the charts, you’ll provide us with food and drink, clothes to replace our rags, and a place to lay our heads. Otherwise we’ll get back on our ship and leave.”

For a few minutes Gevan studied them, brows deeply furrowed, eyes going from face to face. He gave his head a sharp shake, turned back to the Matriarch, and spoke to her in a low voice. She drew herself up, eyes burning as she spoke harshly to him, but he raised a placating hand and poured out a long, impassioned plea. At length her expression softened and she gave a curt nod. She issued a few short ringing statements, apparently commands, for the members of her retinue nodded and bowed, and there was a chorus of “An, tha mashestta.”

With a great majestic sweep, she turned and proceeded along the dock. Much of her retinue accompanied her, but a good number, headed by Gevan, stayed behind. The group of armed men, in response to shouted orders from their leader, parted to allow the Matriarch and her companions to pass. They broke into two groups. One surrounded the Matriarch and escorted her up the street toward the high fortress, while the other remained at the end of the dock.

Gevan spoke with Captain Yosiv. Yosiv protested, but Gevan kept talking until at length the captain gave in with an exasperated sigh. He turned and went back aboard his ship.

Gevan turned to Ozor. “The Matriarch has commanded Captain Yosiv to prepare his ship to sail again as quickly as possible. She wants him to reach Tevenar and return with wizards before winter storms make the sea dangerous. She will grant you anything you ask, so long as you turn over the charts you promised.”

Ozor bowed. “I will do so as soon as we’re settled.”

“Come then. Bring the rest of your company ashore and I will conduct you to the palace. The Matriarch has given me the task of making you welcome.”

Ozor turned to Nirel. “Go fetch everyone.”

Nirel hesitated. “Do you want anyone to stay behind to guard the ship?”

Ozor glanced at Gevan through narrowed eyes. “No. Let them search. They won’t find anything.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s all up here. I destroyed the maps and logs after I memorized them. The only way they can get them is if they keep their end of the bargain.” He spoke softly, but Nirel guessed he wanted Gevan to overhear. Why else would he confide in her?

She ran back across the plank and shouted for everyone to disembark. The company poured across to the dock. After some confusion and discussion, Gevan led them along the same path the Matriarch had taken. The armed men fell in around them, in front and behind and to either side. They reminded Nirel uncomfortably of the troop of watchers and wizards who’d captured them in the mountains and taken them to imprisonment in Elathir. Were these men their protectors or their captors?

Gan hurried to Nirel’s side. “Did you see what she was wearing? Isn’t it ridiculous? Can she even sit down with that thing around her legs? It must have cost a fortune. Even the guildmaster of the Traders’ Guild never wears so much lace and gold.”