Traitor's Knot (27 page)

‘With due permission,' Arithon admitted. His fingers poised over the next billet with its fish-glued slip of paper and queer ciphers. ‘Masks won't keep on shipboard, and I haven't lied. I'm initiate mage-trained, entitled as Masterbard, as well as birth-born to wield shadow. Those skills are now weaving
this vessel's defence. Stay as you wish. Measure the evidence in front of your eyes. Just remember, when everything breaks into mayhem, and it will: I never abandoned my comfortable haven in Kewar's caverns for your sake.'

Through the unpleasant tension that followed, Fionn Areth might as well have ceased to exist. Arithon pursued his inscrutable business. By the time the steward arrived to inform that the stripped arrows and cork awaited on deck, Arithon's crafted works had shifted the forces of the known world off their accustomed track.
Evenstar
wallowed amid glassy calm. The long, ocean swell had flattened out. Each comment from the helmsman seemed unnaturally distinct. The creak and squeal of the deck-boards as crewmen secured the aft hatch sounded magnified in the harsh quiet.

A thunderous splash from the cat-head startled the goatherd half out of his wits.

‘That will be the starboard anchor, unshackled and cut loose,' Arithon stated in swift reassurance. Done with raw conjury, he was now snipping thread: the jet glitter of his onyx buttons were passed off for the steward to secure, followed as fast by his shirt laces.

The mate's barked command filtered down from the bow. ‘Sway out and cut loose!'

A thump, and a rattle, and more splashes followed. The steward added, for Fionn Areth's sake, ‘None of the hands are abandoning ship!'

Arithon affirmed this. ‘I asked for the chain to be jettisoned also. The ballast rock is just as grievous a hazard, but the hull would capsize without it.' He arose, shed his rifled jerkin, and bundled his cache of marked sticks. While the servant moved in to dismantle the lamp, and break out the salt-crusted windows, the Prince of Rathain made his way from the chart room. He bounded on deck, met as he emerged by Feylind, anxiously frowning.

If she wished to revile him for freeing Fionn Areth, someone had warned her with adamancy Her gesture instead framed the ensorcelled waters, sluggish and flat as pooled mercury. ‘Don't explain how you've done this. I don't care to know. You're making my seamen as jumpy as cats!'

All wind had died also. The air hung like liquid glass. Sounds were now muffled by the oppressive calm. The creak of the ratlines, the groans as the seams worked between deck and bulkhead made the brig seem a ghost vessel, cursed by a haunting.

‘Not only your seamen.' Arithon took her cold hand, laid her chapped knuckles between his warm palms, and plumbed her concern with unnerving intensity. Vivid and vital, his face had not changed. Beside him, she had matured and grown weathered. The wear of years and a harsh, outdoor lifestyle had stamped crow's-feet in her rough skin.

Despite herself, Feylind was shaken. She endured that scouring, mage-trained regard, hard-braced for a recoil that never came.

Arithon cupped her cheek the way she remembered, when she had used
her fresh tongue as a child. ‘You are more than I hoped, and beyond what anyone imagined you'd become. I understand you have two children?'

Grown taller than he, every inch the ship's master, Feylind tossed back her blonde braid and laughed. ‘You'd teach them to row, and cozen their loyalty? Well, the fat's been tossed into the fire, headlong. Dakar's warned us the
iyats
are backed by an ambush. First we've got to win free of your enemies.'

‘Prophets are dastardly pessimists, to a man.
“Come hither, wild sprite with the marigold hair.
”' Still quoting ballads, the bard tugged her aft. His swift step partnered hers with a wildness recalled from the sun-washed sands back in Merior. ‘Stand up, front and center, and share the first move.' He turned his head, shouted. ‘Dakar! You're needed. Can you invoke the rune that Asandir used to start camp-fires?'

Response hailed from the quarter-deck, by the stern-rail. ‘Not easily, in this state.' A mussed, portly figure broke from a discussion on-going between Vhandon and Talvish. ‘Your slings and lead weights are readied, as well, though no one can fathom what madcap purpose you've hatched in your tinkering brain.'

Arithon mounted the quarter-deck stair, with Feylind towed breathless behind, and Fionn Areth trailing, still obstinate. Packing a glower that left no one in doubt that his presence was hostile and separate, the herder hung on the fringes. Yet the activity surrounding the Master of Shadow remained too absorbed to take note of him.

‘His royal self stated you would not be touched.' The unexpected address made Fionn Areth start. Turned, he encountered the
Evenstar's
mate, broad-shouldered and affable, with blue eyes that were keenly observant. ‘If you don't understand what that constraint means, then ask Dakar to tell you of Tharrick. The fellow was once a captain at arms for Alestron, before he ran amok and burned down Arithon's shipyard.'

As Fionn Areth surged forward, the mate snatched him back with a biting grasp on his shoulder. ‘You
will
bide your time until things have calmed down. Else I'll break your crown stay of protection myself, and nail your skinned hide to the mast-head!'

‘You're corrupt as the rest,' the goatherd accused. ‘Entrapped by his charm and fell shadows.'

‘I am Feylind's,' the mate said in acid correction. ‘Which means I will watch the man closer than you to be certain her interests aren't compromised.'

Surprised to encounter a possible ally, Fionn Areth subsided.

The defence of the brig continued, apace. By the stern-railing, Arithon hefted the sling, a cork float strung with its streamer and lead pocketed in the mesh. Talvish, head bent, was stringing the bow. Dakar hunkered next to his feet, fiddling with the blunt arrow shafts, while Feylind made comment that lofty excuses were unlikely to forgive his sick penchant for drink.

‘Range?' Vhandon answered to someone's pitched question. ‘He's accurate to one hundred yards, else Duke Bransian would have demoted him.'

‘That's sufficient.' Arithon straightened, his manner turned brisk. ‘If not, we're beyond all salvage.' He whirled the sling. String whistled. His ungainly missile shot aloft in a ranging arc, then tumbled and plunged, dead astern. The strung float of cork tumbled, flailing, behind its tied fish weight, then splashed. Ring ripples spread over the mirror-smooth sea.

Dakar passed off an arrow.

Talvish, not fumbling, strung the nock, drew, and fired in practised motion. The arrow leaped out in wobbling flight, its tip whittled sharp, and the cut head replaced with one of Arithon's queer kindling constructs.

The shot struck the cork float, and the dipped fletching burst into streamered flame.

Feylind whooped. Arithon whipped the reloaded sling, and the sequence repeated, with the idle crew taking odds with manic abandon.

‘We chose them for nerve,' the mate said, laconic, then shaded his eyes and surveyed the horizon. ‘Steady on, boy. Take hold of the ship. No mistake, we're about to get hammered.'

There seemed no disturbance. No cloud-burst approached. The sun shone on varnish and railings, untrammelled, while the air hung lucent and breathlessly still. Yet the mate's seasoned instinct had not roused in error.

Against the horizon, where ocean met sky, an angry, dark band raced over the water to meet them.

‘Deck there!' cried the look-out. ‘Heads up, we have trouble!'

The mate's shouted order brought the man down from the ratlines, then rousted the crew. ‘Move now! Dog the hatches!'

Throughout, the paired missiles continued to fly. The sling whistled and released; arrows launched from the bow, until
Evenstar's
hull drifted inside a match-stick ring of fluttering flame.

Late Autumn 5670

By the time the battened hatches were nailed shut, Fionn Areth had insinuated himself amid the party on the quarter-deck, close enough to track Arithon's least move, and overhear words pitched too low for the sailhands at large. To judge by Dakar's scowl, the additional fastenings the ship's joiner had set would do little to stop
iyats
from breaching the hold. At best, the deterrent might only forestall air-borne objects from straying above deck, there to inflict havoc, or become dispossessed and tossed past hope of salvage into the sea.

No more could be done. The band of riffled waters raced down on the drifting brig. Unsettled murmurs arose from the crew; of sharper interest to Fionn Areth, the tension that flared between the Master of Shadow and the Mad Prophet.

‘Why did you leave Kewar?' The scorching intensity of the question was pitched to throw its victim off guard.

Arithon stood, fingers interlaced on the quarter-deck rail. Stripped of his jerkin, he appeared too slight-boned to inspire dread.

Yet
something
caused Dakar to draw a hissed breath. ‘Your response was ill-done,' he persisted. Straight courage, or some driving weight of cold fear pressed him further. ‘You know what must happen. She'll be duty-bound, now, to leave her safe place in Ath's hostel. She has no choice but to position herself at your side. Prisoned under her Prime's direct order, what can she bring except heartache, and a wide-open door to disaster?'

Fionn Areth was brushed by an unwonted chill. No name had been mentioned. But the woman implied behind Dakar's rebuke could only be the Koriani enchantress, Elaira. Her entanglement with the Master of Shadow might
not be public knowledge; yet in Jaelot, during a healing to restore his lamed knee, the goatherd had witnessed the Masterbard's song, invoked by no more than the spirit of her intangible presence. Even in recall, the incident burned: its stark clarity etched by the strain of doomed love and the agony of enforced separation.

Which cruel provocation turned Arithon's head: his wide-open eyes brightly incensed, he said, ‘Where did you learn what you know?'

The Mad Prophet flushed. ‘I partnered Kharadmon through the warding of Rockfell.' Arms folded, he held his mulish ground. ‘The Sorcerer knows of her worth, and her steadfast quality. His concern matches mine. Her love where you are concerned makes too ready a tool for the Prime to enact your destruction.'

‘You'll not broach those fears, here!'
Though Arithon spoke for Dakar's ear alone, Fionn Areth shamelessly hovered. Even caught second hand, the warning bristled. ‘Your advice is well-meant. And henceforward, unwanted. I will not be governed. Not by
her
bravery, and not even once by Prime Selidie's designs, endorsed by your gutless cowardice!'

‘The breathing life on this world lies at stake! Against that, the crew on this vessel does not signify!' Ludicrous and fat, eyes blood-shot with drink, Dakar pressed his point, not courageous, but caring. ‘The Prime covets your capture. To gain that end, every one of us serves as your bait! Had you withstood the pressure to rise to her lure, the Koriani Matriarch would forsake her interest. In time, without provocation from you, we would have all been released.'

Arithon bent his head, exquisite hands now clenched on the taffrail until every knuckle gleamed white. ‘But the teeth in this trap are armed galleys flying the sunwheel banner.' Against the savagery of repressed emotion, his last line came wholly mild. ‘Dhirken died, Dakar.'

The riposte scored too hard, after the horror unveiled by today's flash of prescience: the spellbinder lost words, while threat grew, apace.

The voracious fury of Selidie's assault converged across empty water. No storm of fiends ever rivalled the pack descending at speed upon
Evenstar.
The front line ploughed in as a breaking wave, rushed by a glassine shimmer of air, fractured to rippling distortion. Yet where a mirage would have settled in silence, the sea heaved, snagged to ominous foam. White spouts trampled skywards. They towered and coiled like whipped smoke, then dispersed as though scattered by whimsy.

‘You might still fail.' The Mad Prophet dug in, his obstinacy tempered by pity. ‘Who loses then?'

Softly, Arithon Teir's'Ffalenn gave his answer. ‘There are many reasons to avoid taking risks. Friendship is not among them.'

‘You came for Feylind?' At next breath, the fiends would be on them. Too ill to do battle on two fronts at once, Dakar blotted his sweaty palms on his shirt. ‘Arithon. You are not free to offer yourself as a sacrifice! Your presence here has raised drastic stakes!
Damn
your birth-born compassion to
Sithaer! What you call a risk is too likely to stage the horrific potential for massacre.'

But response was eclipsed as the on-coming storm trampled into the floating array of lit constructs. If their purpose had been to delay the sprites, enthralling them with the elemental power compacted by Arithon's talent, that hope died. Wood, fire, cork float, and marked runes, the perimeter laid down through arrows and spells became shredded. The papers with their guarding ciphers exploded to match-stick splinters and smoke. Wind and heat, every coiled force contained by skilled talent, ripped wholesale out of constraint.

The fiends fed. They gorged, soaking up the burst energies like the howl of an indrawn breath. Beyond sated, the creatures shed the excess in shearing knots that thrashed up whirling water-spouts. The air itself burned. Sound grazed the ears, too high for natural hearing. The buffeting horde shot off acrid smells and hurtful, sharp flashes of light.

‘Merciful mother of invention,' swore Dakar. ‘We can't survive this ferocious an onslaught!'

The first fool who panicked would bring the swarm in.

And yet, no voices raised outcry. Every man present witnessed the force that razed the scrap billets to flotsam. Yet none showed distress. Far from unhinged, Fionn Areth found himself swept by a puzzling bout of deep lassitude. Suspicious, he shared the piquant discovery with Dakar, that the Master of Shadow was not, after all, doing nothing.

Those disingenuous fingers were cupped at the rail, with Arithon, head bent, singing into them. His melody seemed little more than a whisper. Yet that light, keening sound ran into the wood, arousing a tonal vibration. Fionn Areth sensed the low notes through his feet, as the deck-planking shuddered to resonance. Phrased in rhythmic song, the bard's spell of calm used the whole brig as its sounding-board. Anxious men who should have quaked outright subsided to half-lidded drowsiness.

The spellbinder deduced the primary intent. ‘A sleep summoning, surrounding Prime Selidie's sigil? That's an ambitious innovation.'

For the reactive sprites were not clever. Reeled in by the Matriarch's lure, their interest would hook first on the reckless energies offered by Arithon's smashed constructs. Though powerful spells of attraction bound the
iyats
to the
Evenstar's
presence, the harmonics of calm now laced through her timbers would offer no sport, by comparison. The swarm might well overlook the hushed ship, or abandon its deadened temptation without contest.

‘We won't be invisible,' Dakar pointed out, though the bard he addressed stayed engrossed. ‘The line that you draw is critically fine. How long do you think that you can sustain? There's small chance you can hold your rhythm and pitch without falling prey to distraction.'

Even Fionn Areth grasped the frightful extent of the danger: if the brig's crew became too deeply enthralled, or lapsed into an unnatural sleep, they might
stagger overboard and drown before they recovered their wits. Yet Arithon's art shaped the sole, fragile stay, sparing
Evenstar
from the trap. Dakar was left to stand guard by default, while the first questing fiends flowed across the ship's decks and explored every object and cranny. All they encountered roused tinkering interest. Their invisible prickle played over the skin, frazzling nerves and striking up gooseflesh. Their invasive tickle poked into men's ears, and their unpleasant, charged warmth flicked the stilled air to whistles and smears of distortion.

Despite the close timing, no loose ends remained to tempt the caprice of the sprites. The pin-rails had been stripped. Sail halyards, sheaves, blocks, and running tackle were all stowed out of harm's way. The galley fire was doused. Ship's bell and binnacle were unbolted and wrapped under ward, yet the dearth of fodder did not defer exploration.
Iyats
combed through every spooled rail and bare spar with indefatigable curiosity.

At the helm, one hand lifted to smother a yawn, Feylind watched the compass lose orientation. The needle revolved in erratic circles, with no quiver to suggest true north. The ship's wheel spun next. Though its squealing gyrations plumed smoke from the bearings, no crewman risked breaking a hand in prevention. The mate's astute forethought had seen the rudder pins locked and the steering cables unshackled.

Eyes shut, Arithon stayed unmoved by the diversion. His lyric tones flowed unimpeded, evoking a powerful symmetry that remade all the world as a formless dream. Apprehensive anxiety settled and faded, as thought and senses spun down into blanketing drowsiness.

Time passed without measure. Dulled awareness suspended. Fiercely as Fionn Areth resisted, the melody lulled him until he succumbed. He drifted, lost in a somnolence that lasted until a shadow scythed over his face. The brisk slap of wind that rode in its wake jolted open his drooping lids.

Before him, the startling form of an eagle folded bronze wings on the taffrail.

The bird was not canny. Preternaturally aware, it swivelled its sleek head. A golden-brown eye fixed on Rathain's prince. As though called by name, the Master of Shadow fell silent. While the ringing vibrations he had struck through wood dwindled down to a diminished whisper, Arithon matched that intelligent glance. Deep thoughts were shared in communion.

Then the bird peered askance. Fionn Areth found himself raked in turn by a survey of scorching irony before the sorcerous creature took off. The thunderous launch whipped Arithon's hair and moved Dakar to shake an impotent fist at the fan of departing tail-feathers.

‘Temper, my friend!' the Teir's'Ffalenn warned. ‘You don't want to risk reckless offence in that quarter, or feed the Prime's crazed visitation.'

‘
Iyats
!' Dakar slapped his forehead and accosted the prince. ‘Death's fist on Fate's Wheel, they're the least of the dangers you court!' Perhaps unwisely, since nervous crewmen were listening, he ran on in acid remonstrance. ‘A
madman knows not to consort with Davien! His meddling bargains will tear you apart. Who can guess what terrible price you might pay when the hour comes due for the reckoning?'

‘To date, Davien's been the party enacting his dealings with me.' Arithon stayed disengaged from his spelled defence, though the running vibrations that thrummed through the brig rapidly passed beyond hearing. ‘I hope,' he said, bland, ‘that your touch with
iyats
has improved since the last time I saw you.'

Dakar's eyes widened. ‘What do you know? What ill-advised counsel has that feckless Sorcerer whispered into your ear?'

‘That Prime Selidie has whistled in fresh reinforcements.' Arithon shared that nuance with Feylind and the mate, then pitched his tone for the crewmen at large. ‘The Koriani Matriarch has raised the stakes and engaged an additional ring of enchantresses.
Their
meddling has hazed in a new pack of
iyats
and dispatched them in pursuit. We won't have an hour. The next wave will strike the ship within minutes, and the unconsumed fuel that's left from my constructs won't be enough to detain them.'

‘She'll bid for your capture.' Distraught, the Mad Prophet jammed his loose shirt-tails into his buttonless waistband. ‘We're lame chicks in a maelstrom. What under Ath's sky can you hope to do?'

Arithon raised his eyebrows. ‘Ever played “duck, duck, goose, who jumps for the wolf”? What else but give three dozen pullets the headache they richly deserve.' While the deck-crew pressed close, the better to hear, he grinned with insane provocation. ‘Listen up, sluggards! We'll need softened wax.' His glance toward Feylind begged her indulgent apology, as, speaking fast, he listed necessities. ‘Plugs of cotton, perhaps torn from the stuffing inside a dry fender, do we have it?'

‘We do,' said the cook, ham fist stroking his beard. ‘Is it ear-plugs you're wanting, mannie?'

‘Some of the men might require that protection.'

Not waiting for Arithon's clipped affirmation, the ship's cooper already leaped to draw the spelled nails from the hatch. Accosted at once by a loose bar of soap, and a barrage of spools, thread denuded, he cursed, batting objects, and descended.

‘You'll have to hang on and ride out the storm,' the Master of Shadow explained while the anxious deck-hands clustered about him. ‘It boils down to a brute trial of endurance.' With the Koriani sigil set under the water-line,
and
inside the hull's copper sheathing, no hurried remedy could destroy the source. His counter-measure must be diffused through the brig, which meant, as before, the unfiltered effects would also trouble the crew. ‘I'm going to try dissonance. The back-lash may hurt. A few sensitives could suffer headaches, or dizziness. Can we manage to endure a few fiends, and perhaps, a rough spell of dry heaves? Whatever we suffer, I promise, the enchantresses will feel that much worse. The craft they've engaged keeps them linked, in reverse. As long as
they test us, they're vulnerable, and while they work to shepherd their spells, they'll be held at my mercy, unshielded.'

The mate's boisterous guffaw shattered the tension. ‘It's a straight game of knock-down with thirty-six ladies!'