Ironcrown Moon (18 page)

“I suppose it was to be expected,” Maudrayne said, resigned.

But Liscanor’s sea-blue eyes glistened with triumph. “There’s more than one way to skin a hare, Sister! On the outskirts of town lives a renegade hedge-wizard called Blind Bozuk, who owes no allegiance to Ansel and his high-flown kind. He sells love-philtres and fake talismans and other rubbish to gullible souls, but he’s also a genuine wind adept.”

“I know of him. He supplied Lukort Waterfall with charms to counter the magical defenses of the sea-hag.”

“I rode out myself to this rogue’s hovel and gave him ten gold marks to bespeak a message to our uncle Sernin. While I stood there, Bozuk contacted his great and good friend Yavenis, an outcast witch of Donorvale. She supposedly delivered my message to the High Sealord in person.”

“Supposedly,” Maude said. “What was the message?”

“It was simple and discreet: ‘Come at once to Northkeep in your fastest ship, with your most trusted men.’”

“Ah. Very good.” She ventured a smile.

“We’ll set sail ourselves at once in my frigate

Gayora

, and rendezvous with Sernin on the high seas. Then you shall tell your two great secrets to both of us.”

“I think I must tell them to you now.” She had made the decision on the spur of the moment, prompted by a growing certainty that Ansel was going to intervene somehow, and she would never reach Donorvale. “Someone must know, in case something happens to me… and to my dear little son.”

“Son!” Liscanor exclaimed. “Great God, are you saying—”

“The fair-haired lad Dyfrig is not the child of my servant. He’s mine—the firstborn son of Conrig Wincantor and heir to the Sovereignty according to ancient Cathran law. Furthermore, this High King who has forced Tarn into vassalage reigns under false pretences. He is a man having arcane talent, ineligible to sit his throne.”

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Liscanor stared at her in thunderstruck consternation, deprived of speech.

“My servant Rusgann is a witness to Dyfrig’s birth. She and many others in Gala know I was a faithful wife who never cohabited with any man save my husband. Dyfrig is the very image of Conrig. The king’s talent will be much harder to prove, since it is extremely meager and imperceptible to the usual methods of detection. My own testimony would not suffice, and the Conjure-Queen of Moss, who also knows about it, may refuse to speak. But I suspect that Lord Stergos, Conrig’s Royal Alchymist and his brother, must know the truth as well. He is a man of scrupulous honor, who would keep Conrig’s secret only passively, by not volunteering the information. If he were put under solemn oath and questioned, he would not lie.”

The stalwart sealord’s face was ashen and he was wringing his hands like a woebegone maiden.

“Oh, Maudie, this is awful news indeed! I

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon hardly know what to say! I’m only a simple north coast sea-dog and these are state secrets of the most devastating kind—”

“Guard them with your life, then. But never hesitate to reveal them to Uncle Sernin and the Company of Equals if I cannot.” She rose from her seat. “Now we must leave Northkeep without delay. There’s more than Ansel to be concerned about. That villain Lukort Waterfall was probably planning to sell me to Conrig Wincantor. Who can say whether he told the magicker Blind Bozuk about me when he purchased charms from him?”

Liscanor looked guilty and ashamed. “God help us if I’ve placed you in danger, Sister. I never thought of such a thing when I went to the whoreson, thinking how clever I was. Forgive me!”

“Dear Liscanor, there’s nothing to forgive.” She kissed his weather-roughened cheek. “How long before we can sail?”

“Less than an hour. I’ve already given orders to prepare the ship. Her officers were all here at the feast, and her crew resides in town.”

“Then let’s fetch my son and my servant, and get on board without further delay.”

==========

Liscanor went to confer with the officer who stood at the foot of the gangplank, then quickly returned. “I’m told that the cabin being prepared for the three of you is not quite ready,” he said. “I must go aboard

Gayora and do a final tour of inspection. It’s no place for you, with men rushing about on last-minute ship’s business. Why not wait in that covered area, beside the large warehouse nigh to the curtain wall? It’s dry there, and the torches give plenty of light. I’ll send one of the ship’s boys for you as soon as I can.”

He went off, cloak flapping like the wings of a very stout bat, and Maudrayne and Rusgann moved over the wet cobblestones into the sheltered place. The maidservant carried Dyfrig’s well-wrapped body over her shoulder.

“He still sleeps?” Maudrayne asked, lifting her son’s hood.

“Never woke, even when I dressed him in the new clothes Lady Freda gave us. He was too sleepy to eat much, and so was I. Can’t say

I’m happy to set out to sea again on such a raw night, but it’s for the best.”

“I hope so. No sooner do we reach a place of safety, than we must leave it.” Her eyes roamed over the other vessels and small craft tied up at adjacent slips. “Lukort Waterfall’s boat Scoter is gone. My brother must have had it moved across the harbor basin to the fishermen’s
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wharf to divert suspicion. Still, numbers of people must have seen us bring her in besides the dockboy Eselin. One of them might have talked about us to Blind Bozuk, even if Lukort didn’t.”

“You’ve got no good reason to think Lukort told the magicker about us,” Rusgann said crossly.

“Stop worrying.”

“Perhaps the hedge-wizard wouldn’t sell Lukort the special charms unless he told why he wanted them. Sneaking into the sea-hag’s steading is hardly the usual thief’s job of work! Information about me would bring a pretty sum from Conrig’s Tarnian spies. You could trust a person like Bozuk to know who they are.”

“We’ll be away from here soon, my lady. Then Bozuk’s tittle-tattle won’t be worth two groats in a dunghill.”

The sound of clopping hooves echoed among the warehouses, almost drowned out by the increasing noise from the ship. “Someone’s coming,” Maudrayne said. “There. A covered wagon drawn by two mules. Perhaps it’s the last batch of supplies that my brother’s been waiting for.”

They watched the wagon’s approach without curiosity. Then a small figure came rushing down the ship’s gangplank and trotted toward them across the wet pavement.

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May, Julian - Boreal Moon 2 - Ironcrown Moon

Rusgann heaved a sigh of satisfaction. “About time! Here’s the ship’s boy.”

He was about twelve years old, clad in oilskins, and bowed smartly from the waist. “My ladies!

Sealord Liscanor bids you kindly come aboard, for we cast off immediately.”

The muleteer had drawn up a few ells away, and after setting the brake on his rig, climbed down and approached them with a casual wave of his hand. He wore a waterproof hooded longcoat slit up the back, and all that could be seen of his face was teeth gleaming in a wide grin.

“What do you want, my man?” Maudrayne asked irritably, when he blocked their way to the ship. “We have no time for you.”

“Maudie, Maudie. You have all the time in the world.”

She opened her mouth to scream for help, but no sound emerged. In fact, she was frozen to the spot in mid-gape, like some ridiculous statue. Rusgann and the ship’s boy were similarly immobilized.

Red Ansel Piken lifted Dyfrig from Rusgann’s unresisting arms, carried him to the covered wagon, and stowed him inside.

No, Maudrayne thought. No, no, no. Not after we have come so far and endured so much!

The huge castle and the rainswept dock with its flaming torches seemed to fade to a foggy blur as tears of rage and helplessness filled her eyes. She strained to cry out as Ansel returned and led Rusgann away, docile as a sheep, and assisted her into the wagon. Maudrayne was powerless against the shaman’s sorcery just as she’d always been. He’d do whatever he wanted with them.

Use her and poor little Dyfrig any way he chose.

He came to her and took her arm, and she was able to walk but could not speak. Across the gleaming stones, up a short ladder, and into the back of the wagon she went. It was filled with straw and numbers of bundles. Rusgann and Dyfrig lay covered with blankets, apparently asleep.

Ansel soon had her bedded down as well, then closed the tailgate, put the ladder inside, and laced shut the canvas cover.

He returned to the paralyzed ship’s boy, who was still poised in an attitude of confusion. At Ansel’s touch, the lad looked about wildly.

Only gibberish came from his mouth.

“Your power of speech will return once you’re back on the ship,” the shaman said. “You’re to
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tell Lord Liscanor that the two women and the child are safe aboard in their cabin. You’ll remember nothing at all of me or what happened here. Now go.”

Ansel went back to the wagon and climbed into the driver’s seat. After arranging his coat to keep the worst of the rain off, he released the brake, cracked the whip over the mules, and set off for the road that led east, away from the sea and into the Stormland wilderness of Tarn.

seven

Arise, Kilian Slackhorse. Arise and don your robes. By order of Abbas Noachil, you must leave this chamber and accompany us to a more secure accommodation.“

His second dream of Beynor had hardly faded, and he woke with difficulty. Someone was shaking his arm. He opened his eyes and saw the forbidding face of Vra-Ligorn, the Hebdomader or superintendent of discipline at Zeth Abbey. He was at first unable to stir, as sometimes happens when one is roused from deep sleep. Then the blankets were stripped away and he was hoisted to his feet. Two husky

Brother Caretakers manhandled him into his clothes. Two more held heavy staves and lighted lanterns, even though they had opened the opaque drapes to allow the early-morning twilight of Solstice Day to enter his bedroom. The caretakers of the Order of Zeth wore brown robes.

Although they possessed talent, it was too weak to generate important magic, so they devoted themselves to serving the ordained

Brethren through manual labor or domestic duties.

Kilian found his voice at last. “Vra-Ligorn, where are you taking me?”

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“To a cell on the sump-pit level, my lord. And you must submit to being chained while we convey you there.”

The last remnants of sleep evaporated in a burst of dismay as Kilian finally realized what was happening to him. The comfortable little apartment where he had lived for four years under open detention was to be exchanged for a windowless dungeon.

“Does Prior Waringlow know of this—this highly eccentric order?” he protested. “You know how ill Father Abbas has been. At times he even shows symptoms of dementia. I can’t believe he was in his right mind when he issued this order. I’ve done nothing to provoke such punishment—”

“Abbas Noachil is as rational as you or I,” the Hebdomader said without emotion. “The command for your close confinement came directly from High King Conrig, via the Royal Alchymist, Lord Stergos. There’s no mistake.”

“I see.” He extended his wrists for the fetters, and said not another word as they conveyed him into the bowels of the abbey, down to the third basement, where the drains from the upper floors debouched into an evil-smelling underground watercourse. There were only a handful of dismal cells down there, reserved for the most heinous sinners. Usually, no prisoner remained there long before being handed over to the secular authorities for execution.

Is this to be my fate, he wondered, only hours from the coup that was to have liberated Darasilo’s Trove, set me free, and restored my lost powers? What could have happened to make Conrig do such a thing? Had Vitubio, Felmar, and Scarth revealed their intentions through some blunder? Has my nephew Feribor implicated me in his political intrigues? Or—worst thought!—is Beynor responsible for this, playing some treacherous double game in hopes of eliminating me before I can take possession of the trove?

“In here, if you please, my lord.”

They had reached the dungeon. Vra-Ligorn unlocked a cubicle carved from solid rock that was hardly two ells wide and three ells long, and motioned for him to enter. As a wearer of the iron
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gammadion of shame, stripped of every talent and privilege of the Mystical Order, Kilian was no longer honored with the title of “Brother” or “Vra.” But no one could deny his noble Blackhorse blood, and so his gaolers had called him “my lord” during his period of detention—albeit with an ironic inflection.

The cell door clanged shut behind him. It was iron, with a rotary hopper through which food and other items might be passed and an observation slot covered with metal mesh. Dim light from the corridor illuminated a narrow cot and a heap of blankets, a large covered water-jar, and a tiny table that held a pottery basin with a block of soap and two rough towels. A wooden stool stood beside the table.

“Father Abbas has graciously consented to leave a lighted lantern outside your cell,” Ligorn said, “so you and your fellow-inmates need not suffer the added privation of utter darkness.

Your meals will also be as usual—not bread and water—and you have warm bedding.”

Fellow-inmates?

“How long must I remain here?” Kilian asked.

“Until it pleases Father Abbas to release you. If you are well behaved, you will be given books to read and candles later. There is a latrine beneath the stone lid in the cell’s far corner, and a box of green leaves for your comfort. If you urgently require anything else, inform the Brothers who will bring your breakfast.”