Southern Fire

Chapter Five

'So what are you going to do? I haven't got all day.' The speaker was a short man, clean-chinned and bald as an egg. His skin was tanned like fine leather and years of sun had carved deep creases around his dark and calculating eyes. He fixed the young man studying the metal wares he had on offer with a gimlet stare.

The youth picked up a small ewer and ran a curious finger over flowers and leaves bright silver against a black ground. 'What metal is this, the body of it, I mean?'

The trader paused in his open assessment of the youth's neat blue tunic, new cotton trousers and the modest silver chains around his neck and wrists. 'No one knows.' He shrugged, tunic of faded russet riding up on his muscular shoulders, black trousers dusty beneath. The belt that circled his firm waist was none so poor, a fine strap of scarlet leather set with gold Yora hawks' heads, rubies for their eyes. 'That's Jahal ware, traded up from the southeast. They keep their craft secrets closer than a clam's lips in that domain and few enough pieces float along to the likes of us.' He cracked a smile more predatory than friendly. 'Give me something worth my while and you can impress all your friends with it.'

Plainly tempted, the youth nevertheless set the little ewer down. 'I have nothing to offer that would be worth such a piece.'

The short man's face turned ugly. 'Then don't waste my time with your crab shit.'

The youth backed away, affronted, striding straight past the next trader who sat chuckling, shaded from the sun by the nut palms fringing the golden sand of the beach.

'Dev, it never ceases to amaze me how you make a living when you're so appallingly rude to everyone.'

'It keeps them keen.' The short man grinned, unrepentant, bending over the neatly trimmed square of hide that displayed his wares. He moved the ewer to a more prominent place among some small copper boxes beaten to a mottled shine. 'See anything you fancy, Bidric?' He paused to rub a finger mark from a silver incense burner shaped like a jungle fowl with the hem of his shabby tunic.

The other trader shrugged with elaborate unconcern. He was dressed with far more care than Dev, prosperous in green trews and tunic and, despite the heat, wearing a fine sleeveless overmantle of cream cotton decorated with silken vines 'Maybe later. I want to see what I can do with these first.' He spread a plump hand over his neatly folded shawls. Some were little more than gossamer, a whisper of silk painted with sprays of delicate flowers in subtle colours; vizail blossoms, jessamine, fiola. Others offered more practical protection against a chilly night, thicker cotton cheerful with bright patterns drawn in bold needle strokes; logen vines, climbing roses, iris spears.

'It's a surprise to find you sharing the beach with we lesser traders. A pleasure, of course, but unexpected all the same,' Dev remarked with studied casualness. 'I'd have thought you'd be making your bows to Rivlin Mahaf, drinking chilled lilla juice in the shade of her audience chamber.' He gestured towards a vivid ochre wrap brilliant with little pieces of coloured glass worked into the bold design of a soaring bird. 'That Mirror Bird's just the kind of thing she likes, isn't it? Aren't the ladies of the domain here? Everyone else in these reaches has come for the last trading before the rains.'

Dev's expansive gesture took in the sizeable numbers walking up and down the beach. The men showed a wide variety of fealty in the differing styles of their daggers just as the women boasted dazzling variations in dressing their hair and tying their wraps.

'They're here, and we had every expectation of trading with them, same as always.' Bidric smiled invitingly at a woman in a plain white shawl who paused to look at his wares. She waved an apologetic hand before moving on to a herbalist loudly proclaiming the efficacy of his nostrums as he sat on the twisted root of a spinefruit tree, a substantial casket resting on his knees.

'Is one of the ladies of the domain unwell?' Dev persisted. 'Or the children?'

'There's no hint of what's going on.' Once the woman's back was to him, Bidric scowled. 'We arrive and find Mahaf Coru's gates shut tighter than a swimming rat's arsehole. I went all the way west to the Galcan domain for that Mirror Bird shawl and better pieces besides, his wives were so keen on the ones I brought them last time. But all the guard captain will say is no traders are welcome at present.'

'Did you see anyone else getting a welcome while you were kept waiting?' Dev wondered. He looked out to the anchorage thronged with galleys and sailing ships of all sizes. 'I might find someone who'd value that kind of information.'

'That's for me and mine to know.' Bidric grinned despite himself, his eyes sliding to a middling-sized ship with a striped blue sail. 'And my boys know to keep their mouths shut.'

'Children are indeed a blessing.' Momentary seriousness flickered over Dev's beardless face.

'Indeed.' Bidric looked a trifle discomforted, unconsciously running a hand over a black beard smoothed to a dapper point with scented oil. 'Well, Dev, messengers from several of those visiting triremes went straight to Mahaf Coru, going by what the guard captain was shouting. Whatever the news was, it set a good few slaves running in and out like quail caught in a dust storm.'

'Do you happen to know which triremes warranted a welcome, when others didn't?' Dev grinned broadly. 'That would be worth a choice piece of this Jahal ware.'

'The gate opened to messengers from Nor, Yava and Kithir and no one else. Then a whole flock of message birds took flight, heading in all directions. I'll take one of those scent burners in exchange for that bit of news.' Bidric narrowed his eyes at Dev. 'There's something else you should know. I heard last night that Yava Aud is as nervy as a hawk on hot sand about something. He hanged three of his warriors for being caught part-drunk at the last full of the Lesser Moon.'

'A wise warlord keeps his swordsmen alert,' Dev nodded, non-committal.

Bidric snorted. 'Stick to trading your metal wares, Dev, if you're sitting anywhere near me. I don't want to be swept up along with you if Mahaf Coru decides to clear his anchorage of vice peddlers. You'll—'

The sudden arrival of shallow boats poled ashore from one of the bigger galleys interrupted him.

'Looks like you're not the only merchant Rivlin Mahaf's too busy to see,' said Dev with malicious amusement. 'When do you suppose the Cinnamon Crane's boys last had to set up their stalls on the beach?'

Gangs of youths jumped out of the flat ferryboats, pulling them high on to the dry sand. Some lads jammed poles deep into the beach before stringing gaily coloured awnings between them. Others busied themselves opening caskets packed with small bottles of glass bright in nests of tandra pod fibres. The rest were setting out sets of copper and silver bowls, unwrapping bolts of cloth, plain and patterned, mostly cotton but a few of shimmering silk. The boys soon turned their boats into enticing stalls laden with luxuries that made Dev and Bidric's offerings look very paltry. The crowds who'd been sauntering idly along the beach began heading for this new attraction, faces eager.

'Time to pack up,' said Bidric philosophically.

'I don't see why.' Dev's jaw jutted belligerently.

'Because they'll have ten times the goods to offer.' Bidric began carefully piling up his shawls and wraps. 'And will accept trades that you and I can't afford to consider.'

The youths were spreading out now, welcoming all comers with open arms. A stately rowing boat drew up at the water's edge and three burly men in fine silks, gold rings on every finger, stepped into the dutifully retreating wavelets. The boys ushered them respectfully to well-cushioned stools beneath shady awnings.

'I trade on quality, not quantity' Dev cracked his knuckles, defiant.

'You certainly have plenty of fire, for a man—' Bidric coughed apologetically. 'You stay if you want to. I'm going to sleep through the worst of the heat.' He glanced up at the sun now at the top of its arc. 'I'll come back when that lot have offloaded their dross on the fools who don't know better. I'll wager they'll be keeping back the better stuff in hopes of an audience with the warlord's ladies.' Bidric stood and waved a signal to the stripy-sailed ship, which dipped a pennant in prompt answer.

Dev sat cross-legged for a moment and then began stacking his wares carefully together in the middle of the hide sheet. 'I'm hungry. Those fools can boil their brains in the midday sun while I find something to eat.' He folded the hide deftly, producing a leather thong from a pocket to secure it.

'I could take that back with me, if you want.' A little self-conscious, Bidric paused in his own packing. 'Firan can bring it back to your boat once the heat's off the day.'

'Firan?' Dev raised a quizzical eyebrow.

'I'm thinking he'd be wanting to stay awhile.' Bidric ran a hand over his beard. 'And one of your girls will be wanting a nice shawl?'

'Ready to try a dip in the secret sea, is he?' Dev smiled that predatory smile. 'Send him over at dusk. I'll be back to the Amigal by then.'

'I don't want him tasting any other of your wares, mind,' warned Bidric in a low tone. 'If I smell cane liquor on him, I'll take a whip to his arse and then to yours.'

'Not even a little sweetsap to stiffen his resolve?' Dev shook his head, mock chiding. 'Many a lad needs a dose of white brandy before he can put the first notch on his tally stick.'

'Those barbarian tastes will be the death of you.' Bidric wasn't amused. 'One way or the other. I'm telling you, Dev, I don't want my sons picking up your bad habits.'

'Blame the father who bequeathed me the northern blood,' said Dev perfunctorily. 'All right, I'll send your lad back sated and sober, never fear.' He tied the thong tight and stood brushing sand from the bagged knees of his loose trousers.

Strolling down to cast an eye over the big galley's array of trade goods he curled his lip in a sneer. One of the burly men from the galley watched him with undisguised disdain. 'We've no use for anything you're trading, Dev. Move aside for those with clean hands.'

Dev didn't so much as glance at the man as he took a small leather pouch from inside the breast of his tunic. Untying its neck, he shook out a few small but flawless sapphires into one leathery palm. The Cinnamon Crane's man stiffened. Dev studied the gems before pouring them back into the pouch with sudden decision. As he strode away, several of the people examining the galley's offerings watched him with uncertain expressions.

'Good lady, I see you're interested in this wall hanging,' invited the galley merchant hastily. 'What have you got to offer me in return? We're most interested in this domain's coral beads.'

Dev allowed himself a discreet smile. Even such trivial amusements made the game worth playing. As he moved away from the beach, broad-leaved spinefruit trees clustered in shady groves and the pale sand gave way to darker earth littered with dusty scraps of bark and leaves discarded as the trees suffered beneath the merciless sun at the end of the dry season. Even the incessant insects seemed to have fled. Visitors were shunning the baking heat in the expanses between the trees, gathering instead beneath the welcoming branches where the men and women of the island were offering meat and fruit, and cloud bread baked from ground sailer grain. Islanders and traders alike paused to witness promised goods bartered against full bellies and quenched thirsts.

So Mahaf Coru was getting news from the south that had him shutting up his gates. What news might that be? Perhaps a likely rumour would be drifting around some resident's cook fire. Dev headed for an old woman tending a battered cauldron resting on a bed of charcoal prudently ringed with stones in a clean-swept stretch of earth. 'What's that, mother?'

'Reed squabs cooked in pepper juice.' She squinted up, her face a web of wrinkles. 'Took them from their nests myself, still with the dew on the leaves.'

Dev looked disappointed. 'Not had time to hang them then.'

The old woman laughed as she drew a faded pink shawl back from her grizzled hair. 'You'll have to do better than that, youngster.'

'I'm surprised your eyes are sharp enough to tell squabs from reed heads, if you think I'm a youth.' Dev sat down on a convenient tree root.

'My eyes are sharp enough, though not so sharp as your tongue.' The old woman dipped her ladle into the cauldron and stirred. 'What have you to offer in exchange for the tenderest meat you'll find on this side of the island?' She picked up a battered wooden bowl but made no move to fill it.

Dev bent forward to sniff the savoury steam appreciatively. 'I trade all sorts of things, mother.'

'I doubt your mother even knows where you are.' She narrowed watery eyes at him, not displeased. 'I've seen you on the shore. You're a metal trader, aren't you? Bracelets, necklaces, earrings, that's what I'm wanting,' she continued briskly. 'My granddaughter looks to wed as soon as Mahaf Coru gives his nod.'

Dev pretended to think for a moment and then reached inside his tunic. He took out a different leather bag to the one he'd taunted the galley merchants with and drew out a delicately wrought silver wrist chain. 'I'll be here a few days, mother. Feed me till I leave and I'll make your granddaughter the envy of her friends.'

The old woman filled the bowl and, handing it over, accepted the chain. 'Soft metal,' she sniffed.

'But pure,' countered Dev, his mouth already full. 'Not smelted from half a crucible of northern barbarian scrap.'

The old woman gave a contemptuous snort. 'I wouldn't put their trash on a body for burying.'

'Didn't I hear word of some of them in these waters?' Dev wolfed down sweet shreds of pale meat and red slivers of pepper fruits. 'Seeing what they can buy or steal before some warlord burns their boats to the waterline?'

'Barbarians? No, someone's steering you astray.' The old woman stowed the chain securely deep within the breast of her many-layered dusty grey dress. 'They never come this late in the dry season. They burn redder than boiled crabs in the sun, die of it even.'

So whatever was stirring up the local domains, it wasn't opportunists from the north. Dev tried again. 'I heard Mahaf Coru's keeping a weather eye out for some kind of trouble.' He nodded in the general direction of the warlord's compound.

'He always does that.' The old woman busied herself peeling fleshy white roots to add to her cauldron.

Dev handed back the bowl and stood up. 'I'll see you again, mother.' The old woman cooked a savoury stew, even if she had precious little information to season it.

The next clump of trees sheltered a poet resolutely declaiming a florid description of setting out to sea. Dev recognised an epic he'd heard many times before.

'Perhaps I will float on the sea of love. The surging wave will lift me up, as the sinking waters will pull me down. Now rising, now falling, the deep will take me to that ocean without a shore.'

Unimpressed, the audience was struggling not to sink into sleep beneath the combined weights of food and the oppressive, humid heat. A hook-nosed man snored abruptly, interrupting the poet's speculations as to where the currents might take him and his travelling companions.

Dev shook his head. The entire audience would be asleep before this inept bard with his monotonous mumble told how a failed romance had driven him to voyaging, lamenting his beloved's loss along with the fatigue of travel. And the poet would be going hungry. No one would offer him a noon meal in return for such a lacklustre performance.

Amused, Dev savoured the lingering taste of pepper in his own mouth and moved on. The better poets would appear with the dusk, courted with the finest food the locals could offer. True artists would work new variations on the time-honoured themes of the travel epic, favourite metaphor for life's journey. Some would have musicians and dancers to accompany them. Others would have apprentices displaying scrolls of exquisite illustrations to the awestruck crowds.

They were welcome to such turgid entertainments. Dev preferred those performed away from the main throng, in the shadows of a small fire coloured with handfuls of dramatic powders, their verses enhanced by one or two scantily clad dancers, a well-muscled assistant ready to slap down anyone getting too close. Dev looked around. There'd been a one-handed poet, last time he'd visited this trading beach, a remarkably inventive lad for lascivious stanzas detailing the consolations a traveller might find to replace the woman he'd left behind.

Dev nodded slowly to himself. The one-handed poet had been summoned to entertain Mahaf Coru's guards every night, him and his accommodating dancing girls. Mahaf Coru and his wives might not be admitting any traders but a poet entertaining their guards might pick up some useful gossip.

Who might know if the boy was still hereabouts? Ifal, that's who. Come to that, Ifal always had the latest news. Dev paused and looked towards the sea shimmering in the sun. He shaded his eyes with a leathery hand and tried to distinguish between the distant pennants hanging limply at the mastheads of the lazily bobbing boats.

A lively bustle at his back startled him and he whirled around. One hand went to the Yava-styled dagger at his belt but no one was coming for him. The commotion was some way inland, where the spinefruit trees gave way to a grassy bowl ringed with the sprawling, flat-roofed houses that the Mahaf islanders favoured. The domain's elders, village spokesmen and the like would be waiting beneath the shade of their wide eaves, welcoming those traders who solicited their interest with cool fruit juices and hard bargaining. Curious, Dev hurried forward, easing past people obsequiously bowing and retreating; islanders and visitors here to trade mingling with travelling entertainers clutching their scrolls or juggling balls.

The crowd was melting away in front of a tall, armoured man. The sun shone so brightly on his chainmail, Dev winced to look at him. Rock crystal glittered on the brow band of his helm and the gold mounts on the scabbards of his twin swords flashed diamond fire. An arresting woman strode along the path her body slave was clearing. Lean and as tall as her attendant, she wore a brocaded white tunic over gauzy trousers. Her tightly plaited hair was covered with an iridescent scarf worked in silver and gold thread, gleaming like a butterfly's wing. She swept the trailing end back over her shoulder with one hand laden with silver rings, bracelets studded with chrysolite sliding down her smoothly oiled forearm. A rope of crystal drops was wound in tight coils around the base of her slender throat.

'Tarita Mahaf.' Some woman identified the noble lady to an ignorant visitor. 'Mahaf Coru's third and most recent wife.'

'Born sister to Yava Dirha,' added another of the gaggle of women, eyes wide. 'She was wife to Kithir Arcis before divorcing him.'

'Why did she do that?' wondered a fresh-faced girl.

'That's no one's business but her own,' a woman who could only be her mother said repressively.

Dev stood behind the women so he looked as if he belonged with them, and stared at Tarita Mahaf with the same eagerness as the rest. She had a wide reputation as a woman not to cross as well as an enviable network of alliances in her own right. At the moment, she had the air of a woman with a purpose. That had to have some bearing on Mahaf Coru's concerns. This day just got more and more interesting.

The noble woman's slave called out to a pale-skinned, clean-shaven man who bowed low with an engaging smile. A darker, heavyset man behind him set an iron-bound chest of black wood down on the bare earth. The smaller man promptly unrolled the gaily patterned rug he'd been carrying and laid it over the chest, sitting comfortably down. His companion took a step backwards, a club of dark wood with more iron studding than the chest sloped casually over one shoulder. Tarita's Mahaf's swordsman walked around the seated trader in a slow circle, his forbidding scowl deterring anyone from coming closer. The dutiful crowd retreated a few more paces.

Ignoring them all, Tarita Mahaf spoke briefly to the man sitting on the chest. The smaller man's smile widened. He stood up, snapping his fingers to his club-wielding companion as he did so. The big man caught up the chest once again and the pair of them followed as the warlord's lady turned to stride back towards the unseen compound and its closely guarded secrets.

'What does Tarita Mahaf want with him?' wondered the pretty girl.

'That's Ifal, the gem trader,' said her mother thoughtfully. 'There's been talk of marriage negotiations with Nor Zauri. Perhaps one of the girls needs bridal jewels.'

Dev doubted it. That wasn't the kind of thing Ifal traded in. He allowed the speculating throng to carry him along to the shade of some spinefruit trees. Casually disengaging himself from the chattering women, he yawned ostentatiously and lay down in a dry hollow between two gnarled roots. The bustle of excitement was dying back all around as people returned to their previous indolence beneath the burden of the day's heat.

Noting a spot of grease from the old woman's stew on his tunic, Dev rubbed his thumbnail across it. Lying back, he draped his arm over his face, for all the world like a weary traveller shading his eyes from the sun. Unseen, he focused all his attention on the oily smear gleaming on his thumbnail.

These Aldabreshi, with their hysterical hatred of magic. Dev smiled discreetly as an enchanted emerald sheen brightened on his nail. He worked wizardry all around them, day after day, and they never so much as noticed. All those who said the Archipelago was a death trap for mages were just cowards and fools. He suppressed the not-infrequent urge to show these people just what magic could do. He could summon illusions to accompany a poet's verses, living, vibrant echoes of the musical words. The women of the domain could take their ease as he coaxed fire from the bare earth to heat their pots and then washed them clean afterwards with water wrung from the very air. He could wrap the island in a storm that would drive the waters clean out of the harbour to leave every ship beached high and dry.

But for now, his life depended on his magic's discretion. The brilliant green on his thumbnail faded away to leave a tiny, perfect image reflected in the shining grease. That must be somewhere in the residence the Mahaf wives used when visiting this isle, unseen beyond the first rise of the rolling island. Ifal was offering plaited strands of turquoise beads to a pleasantly plump, grey-haired woman whose peacock-patterned shawl was as fine as anything Bidric had to offer. Dev recognised her at once. Vidail Mahaf, senior wife, with Tarita stood at her shoulder.

Vidail waved away the turquoise, saying something that left Ifal frozen with surprise, strings of lapis hanging limp from his fingers.

Dev moistened dry lips with his tongue and glanced up at a fitful breeze toying with the spinefruit tree's broad leaves. With infinite care, he teased a breath of air away from the tree and began guiding it gently towards the distant residence. Tension pressed down on him as he looked back to the miniature scrying on his thumbnail but the women were still deep in discussion with Ifal. Satisfaction warmed Dev in a way the sun never could. Those fools who said these spells couldn't be worked together, they should try working enchantments with the finesse he needed to keep his skin whole sailing these perilous waters. He had learned more in his first season than he had in five wearisome years in Hadrumal's dusty libraries.

Then he stiffened, seeing the gem trader digging deep in his coffer, unwrapping soft leather bundles to reveal inky blackness within.

Dev turned all his attention to threading the enchanted breeze swiftly through the air, sorting hastily through the whispers it was bringing to him. There, that was Ifal's voice, distinctive with the rasp of the eastern reaches.

'Of course, efficacy all depends on the history of the talisman.'

Dev stiffened.

'I might be better able to help if I knew just what magical malice you seek to protect your children from.'

'It's sufficient to ward them with jet, for the present.' Vidail reached for the beads, tightness in her voice. 'We will take all you have. Are there any other pieces, bracelets, rings?'

Dev swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

'I have a butterfly comb inlaid with satinstone.' Ifal rummaged in his coffer. 'Both stone and symbol powerful talismans against wizardry, regardless of the piece's history,' he remarked casually.

'It is indeed,' said Vidail slowly. 'You are astute, as always.'

'Astute enough,' there was a menacing edge to Tarita's voice, 'to let it be known we were interested in your sunstones and tourmalines and nothing else besides.'

'Sunstone to warm the heart and lift the spirits.' Ifal smiled peaceably. 'I'll be the model of discretion, but perhaps I'll let slip my guess that you may seek some clarity in your dreaming, my ladies? Sunstone so often conveys that virtue. It would hardly be a surprise, if one of you were planning on a night at some tower of silence, with your daughters of an age to be married.' He ran a hand over dark brown wiry hair. 'Which naturally explains your interest in my finest tourmalines. I believe I will be replenishing my stocks of pink and white cabochons, such useful stones for balancing passion and compassion in the young.'

'You have a glib tongue, trader. Be sure you know when to hold it, or someone will cut it out.' Vidail took the butterfly hair ornament and exchanged a wary nod with Tarita. 'Present yourself at our gates again, when you have replenished your stocks of jet.'

Tarita clapped her hands sharply together and her body slave opened a door. 'Our wife Rivlin has some of her craftspeople's ash-glazed pottery in payment for your jet, and for your discretion.'

'Discretion comes as part of every trade I make, great lady,' Ifal promised before following the slave out of the room with a distinct spring in his step.

As well there might be, thought Dev. The ash-glazed pottery of the Mahaf domain was highly prized. The random dribbles that the secret firing process produced in the greenish glaze were closely scrutinised for prog-nostic significance by the gullible fools hereabouts.

Dev let his stealthy spell-casting dissolve into the untrammelled air and sat up. There was no point in trying to get anything out of Ifal now. He'd be intent on planning how profitably to trade those valuable pots and whatever other gems he could offer the local rulers to guard them against wizardry. There was no temptation of the flesh Dev could offer to cozen a man so notoriously faithful to his partner, bodyguard and lover, and neither of them drank anything stronger than the piss-poor officially sanctioned wine of these islands.

Ifal would doubtless be trying to read some answers to this puzzle in those pots, superstitious as every Aldabreshi. Dev rose to his feet and headed back towards the beach. Time to pay a visit to those charlatans who leeched a living telling fortunes for the credulous Archipelagans. He walked along the water's edge, relishing the cool flurries around his feet, not even sparing a glance for the awnings. Blood pounded beneath his breastbone.

Beyond the traders, a blunt ridge of rock ran out of the trees, only halting at the water's edge where the seas lapped at it with lazy waves. It was a reddish stone, veined with white and broken into a series of ledges like haphazard i steps. Higher up, opportune grasses and flowers clung to nooks of wind-blown soil. Down by the water's edge, a filthy old man dressed in rags crouched at the base of the rock, eyes bright with madness as he hunted in the sand for shells, which he dropped in a gourd. Close by, cross-legged on the very lowest ledge and composed in clean white cotton, a youth sat with a bundle of many-coloured reeds resting across his lap.

Dev wasn't interested in lunatics and shirkers out to avoid an honest day's work. He looked at the men who had claimed various vantage points on the rock. Head prudently shaded with a fold of cloth, a grizzled man sat chatting with another of a similar age. Both boasted a small brass urn close at hand as well as a miscellany of wooden boxes, some dull, some brightly coloured. The man lower down also had a couple of small wicker cages, augury doves cooing contentedly inside. On the flat top of the ridge sat an old man, white hair and beard reaching to his waist. Beneath his little awning, brass and copper urns ringed him and an attentive youth offered him refreshment from a silver cup. People eager to seek his guidance perched on the steps and ledges below. Some clutched offerings of fish or meat wrapped in fresh leaves, others carried easily traded trinkets. The old man beckoned to the first one, bending forward to answer the suppliant's question with a query of his own. There were always the questions, seeming so innocent yet betraying the very answers these credulous fools sought, hints garnered by the soothsayer's skilful reading of a suppliant's stance, the angle of their head, the anxiety in their face.

Dev looked instead at the soothsayer with the doves. He'd seen that man being escorted to and fro by Rivlin Mahaf's body slave on several previous visits to this island. Every sage had a network of contacts and informants feeding him information, otherwise they'd never maintain their deceits, but a soothsayer that the warlord's wives favoured would surely have inside knowledge to weight his predictions towards the success that would enhance his reputation.

The madman sidled across the sands towards Dev, rattling his split and battered gourd and bringing a rank stench that a full season's rains wouldn't diminish.

'Get lost, lizard eater,' Dev growled. The madman had enough sense to scurry away. Then Dev's expression turned to an eager hopefulness that would have astounded Bidric. The youth with the reeds raised them in a ceremonious gesture and rustled the dried seed heads, smiling with contented anticipation. Dev ignored him, scrambling up a steep face of the ridge to outstrip a couple of girls picking a more cautious route upwards.

'You show initiative,' remarked the soothsayer peaceably as Dev appeared before him. 'Always a good thing in a seeker after truth.' He was well into his middle years, grey touching his temples and the black beard that flowed uncut down his broad chest. Other than that, he could have passed for any merchant on the beach below, in his sleeveless mantle of striped cotton over sandy trews and tunic. He rested a hand with a single heavy gold ring on a little cage where two doves cooed and preened. 'But a bold man may fall, if he makes a false step on a rock face.'

'What omens might you see for a bold man voyaging to the south?' challenged Dev.

'What would you offer in return for such guidance, my intrepid friend?' the soothsayer asked silkily.

Dev reached for one of the soft leather pouches hidden inside his tunic and handed it over. 'If your word proves true, I'll bring you twice that the next time we meet. If not, I'll find you and let everyone know why I'm claiming my jewels back.

The soothsayer looked inside and his head snapped up. 'You certainly value guidance.' He stared at Dev.

'My father may have been a mere barbarian from the unbroken lands, but my mother taught me the value of those currents that run from past to present,' Dev said calmly.

'All the more valuable, for those without firm ties to any domain.' The soothsayer twisted the heavy gold ring around his finger as his eyes flickered to Dev's dagger, narrowing slightly as he identified the style of the Yava islands. 'I've seen you before, haven't I? You sail beneath a fine array of passage pennants.'

'I have that good fortune,' said Dev smoothly. 'I trade through here as far south as the Kithir isles and north to the domain of Sazac Joa, by the grace of all those lords who grant me leave to sail their seaways. I can spread your reputation along all those routes, if I find it well deserved.'

The soothsayer's dark eyes were shrewd as he secured Dev's pouch in a leather purse tied to his belt. 'What would you have me read for you?'

Dev gestured at the doves. 'Let them fly.'

The birds waited patiently as the soothsayer lifted them out of the little cage with careful hands. He flung the white doves upwards. They fluttered uncertainly at first, wheeling around each other, wings twisting and backing in the air. Then one made a sudden decision and swooped low, heading straight for the trees at the heart of the island. The second followed almost instantly, both disappearing into the dense green.

'Well?' Dev had barely bothered watching the birds' flight, intent instead on the soothsayer's face.

The man took a moment before replying. 'You can claim friends in the north, so make that your course. Misfortune stirs to the south. Your only defence is to fly before it and seek shelter.' He halted as one of the doves returned in a flash of white and shepherded it gently back into its cage.

'You mean the rains?' Dev asked with deliberate stupidity. 'There are going to be whirlwinds?'

'I speak of adversity that moves unseen, to corrupt and destroy.' The soothsayer raised a hand for the second dove to perch upon.

'You mean a pestilence?' Dev was wide-eyed with feigned incomprehension. 'Breakbone fever returning with the rains?'

'Just take heed of my advice.' The soothsayer shot Dev a warning look, unsmiling as he put the second dove safely back in the cage. 'That's all I have to say to you. You'll find my word more than earns your payment. Now go. Others are waiting for my counsel.' He looked past Dev to smile a welcome at the two girls waiting impatiently to approach him.

'Thank you.' Jumping lithely down to the sand, Dev brushed dust from his clothes. The line of people still waited patiently for the chance to consult the topmost soothsayer. The youth was doing his best to attract them with flourishing casts of his coloured reeds, studying the patterns with a brow wrinkled in ostentatious concentration. He was getting no takers.

Dev smiled with malicious speculation. Should he seek a reading from the self-obsessed youth? It would be easy enough to decry that lad's doubtless vague foretellings as nonsense, especially if something prompted comparison with the cannier soothsayers' more ominous warnings. It was always amusing to see a would-be oracle denounced as a fraud by some irate islanders, stripped of his mystical trappings, often his clothing as well, left with only bruises to cover his nakedness.

'Let me guide your path. I am master of the seen and unseen.' It was the madman, talking to no one in particular but prancing round and round in an ever-decreasing circle, rattling his gourd. Overcome with dizziness, he fell, motionless for a moment before springing up and peering at the marks he'd made in the sand. 'There, the Yora Hawk! The Winged Serpent consumes the Vizail that blooms in the night. Strange days are coming, my friend, strange and fearful days!'

Even the insane were sensing this undercurrent of unease lapping at the islands. No, Dev decided, cracking his knuckles absently. The fool of a boy could rest easy. He had no time to spare on entertainments. There was something going on to the south and he wanted to find out exactly what.

What news from the south had Mahaf Coru slamming the gates of his compound and sending his own messages to all and sundry? News so significant that it took precedence over the last major trading opportunity before the rains arrived. News that prompted the Mahaf wives to buy jet talismans and Ifal's silence besides with their finest wares. It wasn't some fear over the forthcoming rains. However severe the storms might be, they were all part of the natural cycle and endured as such. Nor was it some outbreak of one of the Archipelago's virulent diseases. If that was in the wind, the Mahaf wives and Coru himself would be busy securing medicinal herbs and astringent plant extracts, not messing about with shiny baubles.

The Mahaf wives wanted talismans against magic. For a few unfeasibly pale emeralds and the promise of Dev spreading his reputation, the soothsayer had warned him off sailing south, where some danger threatened a man of visibly barbarian blood and no family to vouch for him nor ties to a domain to protect him. The one thing that came from the barbarian north that the Aldabreshi feared was wizardry. The soothsayer had gone as close as he dared to mentioning magic without actually putting it into words.

So there were reports of magic stirring to the south? Probably a long way south, if the word was only being shared among the warlords with their swift message birds and rapid chains of signal beacons and couriers. It would be a while before word would trickle down to the lesser folk. Perhaps he should lay in a stock of jet before the rumour became common knowledge.

Dev shook his head with a contemptuous smile. What convinced these people that a string of polished black beads or a shiny jet brooch could turn aside magic? And what was so special about butterflies? Dev racked his brains for the scraps of lore he'd picked up on his travels up and down the Archipelago. Weren't butterflies a symbol of the Aldabreshi conviction that past, present and future were all interlinked, as the creature changed from caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly yet remained the same individual?

Discarding that irrelevance, Dev considered the next crucial question. Could there be something in this beyond dry-season hysteria? If there was, who could be so idiotic as to flaunt their magebirth before such a hostile audience? Was it some mainland wizard with a death wish? If it was, Dev decided, let the fool learn his lesson the hard and painful way. Anyone that stupid wasn't worth risking his own exposure for.

But that was unlikely. Could it be some untutored affinity for an element, air, earth, fire or water, erupting in some hapless Aldabreshin family? The wizards of Hadrumal refused to believe the Aldabreshi, alone of all the peoples of the world, had no wizards born among them. Not that he'd managed to find a single one thus far, Dev scowled. Not in time anyway, not before their untamed abilities led them to disaster, either consumed by their own feral magic, ripped limb from limb by a terrified mob or skinned alive by some warlord's executioner. And these people called the races of the northern lands barbarians. At least the humble villages of Lescar just threw their mageborn out on to the road to Hadrumal, rather than ritually slaughtering them, even the misbegotten offspring of the local whore.

Better find out one way or the other before sending any message to Planir, Dev decided. The Archmage of Hadrumal wasn't going to appreciate unsubstantiated guesses. Nor would magic show him the truth of whatever was prompting these suspicions. He could only scry for a limited distance without being able to focus on a place or a person well known to him. So he had better sail south and find out what was going on. If the fearful Aldabreshi turned on him, he would be gone before they laid hands on him, magic carrying him back to the safety of Hadrumal, the hidden isle where the northern wizards had their city of lore and learning. Hadrumal, hard-won sanctuary for mageborn gathered from all across the mainland, where they could learn to control their inborn affinity with the elements that suffused the world, where generations of study had filled libraries with wisdom that every master mage strove to add to. Hadrumal; quite the most boring place Dev had ever lived, its only recommendation the lack of the kicks and bruises that had been his lot before he arrived there.

Dev shuddered. Sailing south into the teeth of the oncoming rainy season would be no pleasure jaunt. Still, at least he could work a few enchanted winds to help with that. Halting on the beach opposite his own safely anchored ship, he looked around the busy harbour and raised fingers to his mouth for a piercing whistle. 'Ferry!'

A man poling a shallow-sided, flat-bottomed boat through the shallows hailed him. 'Back to the Amigal, is it?'

Dev splashed through the wavelets to step aboard. 'I want to call on the Silken Vine first.'

'Bit early in the day, isn't it?' chuckled the ferryman with a hint of envy.

Dev grinned. 'I thought I'd get in before the rush starts.'

The ferryman glanced at Dev's beardless chin and drew an obvious conclusion. 'You won't get much competition round here, not for the lads' favours. It's the girls will be rushed off their feet, if you get my meaning. Well, when the sun's off the zenith. There's more than flowers wilt in this kind of heat.'

Dev shrugged. 'I don't like to follow in another man's wake.'

The ferryman leaned on his pole and drove them deftly through a cluster of fishing boats. He let the pole drift up and pushed on it to turn their course towards a wide-bellied galley resting in a prime anchorage. Her oars were shipped inboard and only a few of her crew were idling about their last tasks. A rope running from the main mast to the ornate prow was crowded with white-bordered tongues of silk proclaiming right of passage through a myriad domains.

Dev stood, balancing easily in the shallow ferryboat. 'You there! Tell Tabraze that Dev's here to see her.'

The ferryman watched the lad scurry off. 'You're known here?'

'Very much so.' Dev grinned. 'I'll trade you an introduction for the ride.'

The ferryman laughed but shook his head. 'My wife would read me my future in my own entrails.'

'I'll give you something to put a smile on her face.' Dev reached for the rope ladder uncoiling from the Silken Vine'?, stern rail. 'If you keep an eye out this way and fetch me back to the Amigal when I'm done.'

'Gladly' The ferryman pushed off from the galley's side as Dev climbed up.

'Over here.' An elegant woman with a placid smile beckoned from beneath a tasselled canopy rigged just before the ship's little aft mast. The three shallow steps of the stern platform made a natural dais where she reclined on a heap of satin cushions. She was sipping from a golden cup, her gauzy white gown all but transparent, wrists and ankles laden with chains of silver moonstones. Her oiled skin shone glossy as ebony.

'Tabraze.' Dev sauntered over, grinning with broad appreciation. 'You look well.'

She narrowed silver-painted eyes at him. 'Then come here and give me more than flattery. Isn't it time I found out just what secrets you're hiding?' Her speculative gaze lingered on Dev's trousers.

'Not today.' He took a cushion under the shade of the silken awning and helped himself to a golden goblet from the tray at Tabraze's elbow. 'Can you take two girls off my hands?'

'I'm not sure, Dev.' Tabraze brushed a hand over the arc of silver combs that held her waist-length black hair back from her face. The artless gesture made it plain there was nothing beneath her gown but her generous breasts. 'If they're anything like the last one you tried to foist on me.' Distaste twisted her tempting mouth into a stern pout.

'Repi was a mess before I picked her up.' Dev waved a perfunctory hand. 'Anyway, she's dead. These two—'

'But you didn't keep Repi out of your little jars and boxes, did you?' Tabraze interrupted him with uncompromising reproof. 'I'll keep no girls who have to be witless on dreamsmoke before they'll lie down for a man. This ship's never getting that reputation.'

'These two both enjoy trading favours for fancies,' Dev assured her. 'And neither takes so much as chewing leaf.'

'So why are you looking to be rid of them?' Tabraze still looked suspicious. 'Or are they looking to leave you? Are you looking to touch me for a price I needn't actually pay?'

Dev leant forward to run a hand down Tabraze's gossamer-draped thigh. 'I'll pay the proper price to touch you, one of these days.'

A crewman coiling a rope down on deck paused, surprised to see the gesture.

'What do you want?' Dev challenged and the galley man moved away hastily.

'Tease.' Tabraze dismissed his words with a wave of her cup. 'So what's the deal?'

'They only sought passage to somewhere with more opportunities than the rock they were born on. I've got wind of something I want to pursue without encumbrances.' Dev shrugged. 'I thought coming to terms with you would do everyone some good. Of course, I could just slip them some thassin and get their bodyweight in liquor from the first meat trader I run into.'

'I never know what to make of you, Dev.' Tabraze gazed at him levelly. 'I don't even know if you're woman's man, man's man or zamorin.'

The crewman looked up again, startled at his mistress's frank admission of such uncouth curiosity.

Dev was unperturbed. 'You keep your secrets and I'll keep mine.'

Tabraze waved her cup again, diaphanous silk tightening across her bosom. 'I have nothing to hide.'

'Not in that dress,' agreed Dev appreciatively.

'It's too hot to play games.' Tabraze sat up. 'All right. What are you looking for from me? As long as they're healthy and willing, mark you.'

'Mahaf Coru's household warriors brought a goodly weight of supplies to pay for their pleasures last night.' Dev gestured down the broad deck of the galley to the cookhouse standing on the starboard side. 'I'll settle for a sack of sailer grain and as much dried fruit as you can spare.'

'You really are in a hurry to get rid of them.' Tabraze tilted her head on one side, pink tongue delicately licking her painted lips. 'If it's not because they're too fuddled to stand upright, you must be on the scent of something good.'

'As you say, it's too hot to play games.' Dev drained his goblet and set it back on the tray with a sharp clink. 'Do I send these girls to you or just dump them on the beach and let them take their chances?'

'I'll take them.' Irritation carved a momentary crease between Tabraze's immaculately plucked brows. 'But next time I see you, Dev, I want a sniff of whatever you're chasing.' She smiled winsomely at him. 'Just a rose will suffice. I'm not asking for the whole flower garden.'

'You're the one who'll be owing me. They're good girls, you'll see. You can send that deckhand with the flapping ears over with my supplies as soon as may be. I want to catch the next tide.' Dev left Tabraze both curious and frustrated as he moved to the rail of the great galley and waved to the ferryman who'd brought him to the Silken Vine.

Poling back with alacrity, he grinned up at Dev. 'That was quick.'

'I've never been one to waste time.' Dev paused to make an ostentatious adjustment to his groin before swinging his leg over the stern rail.

'Back to the Amiga.' The ferryman pushed off.

Dev nodded. As they approached his ship, small enough to sail single-handed, large enough to carry a cargo to justify his travels, he shouted up to the deck. 'Ekkai! Taryu!' Two girls appeared over the rail, each in a simple dress of silk draped over one shoulder, one scarlet, and one blue. 'Throw me a line, you silly poults.'

One of the girls hastily flung a rope and Dev caught it deftly. 'Wait here,' he told the ferryman. 'These two are taking passage with the Silken Vine.'

'We are?' The elder girl's surprise reflected that on the ferryman's face.

'You are.' Dev hauled himself aboard and the two girls quickly retreated. Neither wore much by way of gold or jewels but fresh logen vine flowers in their tight-curled hair decorated an undemanding prettiness. They stood close together, round faces wary.

'Well?' challenged Dev. 'You've made it plain you're not interested in my kind of business.'

'It's—' began the younger girl hotly.

'Hush, Ekkai.' The elder gripped her sister's arm tightly enough to drive the blood from her fingernails. 'Get your things. It has to be better than sailing with him.'

'The Silken Vine has an honest reputation,' the ferryman called up. 'It sails under Mahaf Coru's protection.'

'That's something, I suppose.' Taryu looked at Dev with undisguised dislike. 'We'll get our things.'

Dev raised a warning hand. 'You can gather your rags and tatters, Ekkai. Taryu, you stay with me.' He stepped forward and caught her by the wrist, forcing her to the far side of the deck and out of the ferryman's earshot. 'You do right by Tabraze or when I catch up with you, I'll take the price of her disappointment out of your hide. I want her so grateful for such wonderful girls, she'll open her private jewel case and let me take my pick. Don't forget you still owe me, come to that. Keep your ears open as well as your thighs and make sure you've got solid information to balance our ledgers. Don't think this is the last you'll see of me, girl.' Satisfied to feel Taryu shaking, he let go of her hand.

'Don't think we won't find someone to protect us from your kind.' She rubbed at her wrist, defiance imperfectly masking her fear.

Dev smiled. 'I love you too, sweetness. When you get to the Silken Vine, tell Tabraze you owe Bidric the shawl merchant a good time for his youngest son. The lad's called Firan and it'll be his first time. You treat him gently.'

Ekkai scrambled up out of the stern hatch, clutching an armful of flimsy scarves, a few choice dresses in painted and embroidered silks and some workaday tunics in much-washed cotton. Taryu wriggled past Dev and hurried to help her roll them into a haphazard bundle.

'Not taking anything that you're not owed?' Dev turned suddenly just as Taryu and Ekkai thought they had made their way to the ship's rail unchallenged. He grinned. 'No, you wouldn't dare, would you?'

Not troubling himself to help the girls climb down, Dev addressed the ferryman. 'When you've offloaded this pair, take a message to Bidric the shawl merchant for me. Tell him I had to catch the tide, unexpected news. He can hang on to my metal wares or trade them if he gets a good enough offer. I'll catch up with him soon enough and we can settle up then. Take a piece out of what he's holding for me for yourself, or you can take what you're owed from one of those two.' Dev nodded at the girls with a sly wink. 'Tell him they're holding what I owe him for Firan.'

The ferryman cleared his throat. 'I'll settle for a present for my wife, thanks all the same.'

Dev turned to check the Amigal's rigging as the ferryman poled away. That was one less complication, or rather two. It never hurt to have some willing warmth to offer a man who couldn't be bribed with liquor or leaf but Ekkai and Taryu were far too quick-witted to take south on this particular quest. Repi had had her advantages even if she'd preferred to live in her smoke-filled dreams. It never mattered what she saw or heard; no one took her word for the phase of the moons without looking up to check.

Was there anything else he needed to dispose of before he quit this anchorage? Not that he could think of. Bidric would doubtless get the better end of the deal whenever they came to settle up over Dev's metal goods but the shawl trader was honest enough to feel himself under no slight obligation as a consequence. That was no bad thing. Dev looked up to check the sun's progress across the sky, calculating how soon he could sail.

'Amigal, ho!' Tabraze's crewman shouted up from a dumpy rowing boat.

'Ho yourself.' Dev threw a rope down. 'Tie the goods on to that.' Testing the weight, he began hauling the heavy sack of sailer grain upwards. He grinned as he grunted with the effort, spirits rising at the thought of the chal-lenge ahead. Trading had been getting boring. Besides, where was the profit for a mage in knowing more than anyone else about the quarrels and rivalries of the various domains? Planir never appreciated what cunning it took to learn such things. Tracing these rumours of magic to their source, that was a fitting undertaking for a mage of his talents. He was more than ready for something new. If it proved to be dangerous, that was no more than a spice to be savoured, like the pepper pods in the old woman's squab stew.