The Starfollowers of Coramonde (32 page)

“Practically
speaking, it is inescapable,” she parried. “You not only lack the means to
shore up your throne. You lack the
time.”

He resettled
himself in his plush chair, considering that. The three were met in the palace
of the King of Seaguard, who’d kept fealty to the
Ku-Mor-Mai.
Though the
drapes were fastened against night airs, the conferees could hear the gulls
mourning over Bold-haven Bay. “The Mariners are waging war on the sea, and
winning against the Southwastelanders. The King of Seaguard would give the
ships needed.”

“Few as we
are, we have small hope to conquer the Southwastelands,” Hightower reminded
him, “much less lay siege to the Masters.”

Gabrielle,
exasperated, tapped her toe. They knew it was a danger signal, and listened.
“You do not understand yet, nor does Springbuck; your goal is to penetrate
through
to the Necropolis, and
not
in order to mount some crude siege.

“I told you
of the seance with Gil MacDonald, when I gave him the Ace of Swords. Since that
night I’ve had my busy ear to the half-world and the tidings its creatures
carry. I have read auguries and scrutinized the stars, deciphered the fall of the
knucklebones, and taken the meanings of entrails.” Where she was usually
light-spirited, even in the gravest matters, she was somber. “This upheaval is
conceived to fend us off from the Five and their pursuits; it is the sort of
thing about which Andre warned. The Masters think you two can launch no
offensive, all in your disarray. Before we can act, they are confident, their
real labors will bear fruit.”

Springbuck
played with the basket hilt of his sabre, Bar. No more ceremonial trappings for
him; he’d chosen to wear his old attire of an Alebowrenian bravo on his
excursion to Seaguard. He’d undoubtedly have more use for vambraces and war
mask than brocade and silk.

“What would
be their crop?” he wondered.

“Ultimate
spellbinding. It could wipe away the world.”

“Can it be
stopped?”

“Everything
can be stopped, even time itself,
Ku-Mor-Mai.
But this endeavor cannot
be foiled from here. Shardishku-Salamá is like some smelting furnace of magic;
it cannot be extinguished by half-measures, or from afar. We may go to it and
do what arms and enchantments can, but from Coramonde we can achieve nothing.”

Springbuck
clicked his tongue and tapped Bar’s pommel. “Then you prevail, Gabrielle. I’d
hoped to avoid this war for a time.”

High tower was
on his feet. “As easy to reject the flood or deny the avalanche. Spare us your
regrets; you know little enough of what awaits you.”

His tone
dropped. “We may yet see a time of cataclysm like no other. Drums tell the
world to march. Cast out your wise men,
Ku-Mor-Mai!
Drive them from you
and listen to the epistles of your flesh; the gales of war speak
your
name tonight! Take the rede your hackles send you; study the writ of your
bowels. There’s where verity resides now.”

“My Lord
Hightower.” The sorceress stopped him. “Cast no more shadows. Salamá has thrown
quite enough of those.”

He subsided,
going to monotone. “Preparation may prove futile, and forethought will be no
protection; I did but warn him.” To Springbuck he added, “There will only be
the guidance that lives in the marrow.”

The younger
man rose. “If that’s the shape of things, we’ll do as best we may, to stop this
thing unknown by thaumaturgy or hand-strokes. But first we must look upon it.”

She whirled
on him, enraged. “Unknown to you!” In a temper she was capable of anything, and
a Protector-Suzerain was no safer than any other man. Springbuck held himself
carefully.

“We have had
our glimpse at it, your Warlord and I,” she continued, her hand to the old
man’s cheek. Hightower’s chain-mailed arm encircled her. Springbuck left,
closing the door behind.

His name was
called. Captain Brodur caught up, breathing hard, his bared sword in his hand.
It was he who’d brought the first warning of revolt, because his home fief had
been first to be lost. Brodur, visiting his family, had risen from bed to enter
the fray in breeches and shirt, without bothering to take up armor or arming
girdle. He and his family had been driven out though, their land taken. Brodur
had made the painful recognition of his duty and carried the news. He was
carefree no more; men called him “Brodur-Scabbardless” for, having begun with a
bared blade, he’d vowed not to cover it until his family had their lands
returned.

Now he gasped
his message to come and see what Omen had appeared. They found a hallway
window. Moonlight and starlight over Boldhaven Bay was outdone by a new
illumination. Seeing the Sign hanging in the southern sky, Springbuck shouted
for Hightower and Gabrielle. They came running, the Warlord with his two-handed
blade half drawn.

Gabrielle
confirmed that it was the Trailingsword. “My brother and the rest discharged
their commission. Now you have a higher edict, Springbuck; the men left to you
will go with you southward. Reacher will have seen it in Freegate, as will any
who hate the Masters. Whether those will be enough or not, we shall learn, in
seven times seven days.”

Springbuck
drew Brodur-Scabbardless aside.

“Call
together all leaders of the diverse elements. Have the King of Seaguard
invited. You may pass my word: Soon many swords, like yours, shall leave behind
them the estate of the scabbard.”

Every scrap
of their patience, stamina and imagination was subject to test, those next
three days.

“Your Grace,
the septs of Matloo refuse to embark without their war-drays. I ask you, where
have we room for those oversized wagons and horses?”

“Hmm. Fill
each dray with cargo, captain; they are capacious enough. Pack more in around
them once they’re secure. Thus, we sacrifice little space. We may need those
fearsome wagons. The horses will fit somewhere aboard the vessels designated
for mounts. Some men of Matloo may accompany them.”

“My Lord
Hightower, the
Ku-Mor-Mai
directed me to you on a subject. A special tax
is levied on profits of those buying goods from the departing Lords and
soldiers. Where can be the justice in this? I am an honest man, seeking to aid
our great cause, and take due earnings from that. The Protector-Suzerain would
lack funds, had not we merchants opened our coffers, converting goods and deeds
of land to hard specie.”

Hightower’s
reply blew the userer’s hair back. “Slight good will your monies do you,
coin-caresser, if we fail! When before this have you bought bullocks so
cheaply? When has land been rented or sold to you outright at such low sums? Bah!
Better men than you are sailing in one more day while you, squealing piglet,
are best gone from my sight, else I hang you by the heel at the ramparts.”

“The problem
is as follows,
Ku-Mor-Mai,”
said Brodur-Scabbardless. “The men of Teebra
object that the volunteers from the Fens of Hinn are allowed to fly their flag.
They say rebellious Hinn is rightfully theirs, and this should not be
permitted.”

“The men of
Hinn promised they would be first to the gates of Salamá if they could fly
their standard. Besides, the Grand Council of Teebra had grown hardhearted to
them, for in their shared religion, Hinn is more orthodox, making Teebra
uneasy. See what you can do to soothe the Teebrans, but do not let them forget
their fealty to me.”

The captain
made a note. Looking him over, Springbuck asked, “What device is that you bear
upon your shoulder?”

It was a
stylized emblem, a longsword picked out in white, beaming hilt uppermost, on a
field of stars. “Everyone seems to wear the Trailingsword now.” He made to go.

“Just a
moment, Captain; there is one matter the more. Lord Hightower will command the
expedition under my lead, but will also general our regular legions. He needs a
good man over all his cavalry elements. He selected you.”

Brodur was
evasive. “Lord, I have never even commanded a squadron, let alone regiments!”

“You avoided
it. It was permitted until now, but that is no longer tenable. Oh, I know you
would rather keep peace of mind, but you’ll learn to live without it, as I
have. Surely after the war you can go your own way once more.”

Brodur,
ruffled, denied that. “There will be no peace, once my fine aptitudes are
disclosed.” The
Ku-Mor-Mai
barked with laughter, but wondered how the
captain would react when he was in charge.

“Lord Hightower,
many men take exception to these new rules. Being told to boil drinking water,
and how and where a man may take his relievements, and the things they must do
with their rubbish, and how they must bathe with soaps the apothecaries
concocted, those lay much against their pride.”

“You are a
brave and able man, Lord Bantam. I remember your volunteering to stay behind
and command my family’s garrison against siege during the retreat to Freegate
last summer. But what happened? Half the men who remained with you took ill.
The Hightower and its defenders would have fallen if Yardiff Bey’s general had
had more time to spend on you. Attend me; these rules, as strange to me as to
you, were given to Springbuck by the outlanders Van Duyn and Gil MacDonald. We will
be careful about our drinking water and our—our sanitation, as they put it, and
no man will stop short of our goal for sickness if I can help it. If you must,
tell them it has arcane meaning. Or again, provoke their honor; this is part of
their service.

“And pass
along my warrant that these rules are holy doctrine hereafter. The man who
ignores them and his superior will both hear from me in strongest terms, clear?
My gratitude, Lord Bantam.”

Men grew
sick, stomachs emptied their contents into the sea, and the leeward side of any
troop vessel was a noxious, crowded place to be.

The sailors
of Seaguard’s flotilla were hugely entertained by so many landlubbers coming to
grips with the sea at once. There would have been fights, Springbuck was sure,
except that few of his soldiers wanted to do anything but lie or sit in their
misery. On advice from older officers, he ordered that everyone was to stay
topside whenever weather permitted during the day. Lingering below invited
disease and apathy, and dampened morale worse than salt spray ever would.

Hightower and
Gabrielle spoke to him with more ease now that their renascent love was open
fact, but usually preferred one another’s company to the
Ku-Mor-Mai’s.
Springbuck either talked to Brodur or the officers of his flagship, a ponderous
fighting-carrack, or stood on the aft fighting castle.

Though
Brodur-Scabbardless had ample opportunity to gamble, he had little time,
worrying about his new command and fretting about their horses’ well-being. A
part of his outgoing spirit returned, but he still carried a bared blade.

Nearly two
weeks out, they sighted the Inner Hub. They asked one another what could
possibly have made those immense breaches in the sea wall, and torn the harbor
gates away so completely as to leave no trace of them. This was the older, the
first of the Mariners’ citadels, and had boasted walls of marble and of beryl,
gardens, halls and libraries and temples. Now there was smeared ruin. Mast
trucks poked blackened pennants out of the surface of the harbor, grave
markers. Ash and wreckage drifted restlessly on the water. Springbuck could
only hope that, as Gabrielle had predicted, the Mariner vengeance would occupy
the attention of whatever Southwastelander ships plied the sea.

He was on the
rear tower of the carrack, named
Oakengrip.
Hightower and the sorceress
were on the forward castle, she sheltered under the long, warm sweep of his
cloak. A gulf of loneliness yawned, even as a cold, analytical side of
Springbuck came forth, telling him it would strengthen the expedition’s resolve
to see this devastation and think what it meant in terms of home.

Pulling his
own cloak tighter, he paced to the other side of the deck and peered forward,
toward the southern horizon. Unsteady in the unfamiliar rhythm of the sea, he’d
been on deck most of the day, letting men know he shared “the ship, the
weather, the situation altogether,” as the Mariner rhyme had it.

The next day
the sea became rough again, sporting whitecaps, and all landsmen who’d missed
the agony of seasickness the first time coped with it now. Those who’d already
dealt with it refamiliarized themselves. No ships were lost, and only a handful
of careless men. The
Ku-Mor-Mai
was thankful he’d gotten off so easily.
A day came, just short of three weeks after the Trailingsword’s appearance,
when land hove into view.

The virtue of adversity is
fortitude.

Francis Bacon

“On Adversity”

IT was a peninsula of struggling,
sunburned orchards and crops. Springbuck’s poor vision gave him only the vague
details of modest white huts fronting a bleached, broad beach. Fishing nets had
been draped to dry, and long canoes were pulled above the tide’s mark. The
flotilla was on full alert; there was little information about this side of the
Central Sea. The strand was unnervingly quiet, with no sign that their arrival
had been noted. Unwelcomed, unopposed, they were used to no third alternative.

Hightower
ascended the aft castle. “Someone must go ashore, and there is not much time
for it.” The
Ku-Mor-Mai
agreed; an alarm might already have gone out.
The Warlord finished, “It is my intention to do so.”

“I’m sorry,
my Lord, but you are too valuable to risk at preliminary scout. Send someone
whom you trust.”

Brodur, a
pace behind the old man, offered himself at once. Hightower insisted, “I will
take any others you choose, Lord, but mean to go myself. It will fall to me to
give the command to disembark. I must see what is there for myself first.”