The Lost Travencal: The Legend of the Travencal, #1

By C.M. Jobe

The Legend of the Travencal (Volume One)

When a mysterious messenger arrives aboard his ship, 17-year-old Ryel is thrust into the adventure of a lifetime, little knowing that every step he takes leads him that much closer to his true destiny…one that may lie with the Travencal family, an ancient ruling elite massacred exactly five centuries ago who just may be returning to reap a terrible vengeance upon their enemies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trickster Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998619514

Book preview

Prologue

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Murdoch had the sneaking suspicion he was going to die here.  This grove was the haunt of wolves and wild dogs, and worse.  The mangled body of a peasant girl had been found here only last week. 

But how could he stay away, after finding that note?  Hidden inside his breakfast tray, it intimated that if he really wanted to know what was happening in Trinidan, he must be here, tonight.  As the letter warned, The streets have eyes and the inns ears.

The grove was watching. . .waiting.

Feeling a chill breeze, Murdoch pulled his jacket tighter about him and looked up the path, from which wound the way to the great city itself, but it was empty.  Nothing stirred on the forest floor.

Something scraped at the bark overhead, and he looked up to see the shape of an owl take flight, hunting for midnight prey.  Minutes passed, a lonely howl sounded in the distance, and then all was still and silent once more.

The grove was watching. . .waiting.

Are you alone?

Murdoch spun around so suddenly he felt his neck crack.  To his astonishment, he saw a black-robed figure standing on the path not ten feet from him, its low-hanging hood concealing its face.

Cautiously, Murdoch approached, his heart beating rather faster than usual.

I’m here, now what’s this about?

Come, said the figure softly.  We must go deeper into the grove.

Murdoch immediately stiffened, for he knew that voice.  It was John Sheridan, the leader of the geladians, an order of thuggish knights Murdoch often tangled with and had tried on numerous occasions to dissolve.

Well, well, said Murdoch, sneering.  I half suspected a trap. I just hadn’t expected you to have the courage to face me yourself, even if it is in the dead of —

Not here! hissed the figure.  We’re too close to the main road!  Without further ado, he pulled aside a hanging branch and disappeared into the vegetation. 

Murdoch couldn’t believe what he was doing.  If there was one man he shouldn’t be following, one man who wanted his blood, who had indeed already shed some of it (having taken a swipe at Murdoch at court), it was John Sheridan.  Every voice in Murdoch’s head was shouting at him to run, to turn and run! 

But something in Sheridan’s tone compelled him to follow, for it was a thing he had never heard in Sheridan before.

Fear.

Murdoch had heard the news of course: that the last vestiges of their once mighty fleet had been swept away, defeated and sunk in the Belt of Hishlian.  Yet this was a man who was well known for having once amputated all the toes on his right foot just so he could rejoin a battle the following morning.  He hadn’t been elected Grand Master because he was faint-hearted.

This was something else.

Deeper and deeper they went, for how long Murdoch didn’t know.  The forest was almost dream-like: still and quiet.

It was something of a shock therefore, stepping into a wide clearing and having the moon bathe them in pale brilliance.  The trees hugged close together here, standing like a ring of black pillars around them.

Sheridan threw back his hood, and his silver hair and beard gleamed like iron, yet his eyes were on the trees.

We don’t have much time.  If the wrong people knew we were meeting like this. . .

Murdoch thought he looked ill: his face pale, his breathing labored, and his back slightly hunched. 

Things are not as they seem, Sheridan muttered, still not looking at Murdoch.  It’s all a lie: the histories, the great festival.  You don’t know — none of them do — what is to come.  There are wicked men about, men who would see the old order returned to power.  You, especially, are in danger.

"Some would say, John, that you are my greatest enemy."

Sheridan shook his head.  I am nothing compared to those returning, whose hatred is ancient and unchanging.  They kill without mercy and deceive as though they were born to it.

Murdoch’s heart sank.  I’ve heard this rhetoric before.  You refer to the so-called ‘Legend of the Travencal.’

It is not a legend!  Don’t you see?  In all folklore there is a grain of truth!  I would’ve expected you of all people —  

Sheridan broke off, and this time Murdoch looked with him, for something had just snapped a branch nearby.  Its footfalls were light, but it seemed to be circling the clearing.

A deer, said Murdoch dismissively.

Further in! breathed Sheridan, backstepping slowly and carefully as one might retreat from a rabid dog. 

There is a place, he said a moment later, leading Murdoch along, hidden within the palace, called the Vault.  Among its many treasures is a chest — it will be old and cracked, its paint peeling.  Read the scrolls inside. . .read the Elder Travencal’s diary.  It will tell you everything.  But be cautious.  They don’t want you involved.

Murdoch stopped.  Why are you telling me this?  It sounded awfully like a conspiracy, and he would rather not be involved in one of those.

Sheridan was a great bear of a man, but he seemed to sag under the question.  I’m tired, Lord Enar.  I feel my mind going, especially lately.  I forget the names of pages who have served me for years, and with my captains daily questioning my ability to lead, I fear the Order is slipping from my grasp.

Yes, but why me?  Why not the Emperor?

Sheridan paused, his eyes on the ground.  Tartairien is a product of the system.  You are an outsider and live differently than us — I have seen it.  Trinidan hasn’t corrupted you.  He raised his eyes.  Yet. 

Before Murdoch could respond, another branch snapped, and then another directly behind them.  In an instant Sheridan’s hood flew up and a naked sword shone in his hand. 

Run, he hissed, flicking his head to the left.  That way . . .to the path. . .go.

Murdoch went as fast as he could over the treacherous ground, stumbling and nearly falling when his foot plunged into a rabbit hole.  Then he was dodging among the trees, left and right and back and forth, and only when he saw the narrow winding of the path ahead did he stop, setting his back against the bole of a tree and peering over his shoulder. 

Suddenly a cry, animal or human Murdoch couldn’t tell, sounded in the distance and a dark shape appeared hurrying in his direction.  Murdoch drew the dagger he kept in his boot, hardly daring to breathe as he listened to his pursuer crashing through the undergrowth. 

Very soon. . .

Just as Murdoch decided to leap forth, the figure’s hood bounded back, revealing a shock of gray hair that glowed even in the dark.

Murdoch lowered his blade as Sheridan staggered in.  What was it?

I didn’t stay to find out, gasped the old man.  I —

The words caught in his throat as he doubled up coughing, and he fell to his knees, clutching his temple with a veined hand. 

You’re not well.

Are you my physician? snapped Sheridan.  Then keep your effeminate concerns to yourself and help me up! 

Together they returned to the path, and here it ran like a trench through the trees, except in one spot where the moon came down in a long column almost like a spear to illuminate a thorny bush.  Looking closely, Murdoch saw that they were roses, and not just any roses but Roses of the Morning, their shapely bronze heads nodded in sleep.

Sheridan bent and picked up a dried stem, long since trampled under careless feet.

I’m told my granddaughters like to pick these.  He examined the rose, slowly twirling it between his fingers.  Our world teeters on top of the tallest tower, Arron.  A single breeze may sweep it back to the safety of the ramparts, or. . .  He blew, decimating the rose of its petals, send it, screaming, over the ledge.  We were enemies, you and I, but never to the death.  Find the enemy of all and stop him, before it’s too late.

A cloud passed over the moon, throwing them into total darkness.  Murdoch could hear Sheridan sliding away.

The chest is made of aspen. It will be white.  Remember . . .trust no one.

There was a faint crash of bracken, then silence.  Murdoch stayed a minute or two longer, but in the end he too started back, and occasionally glancing left or right it struck him that the trees were just as still as before, that they seemed almost to be holding their breath for something.

The grove was still watching. . .waiting.

1

Raider

––––––––

On a ship in the middle of nowhere, a seventeen-year-old boy was about to take his life into his own hands. . .again. 

Ryel cast his shirt to the deck and stood atop the narrow rail, testing his balance in the wind.  It was a fair drop into the sparkling water below, but the catcalls would come if he waited any longer. Taking a few deep breaths to calm his racing pulse, he bent his knees and dove.  The raucous yells of his fellow raiders were immediately snuffed out in a rush of bubbles.

When Ryel surfaced, shaking dripping hair out of his eyes, he found himself confronted by wooden walls on all sides, the four ships forming a sort of square arena.  Keeping himself afloat with one hand, he felt around his belt and brought up a short, curiously fat knife and an iron hook.

Then he waited.

This was japer fishing, a game all raiders loved (so long as they weren’t the ones in the water).  Native to these parts, japers were known to attack ten to one on sharks and even small whales.  Ryel had seen their ferocity close up.  He’d felt the long, powerful body passing by, had touched the jagged scales.  He’d even been bitten by the tiny teeth.  Yet his main concern was always with the fangs curving down from the upper jaw.  They secreted a slow-acting poison that if left untreated led to paralysis and even death.

The easy part was drawing a japer in, for what it wanted most coursed through Ryel’s veins like a fizzy drink.  Normally he’d have pricked his hand right about now, but the water was already pink from the last contestant.  Ryel eyed each of the gaps in turn, knowing that japers liked to feel the sun on their dorsal fin and would often ride near the surface.

Rather sooner than expected, he saw it: a great reddish-blue sail slowly rounding the keel of the ship to his left, its glistening webbing stretched taut.  He’d drawn a male, and an older one too by the look of it, with great black knobs studding its spines like rotten apples. 

Once the japer was through, the nets were thrown over the gaps, sealing the arena.  This wasn’t to stop it escaping — it wouldn’t do that — but to stop others from coming in. 

Ryel watched the japer’s every zigzag, its every quiver, as it drew nearer and nearer.  Knowing he couldn’t tackle a male this large out in the open, he changed tactics, and as carefully as he could so as not to alarm it, he started backstroking to the nearest ship.

Without warning, the japer surged, and Ryel at once cut pell-mell for the ship, spinning around just in time to see the beast’s snout rising out of the water, its ghastly maw opening in a wide grin a thousand teeth strong. 

Suddenly the japer leapt, its wet scales shimmering like rainbow jewels, and Ryel ducked at the last second, feeling the beast’s pelvic fin brush him as it hit the ship with a mighty THUMP.

The raiders were in uproar when Ryel resurfaced.  Feeling a twinge, he clapped a hand to his forehead.  It came away crimson, and within seconds the japer charged him once more. 

Gripping the knife tightly, Ryel waited until his vision was nothing but teeth.  Then he hooked the inside of the lower jaw and, keeping it from closing, thrust up with his knife.  The japer tried to clench — its fangs were tickling Ryel’s shaking arm — but then his thumb found the tiny switch on the knife and two more blades snapped out, flinging the severed mouth into the water and causing the beast to go berserk, thrashing about in all directions. 

Locating the head, Ryel stabbed down again and again until the foam boiled red, until the great tail slowed, gave one final swish, and was still. 

Exalted, he held the carcass to his side and one-armed it over to the Aluxtra, the biggest of the four ships.  A net was thrown down, his trophy hauled up, and then he was back on deck getting cussed out and shoved this way and that, but it was all in good fun.

The boy shames you all again! Captain Lucien Lazzaro growled from somewhere up in the bow.  Now I’ll have no more of this ‘suicide’ nonsense!  Anyone tucking tail from here on out will find himself lashed to the mast and flogged naked until I’m satisfied we’ve beaten the backwardness out of him!

Well, we can’t all be as brave as Ryel, Skip!  I mean, who is, really? 

Paige was supposed to be much older than Ryel, but his black curls, round face, and ruddy complexion, coupled with his behavior, gave a very different impression. 

Standing on a barrel for all to see, he clasped his hands together and in a high-pitched voice announced, "Oh Ryel, you’re so-o-o clever, outwitting that big nasty fish like that.  And those muscles!  Will you do some stretching for me?" 

Everyone laughed, including Ryel (he also put his shirt back on).  Most of his crewmates were strong, hairy-chested men, some scarred and some handsome, some with long, stringy hair and some with scalps as smooth as butter, a wise precaution against lice. 

The crews were a hodgepodge of different nationalities, half Pyrish and half something else: bored aristocrats from Criptis seeking adventure, Darkskins from the Tel Maran island chain, even a few escaped slaves from Hishlian.

Ryel came from none of these places, and things about him were slightly. . .off, from his hair to his high cheekbones, from his eyebrows (delicate, Paige called them) to his lips and on it went.  He’d even been told he walked funny, though he was not quite sure what that meant. 

Ryel promptly sat down to watch as his catch had its scales grated, fins plucked, and jelly-like organs removed.  Once this was done, the meat was deep-rubbed with salt and spitted over the cooking fire, quickly filling the ship with a heavenly aroma that caused Ryel’s mouth to water. 

Before he could dig in, however, there was just one minor detail.

With a nasty grin, the cook carved his bloody knife around the eye sockets until he received two squelchy-sounding plops, then thrust the bowl at Ryel, who felt his appetite flutter at the sight of the eyeballs rolling about, two creamy-white orbs full of blue veins and covered in a sticky membrane.  They had not looked this big from the outside! 

Trying to block out the rash of gagging noises breaking out around him, he forced his lips to accept the first.  It was hard and cold on his tongue.  Thinking he couldn’t possibly swallow it whole, he took the plunge and squished it between his molars. 

The raiders roared with laughter, and Ryel swallowed with as little chewing as possible, repeated the process with the second eyeball, and chased the whole thing down with a generous amount of rum. 

Crouching over his smoking, sizzling, dripping trophy, Ryel eagerly cut off large strips of meat, mostly from the underbelly where the fattiest morsels were to be found.  Satisfied, he walked off, leaving the remains of his prize to be set upon and stripped to the bones.

Sitting on the ship’s rail, one leg dangling over each side, Ryel ate.  The thick meat required a lot of chewing and seemed to taste better if you made a lot of noise doing it. 

Sucking on a salty thumb, Ryel looked out lazily over the rolling waves.

It had been like this for weeks: playing games, eating and drinking whatever you liked.  There was little else to do, with the war now over.

Ryel still marveled at it: how a tiny island like Pyreen had bested the greatest power in the western world, a power that fielded more soldiers than Pyreen did people, a power whose land-army had not been beaten in a century and, it was said, couldn’t be. 

But this wasn’t a land war, with the Belt of Hishlian separating the two countries a mere hundred and twenty miles at its narrowest point.  This fight was decided on the high seas, and there Pyreen was king, with raider captains using their instincts while Ilish captains agonized over handbooks and charts and wind prognostications. 

Ryel still wondered how Lazzaro had found the Ilish fleet. . .at night. . .in a storm. . .in the middle of the Belt.  He’d asked afterwards but was told simply You’ve got a lot to learn, bucko.  Whatever it was, his captain was making quite a name for himself, as raiders everywhere were flocking to fight, and die, for the Briny Fox.

Ryel stretched flat on the rail, basking in the warmth of the sun, and reached for the last piece of japer. 

The bowl was empty. 

Naw bad, said Paige around a bulging cheek.

Go catch your own! Ryel cried, throwing the dish at him, deliberately high.

Paige spat a bone at him.  I oughta take more than that from you.  D’you know the gold I just lost on you?  You were supposed to get bit!  I had odds too, and I could’ve. . .  He broke off, a jubilant grin creeping up his face.  Well, well, looks like I’m not the only one who’s lost something, eh?

For a moment Ryel sat motionless.  Then his hands leapt to his ears, discovering an empty hole in his left lobe. 

That was the one that didn’t have the nick in it!  Furious, he combed through his hair in the hope that it might have gotten snagged, but of course it hadn’t.

That’s a shame, quipped Paige, whose own ears glittered with five or six hoops each as he looked out into the arena.  I got ten torits down that this one spines out — thought he had a queer frightened look about him. 

Ryel turned in time to see the next raider dive in, ready to tempt his fate. 

It did not go well.  The fellow tried mimicking Ryel, but the japer caught him too far out and latched onto his shoulder, cork-screwing him over and over before he finally managed to beat it off and somehow reach the ropes and scurry up, the japer nipping at his heels.

Catcalls and jeers followed, which Ryel would have joined in had Paige not been shaking him so violently. 

I told you he looked funny!  I told you!  Yes, time to collect! 

But he hadn’t taken two steps before he was barreled over by a careening Captain Lazzaro on his way to the loser’s vessel.

Oh no, not this time, my little cock-a-whoop!  Who’s got a belt they don’t mind me breaking!

A dozen raiders gleefully followed him, jumping the gap between the Aluxtra and the adjoining carrack, but not Ryel.  He’d seen enough naked flogging to last a lifetime.

∞∞∞

The next day was much the same, with games aplenty.  Ryel’s favorite was spar-diving, a very artful sport where you dove from the end of a yardarm and tried to land through one of several hoops.  Points were awarded by difficulty: two for the black hoops directly below, five for the blue hoops, and ten for the red one.  This last one was tricky, as your only shot was to go at a dead run from one of the higher spars.  Two men had already tried it, and both had lost their footing and only avoided a mangling fall by catching hold of some rigging at the last moment. 

The sun was starting to set as Ryel climbed the main for what felt like the hundredth time, the shimmering water below stinging his eyes.  As he was currently six points behind the leader and this was his last jump, if he wanted that silver compass put up as reward, he’d have to go for the red hoop.

Deciding to take the very highest spar, Ryel climbed up to the crow’s nest.

Ahoy there, messmate! called Traq, leaning over and pulling Ryel up with a large, knobbly hand.

Ryel had always liked the old man, whom he saw as part uncle, part grandfather.  He rarely participated in the fun these days, citing a bad back, but Ryel wished he would have.  He was alone up here far too often. 

What’re you supposed to be looking out for anyway? Ryel asked.

Traq stroked his gray beard, which thick with braids and beads hung down to his belt.  Funny you should ask that.  He nodded over the stern.  My eyes aren’t what they used to be — perhaps that’s only a whale out yonder?

Ryel followed his gaze, and to his very great surprise he saw a small white sail plying towards them, not a sailing vessel like the Aluxtra but a much smaller craft — something with oars, certainly, or it wouldn’t be catching them in these contrary winds. 

But it shouldn’t have been there, not out of the south, as all of Lazzaro’s other ships had gone north in search of better fishing grounds, and no one else dared tread these waters.

Ryel set foot to spoke, intending to climb back down and alert Lazzaro. 

Traq chuckled.  You’re as sharp as a cork sometimes.  Scrapping barnacles off a giant turtle would be faster!  G’on, g’on as you intended.  You’ll forfeit your turn otherwise!

So he had been following the action.  Ryel liked that.  Perhaps this would bring back a few memories. . .

Ryel sprinted down the spar and leapt into the air spread-eagle.  The wind roared in his ears, but he saw that his jump was true, as a moment later he disappeared through the red circle. 

Only in coming back up did he notice the extra weight.  His left foot had snagged the hoop, meaning he’d only get half credit and end up one point short. 

Rotten luck, said Paige, swimming over and taking the hoop from him.  I thought you had it too.  Nice form though.

Ryel swam back to the ship.  Once aboard, he looked south again and in the gathering gloom saw that their visitor was nearly within hailing distance.  Told that Lazzaro was below seeing about a leak, Ryel ducked into the stairwell and headed for the Aluxtra’s belly.

Fleet of foot as he was, it was a big ship, and by the time he got topside, Lazzaro at his heels, the deck was packed with crewmen bearing torches, three or four of them cavorting around the mainmast as they tied someone to it.

Take a look at this, Skip! Paige cried, in the thick of things as usual.  You’ll never believe the fish we just landed.  Stupid brute jumped right out of the water!

Aye, and kept flopping about until I clubbed it! added a muscular raider named Dunn, covered head to toe in swirling tattoos.

Lazzaro walked up to the limp body, grabbed a handful of thick hair and pulled the head back.  Blood ran from a lump on the man’s left temple, but what Ryel chiefly noticed was how white his flesh looked in the torchlight. 

Like mine.

Lazzaro’s face turned ugly.  Ilish, he muttered, letting the head fall.  Wake him up. . .our way. 

Two raiders tittered and ran off, as Lazzaro beckoned Ryel to his side. 

What do you see?

Ryel squatted for a closer look.  There wasn’t a whole lot to work with.  The man’s garb was simple and unadorned except for a small insignia Ryel found under the collar.  Bordered by strange-looking runes, it looked like some kind of animal, a large canine perhaps.  Ryel’s eyes roved down the man’s body, lingering on the satin sash tied about his waist. 

A noble, Ryel commented, straightening up.  Look at his hair and beard.  Look at his teeth!  A soldier too, judging from his build.

Hmm. . . said Lazzaro.

A minute later the two raiders surfaced, their fellows giving them — and the sizzling rod they carried — a wide berth, as a grinning skull, the symbol of Pyreen, glowed white-hot.

Where do you want it, Cap’n, wrist or chest?

Lazzaro stuck a finger to his forehead and the crew roared. 

The pair saw to it, as one held the man firmly about the ears while the other centered the skull and pressed it home.

The man’s head jerked so violently he nearly gouged out his own eye, yet he didn’t scream or otherwise cry out, much to the disappointment of all onboard.  He merely exhaled through his nose so fiercely you’d have thought he was trying to expel a coconut.

Lucien Lazzaro strode about as if deep in thought. He wasn’t a large man; in fact he was as thin and lanky as Ryel, with rather long legs.  But, circling round the dancing flames, each step falling like the thud of doom, he made quite an imposing figure. 

What is in a man’s head, I wonder, when he boards an enemy ship unarmed?

The man answered, and Ryel thought his tone much too calm for one who had just been touched by fire. 

I am a messenger.  I have a letter for the Second Raider of Pyreen.

Another proposal from your Enar? said Lazzaro, continuing his pacing.  Odd, his last bargaining chip in this war is about five hundred feet below my keel right now.

The messenger shook his head.  This comes not from the Enar.  My master has sent it without his knowledge.

And who is your master?  One of the pelantines cowering behind their high walls?  Or perhaps Emperor Tartairien himself?

The messenger looked over the crew. 

Dismiss your slaves, he said, and the air ground with the gnashing of teeth.  Read my master’s letter in private.  You have it already, I believe.

Cap’n, said Traq, tossing him a cylindrical container covered in hide. 

Lazzaro didn’t even look at it.  I don’t think you thought this through, my friend.  What could Ilieth possibly offer me?  Not land — I don’t use it.  Not gold — I have more than I could hope to spend in two lifetimes.  And those are the only two things I’d consider taking from you. . .apart from your life.

Lazzaro moved his hand over the rail, dangling the container by its strap.

You would do well to look at it first, said the messenger, still in his calm voice.  My master does not write just to please himself.  If he chooses your partnership, great things will come of it, perhaps even greater than your current rise.

As Lazzaro continued to hesitate, Dunn suddenly leapt forward, his haunches heaving.

Here’s our answer! he spat, striking the man a blow to the face. 

It was then, as he turned to spit out a tooth, that the messenger finally noticed Ryel.  For a moment he looked merely surprised, then clearly somewhat amused. 

He knows what I am, Ryel realized.  He sees through it all: the earrings, the tattoos, everything.

For the first time in a long time, Ryel felt acutely his strangeness.  He wanted to hide, to go below, but he couldn’t seem to tear away from those dark, regarding eyes.  It was as if he and the messenger were the only two people on deck. 

That is until Dunn lifted the man up by the neck and started throwing punches into his gut.

That’s enough! Lazzaro roared, swinging the container over his shoulder.  Gag, chain, and halter him below.  But not a damn thing more till I say! 

And before anyone could express their outrage, before they could even utter a single curse, Lucien Lazzaro had disappeared down the stairwell.

∞∞∞

That was the last Ryel saw of his captain, as one day passed and then another and still no word came, not even a growl if someone had the courage to knock on Lazzaro’s door.  Most of the ship merely took this as permission to extend the holiday, though Paige, Ryel, and Traq — as first mate, second mate, and bosun — agreed to anchor the ship down and keep an eye out for approaching vessels. 

Ryel didn’t participate in the revelry.  To be honest he was getting sick of it.  Some play was fine, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to even get out of his hammock these days. 

So one morning, the third since his captain’s flight, he decided to do something constructive, like practice his sword-play.  The weapons a raider used varied widely and often included hooks, chains, mallets, and throwing darts, but Ryel himself preferred knives.  He owned two, which he carried in a sheath at his back.  Slender and fast like him, they were a perfect fit.

As for instruction, Traq had been sailing with Lazzaro since before most of the crew was even born.  Sometimes, if he wasn’t busy, he would give lessons. . . 

Alright, alright! the old man exclaimed after a half hour’s constant harassment.  Tell you what, you clean out the westrel pens and I’ll give you a whole hour.

Westrels were a kind of messenger bird the raiders used.  Ryel supposed they were like pigeons, only smarter and less disease-ridden.  Kneeling at their cage, sheltered by a canopy up in the bow, he tempted the birds out with seeds and odd japer bits, stroking their pointy heads as they congregated at his hand.

Tossing some food and letting them wander, Ryel turned to the cage with a grimace.  Some of the wiring had been chewed on and needed fixing, the straw was moldy and stale, and mounds of white droppings hung from the cage bottom like stalactites in a cave.

Screwing up his courage, he reached a hand inside. 

If you get sick from that, don’t come whining to me, said Paige, coming off the companionway and gnawing on a wizened apple.  I mean it.  We’re all out of ginger and thornberry, as nobody can seem to keep down their rum anymore.  Skip wants you, by the way.  I could hear him yelling all the way from the infirmary.

What about this? said Ryel, nodding at the cage.

Does it look like I care?  Have somebody else do it.  Yurruk doesn’t seem to mind — tell him.

Ryel shrugged and did just that.  Five minutes later he was face-to-face with Lazzaro’s cabin door.  He knocked.

Get in here, boy, came the muffled response.

Ryel entered and the crisp light streaming through an open window threw into relief a scene of devastation.  Not that the place was ever clean, but now — maps, charts, and rulers everywhere, gear strewn about the moth-eaten couch, Lazzaro himself slumped over his desk not moving.

Threading his way through the junk, Ryel jumped slightly as Lazzaro’s head suddenly snapped upright. 

Sit, he ordered, his voice hoarse and dull. 

Ryel did so, at the same time noticing a letter lying under Lazzaro’s hand.  It was terribly wrinkled, as if it had been crumpled and smoothed out again at least a dozen times.

Ryel waited for Lazzaro to speak, the wild speculation that had swept the ship ever since that night only making him more impatient. 

Seeing a pile of biscuits, he took one just for something to do, dashing it against the tabletop and having a piece but immediately regretting it as he felt little hard, crunchy things in every bite.  Fish scales, they felt like.

Do you know, said Lazzaro at last, that you are the only raider I know to have been born in Ilieth?

Ryel stopped in mid-chew; he hated that association.  I grew up in Tyre, he said snidely.

I’m aware of that!  But you’ve told me you often traveled and stayed in the States when you were a boy.  You know more about them than any raider alive, including me.

Why? Ryel asked, starting to laugh.  Are we going there?

Lazzaro looked at him with a funny gleam in his eye. 

Alright, said Ryel, chewing diligently.  Alright, fine.  We’ve already stripped the coasts bare, but —

Oh, we’re not going to scratch at their armor anymore, said Lazzaro, getting to his feet.  We’re going to swing straight at their chest and dent the plate right into their heart, one blow that will scar them forever.

He jabbed down at a map spread over his desk, his fingers ending in a V at two points: the cities of Dar’Gilles and Mecadina — Lanker and Spanker to the raiders — deep in the Ilish hinterland. 

Alright, said Ryel again, pausing.  "Are you mad!"

You already know the answer to that.

But this is. . .  Ryel stopped short of saying lunacy, thinking he’d better not push it.  We can’t. . .no one ever has. . .that’s gotta be a hundred miles inland! 

Oh, it’s further than that, said Lazzaro mildly.  But I thought you wanted to punish the wogs.

I’m not saying that, I was just —

Silence!  This is happening whether your little brain wants it to or not!  What I need to know is what kind of help you’ll be.  You know these places.  You’ve seen the width of the rivers, the depth of the harbors.  You know the people and their customs.

Ryel mulled it over.  He wasn’t afraid of the risks — that’s not what he was saying.  It just wasn’t clear to him how certain obstacles, namely Ilieth’s army, were to be handled, and that was because Lazzaro was withholding vital information. 

Ryel’s eyes flicked to the letter.  What was in there that made him so confident?  As to going along with it, there was never a question.  Lazzaro had taken him aboard when no one else would and had watched out for Ryel ever since.  Ryel owed him.

I’m in.

Good. . .good, I knew I could count on you. 

Lazzaro picked up the letter and walked over to the couch, on the arm of which rested a candle, or rather a half-inch wick drowning in a pool of wax.  He held the parchment over the sputtering flame. 

Ryel couldn’t help himself.  Who. . .?

Get the word out! said Lazzaro loudly.  All ships to sail for Pyreen at once!  We have precious little time to pull this off.  And ready the messenger’s rowboat.  It’s time we release our little pet back into the wild.  It’s still early, so maybe we can sneak him out before the lads are any the wiser.

Ryel got up to leave.

Oh, and one other thing, said Lazzaro, and Ryel turned to find him smiling. Tell another living soul about this and I’ll put you on such a biscuit-heavy diet you’ll be bleeding at the gums!

2

Of Enars and Emperors

––––––––

Blaine looked upon his brother in horror.  "Father’s. . .dead?"

He is, replied Jenuur Isis.  As are our sister’s children, murdered in their beds while they dreamt childish dreams.  I came to tell you that our family is finished, brother.

Blaine cradled his agonized face for a moment, then threw a hand to his sword.  I will kill every Lysor for this!  By the gods, even they had limits once!

Jenuur looked calmly around what appeared to be a dark entrance hall lit by candles.  Our great rival perpetrated not this bloodbath.

By whose hand then, if not our enemy’s?

Jenuur’s eyes glinted.  By mine, brother, by mine.  And in a flash of steel, a blade went to Blaine’s throat.  Now at last you look upon the spy we long searched for.

Blaine fell to his knees, swallowing hard against the sword tip.  Why, Jen?

Lysor gold buys many things.  I am tired, brother, tired of this war without end.  They offered me a way out and I took it.  Now I will marry Audele as arranged, and we will be happy together.  Know that none of it gave me any pleasure, nor will this.  Farewell, sweet brother. . .

He drew his sword back for the plunge, but his hand was stayed when a door behind him burst open and a beautiful young woman appeared, her frantic eyes leaping from one to the other but her tears falling for Blaine alone.

Why do you look to him? Jenuur demanded.  You belong to me!

The young woman crawled piteously to him.  "Please, Jen, don’t. . .please. . .  I love him.  I’ve loved him since we were children, long before our fathers set you and I to marry.  I can only be true to my heart, Jen.  I. . .I carry his child!"

Jenuur gaped at her for a moment.  Then he threw her aside, exclaiming, "You common street whore!  We will be wed, and you will tell every man that asks that the child is mine!  He spun around.  I am second-best to you no more, brother."

Blaine cringed beneath the raised sword.  Then it fell upon him. . .as did the curtains, covering the stage and sending the audience to its feet in wild applause.

Arron Murdoch clapped along with them (having just entered one of the upper balconies in time to catch the ending), as the three principal actors parted the crimson sheen to take their bow, each Isis holding the hand of the woman between them. 

Murdoch took a deep breath.  After weeks of travel around Ilieth, of jostling carriage rides and midnight meetings, he had returned to Trinidan only an hour ago.  He was desperate for news, and there was only one place to get it. 

In the very middle of the very front row of the balcony, there sat a man whose head gleamed in the candlelight, his gray hair slicked back behind his ears, a man with fingers full of gems that danced and glittered, a man surrounded by beautiful girls with rosy cheeks and equally beautiful young men wearing outlandishly curly wigs, laughing and drinking and speaking licentiously to one another.

Murdoch ordered them out as he made his way down to Roger.  As it was intermission anyway and usual to take refreshment, they left without fuss, Murdoch waiting until the last painted doll had whipped her skirt out of sight before speaking.

My lord Mornay. . .

Marvelous theater, said Roger, his back to Murdoch as he bent over the strawberry tin.  Simply marvelous.  I do so love surprises.  Nothing is as it seems in this life, Arron, remember that. 

If there was one thing Roger was fond of (besides gems and sweets and women a third his age), it was giving advice, especially to Murdoch.  He never missed an opportunity to point out, for Murdoch’s benefit of course, all the things he had done as Enar. 

Roger busied himself pulling the lids off of several trays and making a good deal of noise.  "Rumor has it Roderick Tannen called you Tartairien’s Mouthpiece and a cur and that he won’t be coming for next month’s council.  Everyone’s talking about it, Arron, don’t try to deny it.  How dreadfully humiliating!  But don’t beat yourself up too harshly.  I know that in my time the pelantines would rather have their fingernails pulled out