Voyage of the Shadowmoon Read online

  “Well, then, you will have to find a quicker way to contact the High Circle. Good afternoon to you, Roval the Not-quite-merchant.”

  Roval stood with his hands on his hips, his lips pressed together and his eyes wide. Serionese had shot blindly, but her arrow had struck the target. The Elder’s eyes blazed with triumph as she watched Roval stride away down the mountainside. Suddenly she had something to offer, suddenly she no longer had to spend a lifetime building her Order up to a few dozen priestesses based on a speck of land in the middle of the Placidian Ocean. Whatever this scheme was, it could be of considerable worth to her.

  She put the book of wordsmithery down on the bench, stood, stretched, then sauntered over and selected a book of Scalticarian grammar and vocabulary. She was pleased to see there was a common scholarly language above the jumble of regional tongues and dialects in that distant land. Walking back to the window she gazed after the departing speck that Roval had become.

  “Dulf weildera, Roval,” she said by way of farewell, then called for a deaconess. “I want you to take a message to Governor Banzalo,” she said.

  Laron heard the mob and saw their quarry before the pack of Helion’s citizens surged into view. A burly, dark-skinned Acreman man hurtled around a corner, blundered over a pile of broken barrel slats, then ran on. Laron flattened himself against a wall as the panting Acreman ran past, smelling of sweat and fear. He dived for a pile of rubbish a moment before the first of the mob rounded the corner.

  “Tha’s ’im!”

  “Slimy Acreman bastard!”

  “Get ’im!”

  “They killed Torea!”

  In an instant Laron realized they were shouting at him. Acreman skin color varied from jet-black to golden brown, while—apart from the acne—Laron’s skin was chalk-white. This important distinction appeared to be lost on the mob, however. Apart from the mob, Laron was alone in the narrow street.

  “I am from Scalticar,” Laron said in a cold, level voice.

  Sweeping his hat off to show that his skin was pale and his hair not tightly curled, he also drew the ax from his belt. The mob was merely after a victim, so his origin meant little to them.

  “E’s chalked ’is face—get ’im!” a voice bawled, and the mob closed in.

  Laron sliced and punch-chopped, using his ax to terrify rather than to kill. Most of those in the mob were used to brawls, but none were trained and experienced warriors. By the time a circle of bloodied, hesitant men, and women had drawn back from Laron, three bodies lay at his feet. Two of them were no longer moving.

  “Acreman slime, ya killed Torea!” bawled a stonecutter with a broken nose.

  “Look at me,” Laron cried back. “I am not only Scalticarian, I am also an officer!”

  They grew fearful at once, and began to disperse. Officers from any oceangoing vessel were considered minor nobility, and the penalty for assault on a noble of any nationality was death. Assaulting a titled noble brought death by torture. Had the real Acreman remained still beneath the rags and rotting vegetables, he might have escaped, but he chose this moment to make a break.

  “Lookee there—the Acreman!” shrilled a voice.

  The fugitive managed to run another ten yards before he was caught. The mob closed in, all anxious to be part of the kill. Now cornered and without hope, the Acreman fought back in spite of the blows flailing down on him. He lunged forward, seized the foremost man and head-butted him, then snatched the staff from the man’s hands and straight-ended it into the face of another. Someone leaped onto his back, stabbing even as the Acreman seized his hair and ripped him away, then he went down.

  Meantime Laron dragged his dazed assailant of moments past behind a handcart. By the time the vampyre emerged again, the cheering mob was sweeping away down the narrow street with the bloodied head of the Acreman raised on a pike.

  Laron checked the bodies of the two other men he had dropped, but neither had a pulse. The decapitated Acreman was rather more obviously dead.

  “Such a waste, such a criminal waste,” said Laron, shaking his head sadly.

  The new Elder decided that the crates of books, registers, archives, and records brought from Torea by Druskarl should be unloaded and taken to one of the caves they used to store wine. Velander was checking them against a list when Druskarl appeared on the gangplank of the deepwater trader with another case.

  “Hard to believe,” said the Acreman eunuch.

  “But, yes, Torea has indeed been burned to cinders,” Velander replied absently.

  “No, your denouncing Terikel.”

  Velander’s attitude hardened in an instant. “She was properly and legally impeached and cast down by a majority of two against one. It was a tight case; it took but moments. The last Elder to be impeached was only unseated after five years of hearings.”

  “Still hard to believe,” Druskarl insisted. “I spoke to Laron—he told me everything.”

  “What do you think of her behavior?” asked Velander

  “Unlucky. Got caught.”

  Velander laughed mirthlessly. “And that’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she betrayed me!”

  “You were unlucky, too.”

  Velander paced restlessly, her arms tightly folded. “You are a eunuch. How could you understand feelings?” she suddenly declared. Feelings, she thought as the word left her lips, and regretted what she had said at once.

  Druskarl cleared his throat. “Not long ago—five years, in fact—there was a king who ruled the north coast of Acrema. The king was wise and just, very strong, and stunningly handsome. His queen had a liking for the captain of the royal guard, however, and they spent at least two years making secret assignations in the royal bedchamber. Eventually they must have grown careless with the logistics of seduction, for she became pregnant. As fate would have it, the king knew that he could not possibly have done the deed.”

  “So he had them killed,” Velander said flatly.

  “Oh, no. The king was wise and just, while the queen made an eloquent and passionate plea for mercy: ‘Had I not been got with child, would you have ever known?’ she pleaded. ‘Had you never known, would you ever have cared?’ The king agreed, and he forgave her.”

  “I do not believe it!” exclaimed Velander. “Nobody tolerates competition in that sort of business.”

  “True, true. That very night he had the captain brought to his inner chambers, where he was forced to write out a resignation, saying that he wished to go on a long pilgrimage. He then killed the captain, had the resignation posted, and appointed another captain. A day and a night later he dressed the captain’s body in his own robes and gold codpiece, then dropped it into a garden pool full of small fish with sharp teeth. As the fishes rendered the body unrecognizable, the king left the palace dressed in the burlap robes and hood of a pilgrim. The young prince would have been crowned king on his fifteenth birthday.”

  Velander stood tapping her foot, with her head on one side. “Do not tell me that you are the king.”

  “It will still be true.”

  “And unprovable. The world is full of beggars claiming to be kings and princes, and generally anxious to sire a royal heir on any girl silly enough to believe them. I mean, why not just have the captain discreetly killed?”

  “He had to silence the queen and remove all proof that the child was not his. A bloody war of succession between his brothers’ children was avoided.”

  “You still make no sense.”

  “When the gold codpiece was removed from the body by the royal morticians, the royal dong and testicles were noted to have survived. This doubtless surprised the queen, but had she protested that the king was a eunuch, well, the body would obviously not be his. In that case, her son’s legitimacy would be called into question. She had the good sense to remain silent. Her son died of a fever at the age of two, and to this day she reigns as regent and probably beds the best-hung of the palace guard.”

  By now Velander had gon
e pale and sat down on a crate. “When?” she finally asked; then added, “And how?”

  “Eight years ago. I led my armies from in front, and was captured in a skirmish. The enemy warriors amused themselves by practicing some creative mutilation on me, which included gelding. The next day my own people annihilated them to a man and set me free. I treated my own wounds, and only my queen ever knew the truth.”

  Druskarl stood up and set off for the ship again. Velander went after him.

  “Your words imply that had there been no fire-circles, I never would have known about Terikel and Feran.”

  “True.”

  “But I would be living a lie!”

  “How many other lies are you living?”

  “How should I know!” she exclaimed angrily. “Serionese may be vindictive and boring, but she has breached no rules. I worship mathematics, logic, and rules.”

  At that moment Terikel was sitting on a bollard not far away. She was contemplating the little schooner on which she had reigned as Metrologan Elder for nine weeks. She was still able to veto the appointment of any further priestesses, but such an act of spite would reduce her to the level of Serionese and Velander, and she found the thought distasteful.

  “I am to return to Torea,” declared an awkwardly pitched voice beside her.

  She turned to see Laron. He was splattered with darkening blood and had bruises on his face.

  “What happened to you?” she exclaimed.

  “I need your help,” he said, ignoring her question as he walked forward.

  Terikel spread her hands wide. “My help? I’m no medicar. Who attacked you?”

  “What influence do you still have in the Metrologans?” he asked, ignoring the latter two questions.

  At the word “Metrologans” Terikel bristled visibly. “What is it to you?”

  “This morning an associate of mine was arrested and imprisoned. Soon after that, the governor issued an order banning any ships from sailing until further notice. I have reason to believe that my associate was betrayed by the Worthy Serionese.”

  “Betrayal is the new fashion among Metrologans.”

  “So is gossip. Last night you charged over four dozen gold circars to sign the ordination scrolls of the deaconesses.”

  “True. Do you want a loan?”

  “Actually, yes. I want to repair the Shadowmoon and take it back to Torea. Carpenters and shipwrights do not work for free, chandlers are not noted for their charity, and even the Shadowmoon’s crew would appreciate some pay.”

  “Why Torea? We just went through ten levels of hell to escape Torea.”

  “Torea is littered with melted gold and silver. There we can gather it amid the ruins, so we can return your investment a hundred times over. Then we would sail to Diomeda and live very well indeed.”

  Terikel did not need long to consider the proposition. Fifty-one circars could buy her a passage to Diomeda and leave enough to set up a small trading house. Five thousand circars could buy a very different lifestyle.

  “So, this is why no ships may sail,” she said. “Banzalo wants the melted wealth of Torea for himself.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is to stop me betraying you to Banzalo, just as the Worthy Elder did with your associate?”

  For the first time Terikel could recall, Laron began to smile. Slowly his lips curled back—to reveal a pair of fangs three times the length of normal upper canines, and which tapered to needle points.

  Terikel exclaimed softly, and slipped from the bollard to put it between her and Laron. He pressed his lips back together with obvious effort. He was not able to speak immediately, and seemed to be fighting for control.

  “Please, come no closer,” quavered Terikel, putting a hand to her throat.

  “I have already fed this morning, do not be frightened.”

  “What are you?”

  “Betray me, and your name will certainly be Breakfast, Lunch, or Dinner, depending when I eventually corner you. On the other hand, I can be a very powerful ally … . Well?”

  “I’m with you, I’m with you.”

  Summoning her courage, Terikel came around the bollard. Laron pulled away a clump of his new beard and licked the base. Beneath it, his skin had the downy beginnings of a beard and a few acne pockmarks. He pressed the tuft back into place.

  “How old are you, really?” she asked.

  “Very, very old.”

  “You no longer age?”

  “Being dead makes that a bit hard.”

  “So … And you have been like this for perhaps ten years.”

  “Longer. Thank you for agreeing to help, but Miral is nearly down so I must retire soon.”

  “Then return via my hostelry—I have some gold circars for you.”

  “I shall do that, and when I have your gold I may tell you about something else we hope to search for in Torea.”

  That night there was a massive explosion and flash of light from the vicinity of the shrine. Serionese later announced that lightning had struck and killed two of her deaconesses while they were meditating in the open plaza. She did not explain how lightning had managed to strike out of a clear sky.

  Both Serionese and Banzalo felt that the people of Helion needed to see their rulers and betters at work if any sort of following was to be maintained. Thus the ordination ceremony was considered important as sheer spectacle, as much as for providing new priestesses. Every spare artisan on the island was called upon to help add the features of a temple to the shrine. A wooden partition was built to provide an inner sanctum. Outside, in the plaza that opened onto a view of the ocean, the air rang with the hammers and chisels of those fashioning the big clawed-hand fireplace of blackstone. Here each of the deaconesses in turn would keep vigil in a few days. Even now, islanders were arriving to donate precious driftwood and brush bundles for the fuel.

  “The rules must be bent for our circumstances,” Serionese explained to Velander as they inspected the work on the blackstone hearth. “The deaconesses will begin their vigils one day apart, so that the hearth will burn for four nights in succession.”

  To the west the sunset was luridly red with dust from their incinerated continent. It filled the survivors with more thoughts of blood than beauty. Every sunrise and sunset reminded Velander of the monstrous thing that had murdered her continent and put those colors into the sky. Still, life had to go on, and there were other matters that needed attention.

  “What are we to do about the archive boxes?” Velander asked.

  “Whatever is inside them must be of great importance. I have never heard of guard autons of such power being used to guard mere archives and books. Perhaps they are keyed to the touch of a priestess?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Splendid. You shall examine the next crate.”

  Twelve days after leaving Helion, Warsovran’s fleet sailed out of the dawn and descended upon the desert port of Diomeda. The Toreans had been the finest shipwrights and designers in the world, while their sailors and marines had years of battle experience, especially where invasion was involved.

  The dash galleys were sent in first, and they had rammed, boarded, and set alight most of the defending vessels within two hours. By noon not a single vessel flying Diomedan pennants had not been sunk, burned, or captured, and ten thousand of Warsovran’s marines were ashore and engaging the city’s guards and militia. By evening the city had fallen to the invaders, but the highly disciplined marines did no more than impose a strict curfew.

  The morning sun illuminated a harbor guarded by a massive battle fleet, but with deepwater and coastal traders arriving and departing unmolested. The Diomedans emerged to find practically nothing looted or damaged, and a lot of well-armed but courteous Torean marines doing a better job of keeping the peace than the former city officials had been able to manage. The markets opened and filled, and laborers were recruited to crew salvage barges and clear the wrecked vessels from the harbor.

  The only people to no
tice any appreciable difference were in the impregnable island palace, Dawnlight, from which the king of Diomeda had ruled. It was blockaded by dash galleys, which were anchored just out of reach of the catapults on its high walls. In the distant past some monarch had reasoned that he could sit securely in such a place, even if his city were burned to the ground and his subjects slaughtered, to the last man, woman, and child. Now the city had indeed fallen to the biggest fleet the world had ever seen, but the only fires in the city were in the bakers’ ovens, blacksmiths’ forges, and pottery kilns.

  Warsovran’s young admiral proclaimed several new laws, lowered most levies, imposts, and taxes, and declared Warsovran to be emperor of Diomeda by right of conquest. A wealthy merchant was soon discovered to have committed treason, and dragged out of his mansion and executed by the Torean marines. His wives and children were marched straight off to the slave markets, and Admiral Forteron moved into the mansion. He declared it to be the new palace, and the other merchants of the city made haste to help supply, furnish, and decorate the place.

  It was natural that no invasion could go quite as smoothly as that, however, and within hours of Diomeda falling, messenger autons were flying to the friends and allies of the blockaded king in neighboring states. Diplomats began to shuttle between cities on ship, horse, and camel, and more messenger autons flew about with despatches. Gradually the inclination would grow to assemble an army and drive the invaders out of Diomeda. The city had not really fallen, after all, not while King Rakera was safe in his island citadel in the harbor. Meantime, the invaders set about building barracks from tent cloth and the wood salvaged from the defenders’ fleet, and began to strengthen the outer walls of the city. They also considered what to do about the person who was claiming credit for the victory.

  Galleymaster Mandalock was actually older than Admiral Forteron, but he was very much in awe of the young duke and his strategic genius. The losses of the enemy warships in the battle to take Diomeda’s harbor had been fifteen to one, and the city’s fall had cost the lives of less than three hundred marines. They were in a fine position to defend what they had seized, and to expand their control, but first there was the matter of the woman who claimed to be empress.