She read this and then looked back at the ship.
“They cary warkites?”
“Thousands of them. They can be deployed while the carryer is in flight. Most often the constructs are directed against the canopes of enemy air flet. But every so often they are deployed against an army or evan a city.”
“The Seige of Erram?”
He nodded.
“The polythesits droped all their warkites on the quarter of the city with the most monotheists. The constructs cut down thousands of citziens on that first drop and then swarmed about the city for ten days, killing anyone who leaft shelter.”
She looked back at the carrier.
The
Queen's Lance
was now hovering above a tower bridge. On the stones, several green-robes hurried about. Cyrus and Izem had dropped an anchor line, and the ground crew was tethering it to a giant mooring cleat.
Francesca held out a sentence:
“What are the metal sqaures that shine so?”
“
Talens
,” he replied grimly.
“What the kites use to cut enemy sails or fleash.”
“Would the kingdum deploy them against Avel? Agianst their own people?”
He just looked at her.
She exhaled and wrote, “
Right, dumb question.
”
Â
PROTECTED THOUGH IT was within an estuary, the lighthouse of Coldlock Harbor was buffeted by winds. It was a serviceable, if not grand, three stories of solid sandstone. Lotannu and Vivian had bribed the keepers to let them up to the top.
Presently, Lotannu hugged his arms around his chest. The wind chilled his face and hands. Vivian did not seem bothered.
“How long do we wait for a reply?” he asked. She had just extemporized a colaboris spell and cast it to a relay station on the Lurrikara wind garden.
“A quarter hour,” she replied.
Normally the stations in Avel and Kara received colaboris spells from Starhaven's Erasime Spire. Messages between Avel and Kara were relayed through Starhaven. As far as Lotannu knew, no colaboris extemporization had ever been attempted between two locations so distant. But if anyone could accomplish it, Vivian could.
“Maybe I should cast another,” Vivian said. “It's possible I missed the towers and theyâ” A streak of gold appeared out at sea. In the next instant, it enveloped the lighthouse in a horizontal blast of text. Sentences flashed through Lotannu's mind and made the world spin. Grunting, he put his hand to a wall to keep from falling. When at last sure of his balance, he looked at Vivian, afraid the spell had shot past her too fast.
But Vivian was standing calmly, reading a sheet of golden prose with her all-white eyes. “There's a storm above Lurrikara,” she said absently. “It's blowing so hard they've put both carriers in dock. They anticipate the storm will last till morning. As soon as the winds die down, they'll loft the fleet and commence with the planned action.”
“And what should we do in the meantime?”
She turned toward him and held out her hand. He took it and began to lead her toward the stairs. “We keep low and make sure not to be surprised by the Savanna Walker.”
Â
THE
QUEEN'S LANCE
passed over ocean waves to the dark redwoods just as the sun sank to the west.
Francesca shifted in the robes, which were woven into the ship. Nicodemus was somewhere behind her. She had to suppress the urge to look aft. Additionally, she had to resist the urge to look forward at Cyrus. Self-scorn washed over her for getting into a hot mess between two men. What she needed was help coping with her new deafness, not the adoration of either man. She needed to keep better watch on her words and actions.
Slowly her rage burnt out, and she assumed her physician's mask of calm. The warships at Lurrikara had reminded her of what was at stake. She closed her eyes and cultivated cool concentration until she felt the
Queen's Lance
shift.
She opened her eyes to discover the ship had broadened and turned so it could face out to sea and into the wind. Izem was letting the wind blow them back inland. Looking down, Francesca saw that they flew above a long estuary that extended for a mile or so into the forest. During and just after the rainy season, a river flowed out of the mountains and into the sea. At the end of the estuary, the fortress town of Coldlock Harbor stood atop a promontory. The town was rectangular, perhaps two square miles, enclosed by sandstone walls. To the east stood a gatehouse that opened onto the road to Avel.
When the
Queen's Lance
hovered above the docks, Cyrus came crawling through the cloth. He was going to fly both Nicodemus and her down to the docks.
With a few deft motions, Cyrus cut her free and she swung down to
hang by a harness. He shouted something unintelligible and then moved aft to cut Nicodemus into a similar swinging harness. Though the cacographer was wrapped in cloth, Francesca flinched as he swung next to her. She remembered the canker his touch had raised on the kobold's arm.
Suddenly they were all falling. Francesca cried out before something pulled up hard on her chest and thighs. Cyrus was above her, and above him spread the wide canvas of a jumpchute. He'd somehow woven them all into a three-person rig.
With impressive precision, Cyrus landed them on the docks. Francesca's boots struck wooden planks as lightly as if she'd just dismounted a horse. She stumbled away and found her black wizardly robes were no longer interwoven with Cyrus's rig. She turned and saw Nicodemus unwinding the cloth that had insulated him from the ship's text. When finished, he handed the ball of silk back to Cyrus.
A fierce wind buffeted them as Cyrus's chute blasted its text downward and sent the pilot flying back up toward the
Queen's Lance.
He waved to Francesca. She held up her hand and watched his rig weave itself into the warship's hull.
Then the
Queen's Lance
broadened its wings and cast such a blast of wind that it set several boats rocking. In the next instant, the airship shot away toward the wind garden.
Francesca took a moment to inspect the ships still bobbing in the water. Most were of the sleek, two-mast design favored by Spirish and Lornish sailors. There was one wide catamaran with two hulls; it must have sailed all the way from the Ixonian Archipelago.
A movement to her right made Francesca turn and study a neatly dressed Nicodemus. Previously she had seen him bare to the waist in imitation of a kobold warrior. Then she'd seen him swaddled like a baby. But now Nicodemus wore clothing of the Spirish styleâpants, a loose shirt, and longvest, all cut from the
Queen's Lance
's white silk. He had tied his long black hair back into a ponytail. He looked like a wealthy Spirishman.
In her forearm, Francesca started to forge a sarcastic comment, but then stopped and chastised herself for such a frivolous impulse.
He tossed a word to her:
“Hungery?”
“Always,”
she answered.
He started down the dock toward the town.
“We have to eat qiuckly and then get into the woods before the gaets close for the nite.”
She walked beside him through gates that separated docks from the town. Two green-cloaked city watchmen nodded to them. They had seen the warship deposit them and so knew they were important to the hierophants.
Francesca wondered how much the watchmen knew about the rebellion brewing in Avel.
Coldlock Harbor was a cramped place, consisting almost entirely of two-story wooden buildings. The only stone structures she knew of were the barracks near the gate and the small infirmary in the center of town.
The settlement, having been destroyed by lycanthropes, had been repeatedly rebuilt, each time with a more defensible design. In its current incarnation, all buildings were arranged into a grid. The muddy streets were too narrow to be convenient, but not narrow or winding enough to possess the charm of Avel's alleyways. The sky was still bright, but most streets were in shadow. Francesca guessed there were about two hours until nightfall.
A surprising number of people walked the streets. Most were young men in Spirish dress. Someâjudging by the short pants, thick wool shirts, and bare feetâwere sailors on shore leave. Their captains and officers wore pants and longvests. The other men about the town were likely guards or wagon drivers for the caravans that made the daily run from Coldlock to Avel.
Setting out at first light, a fast caravan could reach the city by the end of a summer's day. When the days grew shorter, or when a caravan encountered trouble, they had to form a ring in one of the defensible clearings constructed along the road to Avel.
Francesca saw only a few people who looked like Coldlock natives: a woman hawking flatbreads, a few old shopkeepers sitting outside their stores and holding small steaming cups of mint tea between pinky and thumb. Coldlock had a significant number of salmon fishermen, but they lived in the southern half of the town. Mostly the fisherfolk kept to themselves.
Much to her relief, neither Nicodemus nor she attracted much attention. A few older men eyed her black robes uneasily. But other than that everyone seemed preoccupied by their own business.
Francesca had lived for two seasons in Coldlock, both times serving as a cleric in the town's infirmary. She'd learned that many of the town's buildings were dedicated inns and boarding houses. Feeding and sheltering the many transient sailors and caravan men was the only livelihood besides fishing to pursue in Coldlock.
A man dressed in a fine blue longvest, staggering slightly, bumped into Francesca. As the man's lips moved, she smelt a strong whiff of aniseed-flavored liquor. Suddenly Francesca realized how little she knew about living without hearing. The drunk man seemed to be yelling. It wasn't a concern; she could extemporize a stunning spell that would put him out
cold. But suddenly Nicodemus was in front of her, staring into the other man's face.
The drunk stepped back but seemed to continue yelling. Nicodemus didn't move or speak.
“Stop puffing your chest out like a rooster!”
she cast. But he let the sentence fall and continued to glare at the other man. The drunk seemed to say a few more things before backing down and wandering away.
Nicodemus turned, and they continued down the street. She wrote to him:
“That wasn't chivalrous or dashing.”
“I didn't meen for it to be either.”
“Did you mean for it to be a spectacular display of male idiocy?”
“You have me their. I'd hopped only for an impresive display of male idicocy. Sccoring a âspectacular' is a treat.”
Francesca snorted,
“What if he had touched you?”
He nodded.
“Your right about that. I should buy some gloves. I ususally carry a pair. Do you have any coin?”
She still had the purse she had negotiated out of DeGarn.
“Let's order a meal first.”
They found the nearest inn, and Nicodemus bargained with the owner for a private room and fast service. Together they walked up stairs to a dining room: dirty walls, narrow windows, a frayed carpet covered with ragstuffed pillows. Nicodemus took a few coins and trotted down the stairs to find a glover.
From the room's windows, Francesca watched him jog down the street. The shadows were deepening, and more sailors and caravan men were about in search of dinner or entertainment.
She turned and looked about the room. She didn't see any lamps and thought about asking the innkeeper for one. A rush of embarrassment washed over her as she considered trying to communicate with a stranger.
She sat down on the carpet. As a physician, she had sometimes wondered what it would be like to have certain medical conditions. She had seen enough pain and frustration to know how powerful disabilities could be. To some extent, she had understood her initial feelings of loss and anguish because she had previously imagined them. But what she had not imaginedâwhat perhaps no able person could imagineâwas the myriad everyday desires a disability impeded.
She rested her face in her hands and then began breathing long and slow, letting the air drag at the back of her throat so she could feel it. She didn't need to get a lamp. Flamefly paragraphs could provide enough light. Then she rose and stood in front of the window, letting her eyes go out of focus.
Now a throng of people moved about on the street. Two children seemed to be singing, a bowl on the ground before them. Someone had dropped in a few brass coins.
Suddenly Francesca stood up straight, nearly flinching. Something had just passed in front of her, but she couldn't say what. The street was more crowded than ever. Then her eyes found them. Both were dressed in common Spirish clothes, she with long white hair, he with black dreadlocks.
Francesca ran downstairs and into the street. “Vivian!” she called as best she could. “Lotannu!”