The Assassin's Edge

To Cadan Lench, Prefect and Mentor of the University of Col,

From Aust Gildoman, Registrar to the Magistrates of Relshaz.

Dear Cad,

You asked me to keep a weather eye out for any news of interest in aetheric magic hereabouts. Don’t think this counts as interest, exactly, but I thought you’d like to know how high some people’s feelings can run.

Your friend, Aust

Every clear-thinking man has rejoiced in this generation’s rise above the falsehoods and myths that so encumbered our forefathers. The pernicious influence of wizardry over the fearful is finally quelled just as the malign grip of religion upon the credulous has been broken. Now we must take a stand against insidious new fables as we are assailed by a mendacity combining the worst elements of magic and dogma.

Aetheric magic, also called Artifice, is noised abroad as the answer to every woe that afflicts the feckless. It will bring bread to the idle, succour those suffering through their own debauchery, and provide undeserved wealth for the inadequate. If half the powers ascribed to this ancient lore are to be believed, Artifice could bring the very moons down from the heavens. It takes but a little rational thought to see all such hopes have no more value than the silver of moonshine reflected in the gutter. Those few with any knowledge of these supposed enchantments are far from our shores and Tormalin nobility besides. Whatever slight benefits might accrue from their lore will inevitably be reserved for those born to rank and precedence. The commonalty is offered mere garbled cantrips barely understood by priests eager to snare the gullible once more with the comforting deceptions of piety.

Counter such folly with insistence on the study of the tangible. Remind any friend tempted by lies and half-promises of the proven benefits accruing from advances in every field of natural philosophy. We must not return to those naive days when the study of proportion was the realm of the mystic rather than the objective man, when anatomists were shunned for encroaching on Poldrion’s privilege and alchemists and apothecaries won only derision for their pains. Let us look forward to the advantages we will secure through rigorous application of the intellect explaining the richness of the living world, unlocking the secrets of death and disease, charting the cycle of the heavens and seasons and answering a myriad other questions besides.

Magic of whatever nature promises unearned boons but let us never forget the heavy price paid in the past by those succumbing to such temptations. No rational student of history can deny the Chaos enveloping the Old Empire must have been less comprehensive in its destruction, had not ignorant rulers summoned the unprincipled powers of mages in undisciplined pursuit of selfish aggrandizement. Malevolent magecraft wrought misery through every land from the ocean shore of Tormalin to the Great Forest beyond Ensaimin. No renewal could begin until amoral wizardry was driven from our shores, exiled to that isle where the mage-born skulk to this day.

Artifice may not offer such dramatic distortions of air and earth but its insidious threat is no less ominous. Consider the testimony of this Temar D’Alsennin, lately feted in Toremal. He tells of enchantments woven into every aspect of governance. Their false promise encouraged the Old Empire to spread ever further, ever thinner, relying on frail cords of Artifice to link all together. There was no understanding underlying this magic. In using enchantments to attack an enemy rather than honest strength of arms, D’Alsennin’s ignorant sorcerers cut the bridge from beneath themselves as well as their foe. With one thread cut, the web of Artifice unravelled throughout the Empire. The seeds of the Chaos were sown, ready for the fire and water of heedless mages to bring them to full bloom. D’Alsennin credits aetheric magic with his salvation and that of his people without ever acknowledging that same sorcery held them all senseless beneath the earth for more than twenty-four generations. This was not salvation but mere cowardly postponement of an evil day. What rational man would ever consider such a fate preferable to an honest death?

Ignore those who assure you latter generations of wizards have both wisdom and discretion. Remain vigilant lest misguided sentiment over this archaic Artifice seduces anyone into thinking magic of whatever nature has any claim on these enlightened times.

Suthyfer, the Western Approaches, 18th of Aft-Spring

The islands rose from the vast ocean with shocking abruptness; sharp ridges strung out across the waters. Closer to, tree-clad hills hunched defiant shoulders beneath the infinite blue skies, steep bulwarks drawn up close beneath serried spines grudging the barest suggestion of a beach to the all-encompassing seas. The sea matched that niggardliness with a paltry band of surf, meagre waves lifting listless sweeps of white before retreating to the coruscating deeps. No hint of reefs threatened the ship shunning the lesser islets, intent on a narrow strait just visible between two emerald promontories.

Clouds drifting unfettered cast light and shade on restless waters already brilliant with fleeting shimmers like fish darting away from inquisitive eyes. The isle ahead offered an impassive mosaic of greens unruffled by the steady wind carrying the fast-approaching ship inshore. Stalwart trees carried sober hues beneath the verdant highlights of new growth and underbrush, motionless patterns framed by the dark mossy bulk of the rising peaks. The wind shifted and moist earthy scents momentarily won over the scouring salt of the sea breeze and seabirds’ cries pierced the creak and thrum of rigging and sail.

“I’ll be so glad when we land!”

“That sounded heartfelt, Parrail.”

The man clinging to the rail of the ship greeted this new arrival with a weak smile. “Naldeth, good day to you.”

“Duty to you, gentlemen, but clear out of the way.” A sailor hurried past, bare feet deft on the swaying deck, oblivious to the chill wind despite his sleeveless shirt and ragged knee breeches. “Can’t you go below with the rest of the passengers?” He didn’t wait for a reply before hurrying up the ladder-like ratlines running from the rail to the crow’s-nest where the top half of the mast was securely stepped to the lower.

Parrail looked apprehensively at Naldeth. “I don’t think I dare.”

“Over here.” Naldeth led the way to a stack of securely netted cargo. He cast a wary eye up at sailors deftly reconfiguring the creamy sailcloth billowing on the Tang’s tall square-rigged fore and main masts. “Still no sea legs?”

“It’s not so much my legs as my stomach.” Parrail took a reluctant seat, lifting his head to see past the intricacies of ropes and pulleys. “It’s better if I can see the horizon. One of the sailors told me that.”

“I do what I can to keep the ship on an even keel,” said Naldeth lightly.

Parrail managed a faint smile. “My thanks to you, Master Mage.”

“My pleasure, Master Scholar.” Naldeth made a comic attempt at a seated bow. Leaning back against the shrouded lump of canvas that was the ship’s boat, he yawned widely before looking around. Animation and intelligence lent distinction to an otherwise unremarkable face. “This trip’s taught me just how much I don’t know about the workings of water, but the winds have been favourable so I don’t think we’ve lost too much time.”

“Dastennin be thanked.” Parrail’s intensity had little to do with devotion to the god of the sea. Much of an age with the wizard, the scholar nevertheless looked appreciably younger thanks to a snub nose, boyish features and wiry brown hair teased by the wind.

Naldeth idly tapped a foot on the tightly fitted oaken deck. “Master Gede was saying we should be anchored and ashore in time for lunch.” He laughed. “I take it you didn’t want breakfast?”

Parrail took a deep breath. “No, thanks, and I’d rather not talk about food.” He tugged absently at the laces of the plain linen shirt he wore beneath an unadorned broadcloth jerkin.

“Sorry.” Naldeth looked up towards the sterncastle of the ship where captain and senior crewmen stood in purposeful conclave before the lateen-rigged aftmast. They broke apart, each one sliding deftly down the ladder-like stair, intent on his allotted task. The captain remained behind, scanning the vista ahead as he talked to the helmsman whose broad hands cradled the whipstaff that governed the ship’s massive rudder. The captain was a tall man, hair pale grey in contrast to brows still black and knitted in the scowl fixed on his weathered face by years of peering into sun and wind. He wore soft half boots and long breeches of plain blue broadcloth beneath a comfortably loose-cut shirt much the same as wizard and scholar wore. Where Naldeth had opted for the same leather jerkin worn by half the crew, the captain maintained the dignity of his rank with a sleeveless mantle of warm grey wool belted with a tooled leather strap and a fine brass buckle.

“So is Suthyfer just the name of this island or the whole group?” Parrail asked more for the sake of distraction than wanting an answer.

Naldeth obliged regardless. “I think it’s the whole group. I don’t think anyone’s actually named the individual islands. I’m not sure anyone’s ever stopped here to do a proper survey.” With the fast growing bulk of the largest isle now dead ahead, his hazel eyes were bright with curiosity. “Whoever does should name at least one rock for himself, don’t you say? That would be something.”

“You’re interested in doing it?” queried Parrail.

Naldeth was visibly taken aback. “No, I’m bound for Kellarin.”

Parrail hesitated. “You didn’t seem overly taken with the colony when we were last there.”

“I was glad to see the back of the place.” A scowl threatened Naldeth’s cheery countenance. “I’d never seen people killed before. I mean, people die, don’t they? Poldrion rolls the runes but when it’s people you know…” He fell silent for a moment, face vulnerable. ”I’m sorry. You lost friends, I know.”

“I want to help Kellarin for their sake.” Parrail’s unguarded reply wasn’t a rebuke but Naldeth’s swift response was defensive.

“I’d done as much as I could, hadn’t I? I thought I’d best take what I’d learned back to Hadrumal. The Archmage and the other wizards left long before me.”

But Parrail’s soft brown eyes were looking inward on remembered sorrow. Awkwardness hung between the two young men as sailors’ shouts of encouragement and warning sounded the length of the ship. The hills loomed closer. Manoeuvres with ropes and rigging were punctuated by bellows of command from the rear deck and the snap of obedient canvas. The strait between the central island and its slighter neighbour threaded a silver ribbon between the green shores. White birds darted towards the Tang and wheeled above its wake, cries of alarm and curiosity loud.

“When did you go back to Vanam?” Naldeth’s question held the faintest hint of accusation.

Parrail dragged his wits back to the present. “For-Autumn last year, not long after you sailed. We reached Zyoutessela for Equinox and I was back in Vanam by the middle of For-Winter. I swore I’d never set foot on a ship again.” He shuddered before his expression brightened. “But Mentor Tonin persuaded me. I take it you’re on your way to consult with Demoiselle Guinalle as well? I heard Usara went looking for aetheric lore with that woman with the Forest blood, Livak? Did he truly bring one of the Mountain Artificers to Hadrumal?”

“Yes, a woman called Aritane but I’ve nothing to do with that.” Naldeth looked surprised. “I’m just lending a hand to keep this ship on course. I’ll want to see what’s to do in Kellarin. My affinity’s with fire and I hear the Edisgesset miners are planning on refining ore this year.” He grinned. “But you’re welcome to woo the demoiselle if you want.”

“I’ve no notion of wooing anyone.” Parrail tried to cover his chagrin with firm dignity. “I thought you worked at the Archmage’s orders.”

“When I’m one of three mages standing and Elietimm enchanters are knocking everyone else out of the game. Back in Hadrumal, I’m just a middling fish in a busy pond.” Disappointment lent a strained note to Naldeth’s offhand answer.

Parrail nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“I thought I could make more of a splash in Kellarin.” Naldeth’s talkative nature won out over any impulse to discretion. “It’s all very well endlessly debating theory and speculation but it’s nice to have ordinary folk glad of your help, not looking as if you’ve got two heads, if you offer to light wet firewood.”

He would have said more but the sailors’ calls rose to a new urgency. Master Gede bellowed a sudden command and the Tang heeled round on sweeping canvas wings to dart into the sound. The rolling swell of the open ocean gave way to calmer waters between the two islands, glassy smooth where they reflected the bright sun, crystal clear in the shallows of a frowning cliff, dark skerries visible just beneath the surface.

Naldeth spared a wary glance for passing sailors before urging Parrail to the side rail. “Let’s get a look at this place.”

The ship followed the curve of the shore past a precipitous cliff. Below a hollow in the hills some way ahead, a shingle spit offered a gently shelving anchorage. The shore of the lesser island broke into shallow promontories hiding little bays, with folds of land beyond rising in green swells.

Parrail sniffed. “Is that meat smoking?”

“They did it!” Amazed, Naldeth pointed to a vessel beached on the strand, masts lopsided as the retreating tide left it unsupported. It had the same long hull as the Tang, suited for open or inshore waters, square rigged on fore and main masts, shallow fore- and aftcastles in the most recent style and rails guarding the waist of the ship, low to ease the loading and unloading of cargo carried in the capacious hold.

“Den Harkeil’s ship?” Parrail squinted but no flags flew.

“I can’t tell.” Naldeth shook his head, visibly annoyed. “Just because this lot got lucky, that doesn’t mean anyone else will.”

Parrail sought a better view. “Perhaps it’s a Kellarin ship?”

“Sail ho!” Looking up at the shout, both saw the lookout in the crow’s-nest was pointing astern.

“Another ship?” Naldeth wondered aloud.

“Master Mage, Master Scholar!” The captain’s harsh summons set them hurrying for the sterncastle.

“Have either of you had word of other ships?” demanded Master Gede as Naldeth reached the top of the stairs.

“No one’s bespoken me.” Naldeth shook his head.

“Nothing from Bremilayne?” Gede peered aft, trying to identify the newcomer. About a quarter as long again as the Tang with the same long lines, it carried a formidable weight of sail rigged for speed and attack. Fore- and aftmasts carried three courses of canvas compared to the Tang’s two and that wasn’t counting the square-rigged bowsprit and two lateen-rigged mizzens on the aftdeck. Fancy carving adorned rails and the wales and the beakhead at the bow was carved into a threatening shark. As it closed, the boldly painted name below was plain: Spurdog. “Master Parrail?”

“I’ve heard nothing but Artifice isn’t always effective worked over the ocean,” Parrail hastily qualified his reply.

“Ware sail forrard!”

Gede gauged the speed of the rapidly approaching vessel behind before looking to the front where a second ship emerged from concealment behind a curve of the shore. The newcomer could have been built from the same plans as the Spurdog but a sterner shipwright had fashioned the plain rails ringing the crow’s-nests and deck castles. The bow was unadorned but for a brass spike and the name Thornray carved and painted black beneath.

“Dast’s teeth, it’s a god-cursed trap!” spat Gede.

“We’ve barely steerage, this slow,” the helmsman hissed, testing his whipstaff with a leathery hand.

“All sail!” Gede bellowed. “Wizard, raise us a wind!”

“Flag astern!” The lookout clung to the rope stays at a perilous angle.

As the Spurdog ran a vivid scarlet pennant up its mainmast, the Thornray answered with its own.

“That’s no Tormalin insignia,” said Parrail dubiously. “Who raises snake flags?”

“Pirates,” said the captain with loathing. He narrowed his eyes to judge the course of the Thornray now intent on blocking their path. Naldeth didn’t look up from a spark of blue light he was cherishing between his hands. He drew his palms a little wider and the light grew into an iridescent sphere, azure threaded through with brightness painful to the eye.

“Quick as you like, wizard.” The helmsman glanced over his shoulder as the Spurdog’s sails stole what little breeze the Tang could hope for between the confining islands.

The lookout yelled with fear and fury as a shower of arrows rattled among the Tang’s sails. Several sailors cried out, arms or legs bloodied. One unfortunate thudded heavily to the deck; screaming and clawing at a vicious shaft piercing his belly.

Parrail knocked Naldeth clean off his feet. The mage’s curse went unspoken as he saw bright arrowheads biting deep into the planking where he’d stood. Master Gede was dragging the helmsman beneath the inadequate shelter of the stern rail, the man choking on his own blood, an arrow deep in his chest. Shocked, Naldeth’s magic scattered in a haphazard flurry of feeble gusts.

Master Gede knelt on one knee by the whipstaff, the other booted foot braced and his hand steady. “We need wind, Master Mage.”

“Can you use the water to slow them?” Parrail’s voice shook.

“It’s too antithetical.” Naldeth fought to steady his hands as a faint sapphire glow suffused the empty air between them. He’d done this before, he reminded himself. If he was ever going to be the equal of Kalion or Otrick, he had to meet challenges like this. If he lived that long.

A second deadly wave of arrows came from the rigging of the pursuing ship. “They’re looking for magelight.” Parrail cowered by the stern rail trying to help the helmsman.

“Curse it!” Raw power burst from Naldeth’s hands. At the last moment, he managed to fling it up at the main mast and the Tang lurched as the sails suddenly filled, dragging the vessel bodily through the water.

“Ware rocks!” A sailor high on the foremast pointed urgently off to one side.

“Ware boats!” The cry came up from the waist of the ship, frantic sailors gesturing ahead and astern. A flotilla of long boats was darting out from the lesser island’s hidden bays where they’d been lurking for the Thornray’s signal. Parrail risked a glance over the stern rail and saw a second hungry pack come fanning out on either side of the Spurdog. Sweating rowers leaned into their oars, each boat full of raiders, swords in hand. In every prow, a man swung a menacing grappling iron.

Naldeth’s face contorted as he struggled to master the gusting currents of air buffeting him. Livid glints of magic swirled around him but at last a steady wind billowed the Tang’s sails. The pirates astern hurled abuse as the ship pulled away, the enchanted wind stronger than the toiling men at their oars. Shouts of alarm ahead sounded beneath the questing prow, splintering sounds of wood drowning them an instant later.

Gede shook his head at Naldeth. “Stop or we’ll ram her!”

The Thornray was dead ahead, her rails lined with pirates. Her captain was steering directly into the Tang’s path, confident his heavier hull would withstand the impact.

“What can I do?” Naldeth stood stricken with indecision.

“Lend a hand to turn her!” Gede was struggling to steer his ship past the predatory pirate’s stern.

Parrail cowered beneath the rail, trying to staunch the helmsman’s wound. “Zistra feydra en al dret.” His voice cracked as he tried to work the enchantment. The helmsman coughed a gout of scarlet blood and drew a deep shuddering breath before falling limp beneath Parrail’s hands.

Thuds sounded all along the ship’s sides. The long boats had reached the Tang. Pirates flung their grapnels with practised precision and for every rope a desperate sailor cut, two more gripped with irons claws biting deep with the weight of men climbing the lines below. The pirates swarmed over the rail, sailcloth jackets soaked in pitch to foil the few blades that the sailors could muster. Once on the deck, every raider drew short swords or daggers in either hand, hilts wrapping round into brazen knuckles for a brutal punch if close quarters foiled a stroke with a blade.

“Zistra feydra en—” Parrail choked on his enchantment as a grappling iron soaring high over the rail hit a sailor at the bottom of the aft castle stair. The man shrieked, razor sharp points ripping open his face and chest.

Instinct brought blazing fire to Naldeth’s outstretched palm. He threw it full in the face of the first pirate to set foot on the deck by the screaming man. Crimson with magic, flames wrapped around the pirate with a furnace roar. Hair blazed in a passing flash then the man’s naked scalp blackened and split, face beneath contorted in tortured shock. Raw flesh oozed for a scant breath before the all-consuming fire scoured the man’s silent scream to the rictus grin of a skull. He fell, head charred and naked bone, arms scorched and blistered, booted legs untouched. Sparks took hold of the pitch in his smouldering jerkin and the magical fire ran greedily across the deck leaving barely a scorch mark. It leapt to the grappling iron, melting it into a shapeless lump before consuming the rope as it went in search of fresh victims in the boat below. Unseen screams lifted above the ear-splitting din of the vicious struggle aboard.

“Wizard, yonder!” Master Gede waved at a new sail. A gaff-rigged ship, deft and manoeuvrable was swooping down the anchorage. Barely two thirds the length of the Tang, the single mast carried triangular headsails rigged to the bowsprit and cut back all the better to spill wind and turn the ship in its own length. The square topsail and fore-and-aft mainsail drove her on and a bold red pennon streamed from the masthead, a black snake writhing down the length of it.

Frenzied, Naldeth snatched at the roiling air around him but a hail of slingshot thudded all around, bruising him cruelly. He wove a frantic, fragile shield but it was too late. Master Gede was down, bleeding from a gash to the head, the Tang drifting forlorn without his guiding hand.

Parrail had been vomiting but struggled towards the captain on his hands and knees. Tears poured down the scholar’s face but he gritted his teeth and mouthed the measured syllables of a charm.

Naldeth looked wildly into the waist of the ship where the crew fought with pirates swarming aboard from all directions. Gede’s boatswain went down to a slashing blade, the shipwright beside him struggling to defend himself with a belaying pin at the same time as stretching a hand to his fallen comrade. The pirate hacked it from his arm and raised his weapon for a killing blow but the sailor who’d fallen first kicked out with his last breath. The one-handed sailor smashed the pirate’s face to a bloody pulp with his length of solid oak but another raider cut him down, stamping for footing on the bodies of ally and prey alike.

“Nis tal eld ar fen.” Parrail wiped bile from his chin. He knelt beside Master Gede but his eyes were fixed on the murderous pirate below. The man yelled and clapped his hands to his face, swords forgotten as he swung this way and that rubbing at his eyes.

“I have him!” Naldeth exulted. He pulled a shaft of lightning from the confusion of grey and white clouds overhead and seared the man dead but a blue echo of his magic flashed all around him drawing several arrows. Worse, pirates below made a concerted move towards the rear deck.

Parrail grabbed at the mage’s tunic. He drew a deep breath, enunciating an incantation with meticulous care. Naldeth was simply frozen with fear until he saw the pirates intent on his death had halted, confused like a pack of questing hounds who’d lost their scent. Faces turned to the aftdeck seemed to be looking straight through him.

Parrail’s eyes were hollow with consternation. “What do we do now?”

“Take hold.” Naldeth held out a shaking hand, hoping he was equal to his sudden inspiration.

Parr ail snatched at it like a drowning man. “But Master Gede—”

Too late. An azure spiral of power bound his arms to his sides, his feet leaving the deck for an instant before he was plunged into darkness. Parrail groaned with misery as his abused stomach sought to empty itself once more. Then he realised they were in the dimness below decks. Panicked voices rose in the broad hold where those hoping for a life in Kellarin had been waiting out the long days at sea among their hammocks and chests of treasured possessions.

“What’s happening?” demanded a man’s voice.

“It’s pirates!” Naldeth replied, anguished. “They’re killing everyone!”

The consternation that provoked threatened to turn to outright hysteria but everyone fell silent a few moments later when a hatch at the far end of the deck opened to the white and terrified faces below.

“Out!” A swarthy Gidestan beckoned with a bloodstained glove.

The hapless youth at the bottom of the ladder looked around wildly for guidance but everyone else dropped their gaze.

“Out, all of you.” The Gidestan sounded menacing.

The lad climbed slowly up the ladder, yelping as his head reached deck level and unexpected hands hauled him bodily through the hatch.

“And the rest!” What little patience the Gidestan had was plainly exhausted.

Someone else was half pushed, half urged up the ladder and others followed. A surge of bodies carried Naldeth and Parrail closer to the shaft of pitiless daylight, whimpers of fear and ragged breaths of distress all around them.

“We work no magic or enchantment.” Parrail dug painful fingers into Naldeth’s arm as the wizard opened his mouth. “We have to live long enough to get word out to Hadrumal or somewhere, anywhere.”

The press brought the two of them to the ladder and they had no choice but to climb, Parrail first then Naldeth close behind him. Scrambling on to the deck, rough hands shoved them towards the motionless crowd clustered around the main mast. Homespun folk with the honest faces of craftsmen and farmers huddled together, watching the pirates casually tossing the bodies of the slain overboard. Parrail recognised the ship’s sailmaker, the helmsman, a farmer from Dalasor whose name he couldn’t recall.

A few were looking wide-eyed at the forecastle where a bare-chested pirate was tying up the remaining sailors. A few struggled with the pirates restraining them, more went with sullen obedience but one man managed to break free. He hit out wildly, felling one and then kicking out to catch another in the groin, shouting some incomprehensible abuse. The defiance died on his lips as the bare-chested man smashed the back of his head with an iron bar. He twisted his fingers in the blood-soaked wavy hair and held the corpse up to warn sailors and passengers alike. “That’s what making trouble gets you!”

Naldeth’s gorge rose at the sight of the dead man’s misshapen pate, bone gleaming white around grey pulp and gore. He swallowed hard and his terror unexpectedly receded in the face of desperate calm as he forced himself to assess his plight. At least he and Parrail were dressed much the same as the rest of the passengers. For the first time since his childhood he breathed a thanks to Saedrin. The showy robes and elemental colours fashionable in Hadrumal would have condemned him as a mage at once.

With the unresisting sailors now bound, pirates were moving among the prisoners, cutting knives and purses from belts, ripping the few pieces of jewellery visible from necks and wrists, dumping all the spoils in a prosaic wicker basket once destined for a goodwife’s trips to market.

“Your rings.” One gestured at a yeoman’s gold-circled fingers with a bloodstained knife and an evil grin on his undernourished face. “Take ’em off or I cut ’em off.”

Naldeth offered no resistance as rough hands searched his jerkin and breeches pockets, his coin purse torn from the cord he wore beneath his shirt. Then the rat-faced man reached for Parrail’s hand.

“The ring,” the pirate ordered.

Parrail’s stricken expression was little different to those all around but Naldeth saw the added pain in the scholar’s eyes as he surrendered the silver emblem of Vanam, hard-earned symbol of long years of study and self-denial.

That distraction left the mage slow to realise why everyone had fallen silent. All the pirates standing upright and ready, faces turned to the far rail. Naldeth saw the single mast of the ship that he’d failed to hit with any useful magic, snake pennon whipping to and fro in lazy mockery.

A taller man than any Naldeth could recall climbed over the rail with a deftness belying his bulk. The pirates raised a loud cheer, boots stamping, swords smacked together in raucous celebration. The tall man swept a courtly wave to acknowledge those on the forecastle and Naldeth noticed he was lacking the little finger on his sword hand. He had black hair with a curl to it, long enough to fall below his shoulders if it hadn’t been pulled back into a merciless queue. Those shoulders looked broad enough to bear any burden but the man was dressed like a noble who’d never had to soil his hands.

As he turned to share his approval with his pirates, Naldeth saw a delighted smile deepening creases beginning to claim a permanent place around the pirate’s eyes. He was a man in the prime of life, teeth white against the trimmed and disciplined beard that showed just a touch of grey. “Well done, my lads. Now, let’s have a little hush.” His voice was a carrying boom well suited to his barrel chest. The pirate approached the terrified colonists, heedless of his polished boots as he kicked some bloodied body aside.

“Good day to you.” He bowed low with ostentatious politeness. “I am Muredarch and I am the leader of these—” His smile turned feral. ”We’re pirates. You’re prisoners, though you’ll get a choice about that. We’re taking everything we find on this ship. You don’t get a choice about that.” He grinned at a stifled squeak of protest. ”But we’ll be handing out fair shares because that’s the way we do things in my fleet. If you want a share, all you have to do is swear fealty to me and do as I say until I say different. Show a talent for our life and you’ll find it’s recognised. Birth means nothing here but ability counts for a lot.”

He brushed a casual hand over his sea-blue tunic, embroidered velvet and belted with silver, the breeze ruffling the lawn sleeves of his shirt. “I don’t promise a long life but by all that’s holy, it’s a merry one while it lasts. We take our pleasures as readily as we take our plunder,” he continued airily. “Wine, women, good food and if you’re hurt, we’ll see you doctored and kept in comfort. If you’re left unable to fight, we don’t cast you off; there’s always jobs to be done that don’t need a sword. When you’ve earned me enough loot to pay me for sparing your lives, you are free to go, with whatever you’ve saved for yourselves. But most stay on and make themselves richer still.”

The lesser pirates hanging on his every word laughed but Naldeth heard genuine merriment, not the sycophancy he’d expected and found that worried him more.

“You ladies can work for us as you choose.” Muredarch turned a serious face to a mother clutching a daughter just blooming into girlhood. “No man will take you against your will, not without being gelded for it. Share your favours and be paid for the courtesy or earn your keep with cooking, washing, nursing.” He shrugged. “Or you give your oath with the men, sign on the roster and earn an equal share. Where’s Otalin?” A chorus of approval rose from the pirates as one stepped forward from a blood-soaked foursome on the forecastle. “We don’t keep women to firesides and distaffs if they don’t care for such things.”

Otalin shouted something derisory at the bound sailors, proving her womanhood by pulling jerkin and shirt apart to bare her breasts. It was, Naldeth decided, quite the least erotic display he’d ever seen.

Muredarch clapped his hands, which brought instant silence. “Anyone endangering the fleet in any way dies for it. Anyone starting a quarrel on board ship hangs for it,” he said with quiet menace. “You can settle a score in blood ashore as long as you don’t involve anyone else. If you can live by our rules, you’ll earn more gold than you ever dreamed of. If you can’t, we’ll take our price for your life out of you in work but I warn you, that’s the long way to earn your freedom. The quickest way out is not to work, then you won’t eat and you’ll die soon enough. If that’s your choice, so be it. You’ve till dawn tomorrow to think it through and then I’ll want a decision from each and every one of you.”

He turned to nod to the pirates on the sterncastle. “Bring him here.”

Naldeth heard a sharp intake of breath from Parrail as Master Gede was pushed down the ladder to the deck. He fell heavily, blood dark and matted in his grey hair. The woman Otalin jumped down lightly beside him and hauled him to his feet. The master sailor was pale, eyes bruised, arms bound behind him and looking unsteady but his jaw was set.

“Good day to you, Captain.” Muredarch inclined his head, one equal to another. “I take it you understand you’re in my fleet now?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “A captain should always stay with his ship, shouldn’t he? I always do my best to see to that. So you have a choice to make.”

“Turn pirate and prey on honest men?” growled Gede with contempt. “Never.”

“I said you had till tomorrow to make that decision.”

Muredarch smiled that feral smile again. “No, I’ve something else to ask you. Who’s the wizard?”

Gede’s eyes fixed on Muredarch, face expressionless.

“Who’s the wizard?” Muredarch repeated, soft and venomous. “Give him up. He didn’t do you much good, did he?”

Naldeth’s heartbeat sounded so loud inside his head it deafened him. The breath caught in his throat and his groin shrivelled with fear.

Gede stayed silent, eyes focused only on the pirate chieftain. He didn’t dare look anywhere else in case he gave some hint away, Naldeth realised. Numb with shock, he wished he could look away from the appalling sight but he dared not turn lest he meet someone else’s accusing eyes, see some pointing finger handing him over to this brute. His thoughts disintegrated into wretchedness and terror.

Muredarch was studying Gede intently. “No, you won’t give him up, will you? Not without a little persuasion. But I’m a man of my word. I’ll let you stay with your ship.”

The pirates laughed and Naldeth saw savage expectation on their faces all around. Otalin shoved Gede towards the main mast and the passengers scattered in alarm. Muredarch casually drew one of several daggers sheathed on his silver ornamented belt and the bare-chested man jumped down from the foredeck. He carried a hammer and sharp iron spikes as long as a man’s forearm. Muredarch cut Gede’s bonds but two pirates were waiting to grab his hands. Their chieftain stepped aside as the pair pulled Gede’s arms behind him, one either side of the mast, forcing his hands flat to the wood.

At Muredarch’s nod, the bare-chested man drove a spike through Gede’s hand, nailing him to the mast. The captain couldn’t restrain a yell of anguish. “Dast curse your seed!”

Muredarch was unmoved. “Show me the wizard.”

Gede shook his head, biting his lip so hard blood ran down his chin.

Muredarch nodded and the second spike hammered home. Gede’s cry was joined by sobs and distress all around.

“Show me the wizard.” But Gede stayed silent.

Despite the murmurs of distress all around him, Naldeth made no sound. He couldn’t have done so to save his life.

The pirate chieftain shook his head with regret as Gede’s chin sank to his chest. He wound strong fingers in the sailor’s hair to yank his head up. “Till tomorrow‘ Turning his back on Gede he walked unhurried to the rail. ”Get them ashore.” He swung himself down to his gaff-rigged ship.

As soon as Muredarch was off the deck, the pirates moved, belaying pins and the flats of blades herding the comprehensively cowed passengers. Parrail caught Naldeth by the elbow, urging the shocked mage forward. An older man with a dyer’s stained hands shot them both a fearful look from beneath lowered brows. The scholar swallowed hard on his own fear, foul bitterness in his mouth, gullet and belly sour and scalded. Surely these people wouldn’t give them up to these torturers, not when magic might be their only salvation? He dropped his own gaze, concentrating on moving with the crowd, on keeping Naldeth moving, terrified lest either of them do something to attract unwelcome attention.

The pirates simply counted off their captives into the waiting longboats like so many head of sheep; the pockmarked ruffian in charge didn’t tolerate delay. The woman with the daughter baulked at the rope ladders strung over the side of the ship and at his nod, two burly raiders swung her bodily over the side where she dangled, whimpering.

The man waiting below laughed until her flailing shoe caught him in the face. “Watch what you’re at, you clumsy bitch!” Snatching at her petticoats he pulled her down with an audible rip of cloth. If another pirate in the boat hadn’t caught her arm, the woman would have fallen into the dark waters but she was too frightened to realise he was saving her and pulled free with a cry of alarm.

The man laughed with scant humour. “Lady, I don’t want your notch on my tally stick.”

“Not given the choice.” The pirate rubbing his bruised face was looking up at her daughter’s legs hanging helpless above him. He grabbed her calf and the raiders above dropped the girl. The man slid his rough-skinned hand up her stockings and beneath her skirts as he caught her around the waist with his other arm.

The lass jerked rigid in his embrace and in panic, she spat full in the pirate’s face. “How dare you!”

“Beg pardon, my lady.” He removed his hands with elaborate care and a lascivious smile. “You come find me, if you change your mind.”

Parrail and Naldeth were pushed towards the rail. The scholar kicked the mage hard on the ankle and saw bemused realisation of pain burn through the shock fogging the wizard’s eyes. Parrail nodded at the rope ladders and to his relief, Naldeth managed to fumble his way down to the longboat. Parrail gripped the rungs with trembling hands, nails digging into the tarred rope, trying to go as fast as he could, fearful lest he fall but more scared of the consequences if he did.

“That’s your lot!” The pirate with spittle still glistening on his unshaven cheek waved to the ship and urged his rowers to their oars. “Get on!”

The passengers huddled on the central thwarts of the boat, the mother sobbing into her daughter’s breast. Naldeth was still staring ahead with unseeing eyes but Parrail twisted to try and gain some idea of where they were being taken.

He saw a crude stockade of green timber some little distance inshore, bark still on the trees, fresh axe marks still pale on the sharpened ends. A scatter of rough shelters, lean-tos and tents sprawled over the close-cropped turf between the stony beach and the thick underbrush that cloaked the rising land. Returning pirates were stirring fires to life, cauldrons and kettles swung over the flames. The few who’d stayed hidden ashore came out of the undergrowth and from the stockade, shouts of congratulation audible over the smooth waters of the anchorage. The sun was warm, the breeze gentle and the islands looked verdant and hospitable. Parrail felt utterly desolate.

The boat crunched to a halt on the shingle spit. “All out and sharp about it!”

As they scrambled over the side, stumbling in the knee-deep water, Parrail risked a quick look round for any hope of escape. He wasn’t the only one.

“Nowhere to run, sorry.” The scornful pirate wasn’t looking at him but Parrail still coloured, humiliated by the mocking laugh of several brutes waiting at the water’s edge.

“You’re in the stockade for tonight.” A thickset man with a shaven head in sharp contrast to his plaited brown beard stepped forward. He wasn’t dressed for raiding but wore buff breeches and jerkin of a cut and quality Parrail would have expected on any Vanam street. “Give us your oath that you’ll join us in the morning and you can set up your own patch.” He indicated the ramshackle camp with an expansive gesture.

Parrail shoved Naldeth into the centre of their group as they headed meekly for the stockade. The scholar hoped the grey despair on the wizard’s face would be taken for the defeat that hung heavy on the rest. Their captors seemed keen to dispel such gloom.

“Muredarch’s a great leader,” volunteered a muscular youth, tanned beneath a sleeveless shirt unlaced to the waist. “You should think about his offer. It’s the best chance for serious wealth for the likes of us this side of Saedrin’s door.”

“It’s good living,” his companion agreed, slapping at the gilt and enamel decorations on the expensive baldric that carried his sword. He swung a flagon of wine in the other hand, cheery in the bright sun that mocked the prisoners’ misery.

Parrail wondered where the wine had come from and who had died for it. They reached the stockade and were roughly shoved inside the crude gates. Parrail was hard put to stifle abject tears when he heard the rough-hewn bar outside secure it. He dashed them angrily from his eyes and grabbed Naldeth. The wizard looked at him numbly and Parrail shook him bodily before urging him into the narrow shadow cast by the crude walkway that offered their few token guards a vantage point.

“We have to send word.” He quailed lest anyone overhear his urgent whisper.

Uncomprehending, Naldeth struggled to find some response but none came.

Parrail found the first stirrings of anger fighting to rise above his fear and nausea. “We’re the only ones who can send for help.”

Naldeth shuddered and rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth. “Who?” he managed to croak.

Parrail licked dry lips. “Hadrumal?” The great mages had defended Mentor Tonin and his scholars before; Planir, Otrick and Kalion wielding mighty magic to send Kellarin’s foes screaming before them. That seemed so very far away and long ago compared to his present predicament.

Some animation was returning to Naldeth’s face. “I need to conjure a flame if I’m going to bespeak anyone.” He looked around. “And something shiny, something metal.”

Parrail looked around as well. “They haven’t left anyone so much as a hair pin.”

“Nor any fire.” Naldeth shivered. “It’s going to be a cold night.”

“Any flame will give you away as the mage.” Parrail wished he hadn’t spoken when he saw stifling dread threaten Naldeth’s fragile composure again. “Think, man! What are we going to do?”

The wizard drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Can’t you use Artifice?”

Parrail hugged his aching belly. “I can try but what if someone hears me?” He looked round at the other prisoners but all were sunk in their own misery, some clinging to each other, others lost and alone in their shock.

“Do you think they’ll give us up?” Naldeth asked in a hollow voice.

“Master Gede didn’t.” Parrail’s voice cracked.

“He’s not dead yet—and neither are we.” Naldeth grasped the scholar’s shoulder in a clumsy attempt at comfort. “I’ve just thought of something; I can weave air to cover your incantations, can’t I?”

Parrail managed a wan smile. “Let’s see who I can reach.”

He moved to the negligible protection of a rough-hewn upright supporting the walkway and sat facing the blank wall of the stockade. Naldeth dropped down beside him, sitting with bent knees and feet flat to the trampled grass, elbows resting on his knees, head and hands seemingly hanging limp. Only Parrail could see the utter concentration holding the mage rigid. This was no time to let any hint of magelight escape his working.

“When—” The silence that swallowed his tentative query told the scholar he could attempt his own enchantment. Parrail forced himself to breathe long and slow, concentrating on the memory of Vanam’s university quarter and banishing the reality of this nest of pirates. He pictured the scholarly halls where learned men shared their theories in lecture and demonstration, the dusty libraries where long-dead rivalries stood shoulder to shoulder in the chained ranks of books. With a longing that twisted his heart, he focused his thoughts on the cramped house where Mentor Tonin shared his enthusiasm for the lost lore of the ancients with his students, conscientious in tutoring even those he only took on for the sake of their fathers’ fat purses, their gold keeping the roof over the heads of those poorer but diligent like Parrail.

He mouthed the words of the enchantment that should carry his words to Tonin but felt nothing. The image in his mind’s eye was as stiff and unresponsive as a painted panel. He tried again but there was none of the thrill he recalled from his past use of Artifice. Where was the vivid connection, the wondrous sense of touching the aether that linked all living things, thought speaking to thought, free from the fetters of distance or difference? Vanam was as unreachable as the sun sailing high and untroubled above them.

Was he doing something wrong? Parrail wondered. But he’d worked this Artifice with Mentor Tonin even before he had helped the scholar rouse the sleepers of Kellarin. He had worked it so much more effectively after Demoiselle Guinalle had explained the apparent contradictions in their lore, untangling the contrary incantations that had been hampering their attempts at enchantments. Hopeless longing seized Parrail. He’d been so eager to share the winter’s discoveries with Guinalle, not least those woven into love songs that he’d be able to sing to her.

Perhaps he should try that older, simpler form of Artifice. Parrail closed his eyes, the better to hear the silent melody playing in his head. What was the song Trimon had used to call to Halcarion, lost as he wandered in the depths of the Forest, calling on the Moon Maiden to light the stars to guide him home? Would it work, sung unheard in the elemental silence all around him? Could he keep the pitch and beat? He’d never been a good singer. Determination gripped Parrail as he concentrated every fibre of his being on the mythic ballad.

The malice of elder dark move shadows to snare and

bind him.

Trimon took up his harp and sang that his love might

find him.

Driath al’ ar toral, fria men del ard endal

Cariol vas arjerd, ni mel as mistar fal

It was the jalquezan that held the enchantment, wasn’t it? The incomprehensible refrains of Forest Folk songs worked their long-forgotten Artifice. Parrail sang in mute resolve, weaving his cherished memories of Guinalle through every nuance of the travelling god’s desperation and desire for the remote goddess of maidenhood and mystery. The rhythm of the song pulsed in his blood, warming him from head to toes in an exultation that bordered on ecstasy. He gasped and the rapture was gone.

“Well?” Naldeth released his spell, looking at Parrail with the intensity of a desperate man.

A shiver seized Parrail and it was a moment before he could speak. “I don’t know,” he admitted lamely.

A shadow fell across the pair of them and they looked up guiltily. Relieved, they recognised the yeoman absently twisting his ringless fingers.

“So what are you two going to say when they come for us in the morning?”

Vithrancel, Kellarin, 18th of Aft-Spring

Messire D’Olbriot doesn’t favour these open meetings, does he?” I looked around the rapidly filling hall. The door barely got a chance to close before some curious face opened it again. I had to admit Temar’s new reception room looked impressive. Ryshad had spent the last few days cajoling people into lending a hand and they’d set to with a will. The wooden panelling I was leaning against still wanted paint or varnish but it was a considerable improvement on cramming everyone between the trestles and boards of the trading hall.

“No Sieur does these days.” Ryshad was counting heads. “This is the old style; the way Temar remembers his grand-sire doing things. It has its points; the Caladhrian Parliament’s open to all and half the Lescari dukes hold their assemblies in the open air.” Sworn to D’Olbriot, Ryshad had ridden the length and breadth of Tormalin and half the countries beyond. “Deals behind closed doors send rumours of bad faith hopping around like frogs in springtime.” He scratched a scar on his arm, token of such rumours that had nearly been the death of him and Temar the summer before in Toremal.

“Can he stop it turning into a shouting match? What if everyone tries to have his say at once?” I looked up to the dais where Temar sat on a high-backed chair; arms ornamented with saw-edged holm oak leaves. He was wearing a sleeved jerkin in the Kellarin style rather than the gaudy fashions of Toremal that I knew he had crushed in a trunk somewhere. It was still a superior garment; Bridele must have been squinting by a candle half the night to finish the green leaves embroidered on the grey silk.

Guinalle sat beside him on a plainer chair upholstered with rich russet leather. The colour complemented her smoky blue gown, cut neither ancient nor modern but calculated to flatter her figure at the same time as using the minimum of precious damask. A modest swathe of lace obscured the low sweep of the neckline and discreet diamonds glinted beneath the glossy fall of her unbound hair. The two were deep in the first conversation I could recall them sharing since Equinox. “What if Guinalle takes a contrary view to him?” I asked Ryshad.

“They’ll save any arguments for later. They both grew up in courtly Houses; they know the importance of appearances.” We claimed two of the stools arrayed around the edge of the room and Ryshad stretched long legs out in front of him. “They know Kellarin runs on goodwill. Neither will risk undermining that with a public squabble.”

I wondered if Temar appreciated how much that goodwill depended on Ryshad’s talents. As D’Olbriot’s man, he’d often had to unite some disparate band of men, getting a task done with a joke and a laugh, asserting his authority with steel in his voice and, if need be, in his hand. He’d been doing the same for D’Alsennin since we got here.

My beloved was watching Guinalle with a slight smile. “Did she tell you Artifice was used to curb anyone letting their mouth run away with them in the Old Empire courts?”

She had and I wasn’t entirely happy with the notion. I surveyed the crowd, some intent faces among the merely inquisitive. “Who steps up first?”

“For the moment, first come, first heard.” Ryshad looked at D’Alsennin with faint impatience. “I told Temar he’d do better to have people bring their business to his proxy before an assembly meets and to let them know he’ll hear them in order of importance.”

“You’re not taking that on?” I hoped it was plain I expected a denial.

“I’m no clerk.” Ryshad said emphatically. “It’s time young Albarn took on a few responsibilities of the rank he’s so eager to claim.”

As Ryshad spoke, Albarn Den Domesin appeared on the dais from a door in the back wall. This sprig of ancient Tormalin nobility had certainly welcomed the Emperor’s edict that the few remaining noble lineages of Kellarin should henceforth be considered cadet branches grafted on to the D’Alsennin tree. Perhaps someone should tell him that Tadriol had simply been circumventing the snarl of legalities threatening to entangle Temar as aggrieved and opportunistic Sieurs had laid ancient claims and spurious grievances before Toremal’s law courts.

Albarn settled himself at a table to one side of the dais where an unsullied ledger lay open beside an assortment of pens and ink. He didn’t look too enthusiastic for someone eager to be acknowledged as Temar’s designated successor.

“Poor lad, taking notes himself rather than lording it over copyists,” I said with light mockery. “Still, if you want to reap, you’ve got to sow.”

“I haven’t seen you doing much sowing.” Ryshad shot me a quizzical look. “But I tripped over Fras making a mess in our garden this morning. Why is that?”

“He’s as handy with a spread of runes as he is with that hoe.” I spread my hands, unconcerned. “He’ll get the job done.” And I’d washed the bed linen, so felt entitled to some entertainment today.

Halice strode through the crowd and pulled up a stool. “How long are we going to be sitting on our hands?”

“We’re waiting for their nod.” Up on the dais Guinalle was emphasising her point to Temar with sharp gestures. “What does she reckon to this notion?”

“A sensible custom long overdue some use.” Halice grinned. “If we can convince her to turn away anyone plaguing her outside of these sessions, she might learn to relax a little.”

Ryshad laid a hand on my thigh to silence me. “Here’s the old wether to break the snow.”

The crowd stilled as a white-haired man stepped forward, nodding a polite bow to Albarn before standing below Temar and Guinalle. “My duty, Messire, Demoiselle.”

“Master Drage.” Temar inclined his head and Guinalle favoured the man with a courteous smile.

He coughed. “It’s about these land grants. I’m wondering if we can’t break them up a bit. Back home, we held land in different parts of a demesne, some meadow, some plough land, all different tracts, so no one got all stones or bog.”

Temar nodded. “But there’s sufficient land here to give everyone good soil.”

“But what about hail or storm?” Drage spoke with the confidence of age and experience. “Larasion be blessed, we’ve mild enough weather here but if all a man’s crops are in the one field, any misfortune could ruin his harvest.” A murmur of agreement supported him but I could see a few belligerent faces determined to dispute this. Yeomen newly come from Tormalin liked knowing exactly where their boundaries ran and their precise rights to enforce them.

Temar bent to confer with Guinalle before answering Master Drage. “You raise a valid concern and I imagine others share it. But equally, many folk prefer their grant within a single enclosure. We suggest anyone wishing to swap a portion of their holdings with another gather in the trading hall tomorrow. We can have exchanges recorded by formal charter—”

Guinalle’s scream came like lightning from a clear sky. She stumbled to her feet, head shaking like a horse tormented by hornets, hair lashing wildly as she clutched at her temples. Temar barely caught her as she fainted, falling to his knees on the hollow dais with a thud that echoed around the stricken silence.

Ryshad’s long legs ignored the stairs, me taking them in two strides. Halice was barely a pace behind us.

“Is she breathing?” I demanded. Her colour was ghastly, lips bloodless, face slack.

Temar ripped at the lace secured around her shoulders with a silver and sapphire brooch. “Her heart’s racing.” We could all see the beat in the pale hollow of her neck.

Ryshad scooped her up in his arms.

“Through to the back.” Halice lent a steadying hand as he got to his feet.

“Keep them here.” I held Temar back before pushing him towards his seat of authority and the open-mouthed consternation below. “Carry on or gossip will have her dead and on her pyre before sunset.”

Halice was holding the rear door for Ryshad. She beckoned me with a jerk of her head. “We’ll send word as soon as we know what’s wrong.”

Temar visibly composed himself and turned to the astonished gathering. “It seems the demoiselle is taken ill.” His voice strengthened. “But she would be the last one to wish for any fuss and the first to urge us to continue.”

That much was true but the thought did little to relieve my anxiety as I closed the door on his words.

Ryshad was standing in the middle of Temar’s hall, frowning. The walls were still bare stone but Bridele was doing her best to make the place more comfortable. High-backed settles flanked the wide hearth, mismatched but well made and softened with linen-covered cushions bright with more of the housekeeper’s embroidery.

Halice was tossing them to the floor and delving in the hollow bottom of the settle to find a blanket. “Livak, have that woman find us some decent wine.”

I ran to hammer on the kitchen door. Bridele opened it, startled.

“Demoiselle Guinalle’s taken ill,” I told her rapidly. “Fetch wine or white brandy if Temar’s got a bottle hidden away.”

As she scurried away, I went to look for kindling in the cluttered inglenook. Ryshad laid Guinalle gently down. “Is she stirring?”

“Barely,” said Halice, chafing the noblewoman’s fragile wrists between her own muscular hands. “Have either of you heard of any contagion?”

We all looked at each other, relieved to see mutual head shakes. Drianon save us from another outbreak of the fever that had left Tedin orphaned and in his grandam’s care, I thought. Especially if we didn’t have Guinalle to curb its virulence this time.

Ryshad snapped open the clasp of her chain girdle. “Where are the laces on this cursed gown?”

“Under the arm.” I pointed before turning back to the hearth. “Talmia megrala eldrin.fres.” A flame sprang up among the twigs and I fed it with bigger sticks. Guinalle might scorn such Lower Artifice but she couldn’t deny it was useful. I saw a feather poking through the linen of a cushion and, recalling my mother dealing with a light-headed housemaid, plucked it out.

“On there.” Ryshad directed Bridele to set her tray on the low table between the settles. Guinalle moaned, a low sound of acute pain. He knelt beside her. “Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

He didn’t tell her she was going to be all right, dark eyes scanning her pale skin for any sign of a rash or some other ill omen. Ryshad’s sister had died of a spotted sickness and Halice and I have seen people healthy at dawn and dead before dusk.

Halice brushed Guinalle’s disordered hair aside, testing her forehead for fever. The girl caught her breath and opened frantic brown eyes like someone roused from nightmares. She tried to raise herself but Halice restrained her. I poured a goblet of dark ruby wine and stood at Ryshad’s shoulder.

Guinalle’s eyes were disconcertingly distant. “Parrail?”

“What about him?” Halice demanded.

“Is he in trouble?” asked Ryshad.

She seemed deaf to their questions. I lit the feather and waved the smouldering fragment beneath her nose. Guinalle coughed on the acrid smoke and her indignant eyes focused on me.

“Parrail’s in the most dreadful distress!” She sat up, a rush of colour to her lips and cheeks reducing her corpse-like pallor.

I handed her the wine. “Is it the ship?”

“He’s terrified.” The demoiselle took a shuddering breath.

“It’s a wonder he could work any Artifice!”

“Could you tell where he is?” Ryshad got to his feet, trying not to press her too hard.

“On land or at sea?” I amplified the question.

Guinalle drained the cup of wine before speaking. “On land, I think, but not on Kellarin. Or perhaps not. I felt the ocean hindering his enchantment.” She set down the goblet and knotted her fingers in her lap, knuckles white.

“Trouble at sea comes fast and furious.” Ryshad’s concern was plain. “Especially if they’re making landfall. Can you reach him with your own Artifice?”

Guinalle’s dogged self-possession was returning. “Give me a moment.”

I perched with Halice on the low table, trying not to look too impatient.

Guinalle sat on the edge of the settle, smoothing her skirts as she took a deep breath. She spared a vexed look for her torn lace before folding her hands slowly beneath her breastbone. Closing her eyes she spoke with measured calm.

“Lar toral en mar for das, ay enamir ras tel. Parrail endalaia ver atal sedas ar mornal.”

Her squeal made us all jump and Halice’s grab for a nonexistent sword hilt sent the tray and goblets crashing to the floor.

“What?” Ryshad was braced for action.

“He’s in fear of his life.” Guinalle was shivering like someone cloakless in the depths of midwinter.

“From the sea?” I recalled the lad was as bad a sailor as me.

“He’s not alone. He fears for the people with him.” Guinalle’s brow furrowed, eyes dark and inward-looking. The demoiselle raised a hand and I saw marks on her palm where her fingernails had dug in. “He’s surrounded by dangerous men, thieves and killers.”

“Elietimm?” Ryshad looked murderous.

“No,” Guinalle said slowly. “I’ve no sense of them.”

“Can you talk to Parrail?” Ryshad was all but pacing the floor with frustration.

“He’s scared out of his wits.” Guinalle shook her head, distraught. “He won’t hear me and for me to see through his eyes with Artifice—”

I wasn’t waiting for explanations. “We need scrying. I’ll find Allin and set Temar’s mind at rest.” I added with a smile at Guinalle. Embarrassment at the realisation of her public collapse wiped away the last of her pallor and, mortified, she looked surprisingly young.

I left her to Ryshad and Halice, slipping discreetly on to the dais in the reception hall through the rear door. Albarn had his head down, scribbling rapidly and Temar looked to have kept the business of answering appeals to his authority as Sieur going fairly smoothly so far.

“Make an offering to a shrine, that’s where it stays.” A woman with a figure like a peg-dolly was standing before Temar, hands on hips.

“Mistress Beldan, you have said your piece. Please let Mistress Treda have her say!“ I was impressed by Temar’s firmness.

His chair hid the second woman from me but from her accent, she was one of the original colonists. “I know nothing of practice over the ocean nowadays but we hold to an older custom.” Her effort to sound placatory was obvious. “If I give a cooking pot to Drianon by way of thanks, I expect the goddess to bring someone with the need for it by her shrine and have them find it there. I don’t look for it to gather dust for all eternity.”

“A cook pot’s no fit devotion—”

“Thank you.” Temar cut across Mistress Beldan’s scorn. “Does anyone claim responsibility for the shrine? Is anyone willing to take on a priesthood?”

I saw people looking at each other with confusion and reluctance. Priesthoods and confraternities for the upkeep of shrines have been hereditary for generations out of mind on the other side of the ocean but there was no such tradition here.

As uncertain muttering occupied everyone, I stepped up to Temar’s side. “Guinalle’s all right, just fainted.” That reassured him even if I wasn’t entirely sure it were true. “Parrail’s in some sort of trouble and used Artifice to call for help. It took her completely by surprise and he’s none too adept, so that made things worse.” I noted people stepping eagerly forward to listen and considered how much bad news to chew on would stop their vivid imaginations supplying worse.

“What kind of trouble?” Temar’s pale blue eyes fixed on me.

I wasn’t going to speculate with all these ears around. “We need Allin to scry for us. Do you know where she is?”

“With Master Shenred.”

I patted Temar on the shoulder. “You’re doing well. Keep it up.”

Temar allowed himself a grimace of frustration before I took myself out by the back door. I heard him return to the matter in hand with tense deliberation. “We should establish a confraternity to agree such practices for the shrine. Anyone willing to serve should give their name to Albarn and lots can be drawn. Those who prefer a different rite can set up their own shrine.”

Back in Temar’s residence, Bridele was cleaning the floor and Halice was tending the fire while Guinalle sat frozen on the settle. Ryshad looked up from searching among Temar’s charts and spared me a brief smile.

“Any idea where Shenred is?” I asked him.

He thought for a moment. “Try the slaughter ground.”

Hurrying down the tiled lane, I ran down river past the hillock that shielded the sights and sounds of the bloodier end of a master butcher’s business. Allin was by the hanging store, apron over her gown, sleeves rolled up and one hand carefully testing a vat of brine. “It’s all a question of evaporation,” she said earnestly. “With water antithetical to my fire affinity, it’s a delicate balance.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but D’Alsennin needs a little magic working.” I smiled briefly.

Shenred sighed. “Go on then, lass.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Allin apologised earnestly.

“It’ll keep, lass.” He smiled at her. “That’s what brine does.”

I forced a rapid pace to take us out of earshot as soon as possible. “How well do you know Parrail? Well enough to scry for him?”

“I don’t think so.” Curiosity followed Allin’s honest regret. “Why?”

“He’s in trouble and we need to know how bad,” I told her bluntly.

“Naldeth’s on the same ship, isn’t he?” She dried her hands on her apron. “I know him, and his brother.”

“Then that’s who you scry for.” We returned to Temar’s residence as fast as I judged we could go without attracting undue attention.

Allin stripped off her apron as we entered. “Do we have—good, thank you.”

Ryshad was already filling a broad silver bowl from a prettily glazed ewer while Halice added to a motley collection of bottles on the table. “We’ve got you all the inks and oils Bridele could find.”

Allin rapidly selected a glass vial of green oil with sprigs of herb in it. She uncorked it with care, letting a few drops fall on to the surface of the water. “I may not be able to hold the image for long,” she warned.

The vivid green of the oil vanished as it spread across the water, a hint of thyme scenting the air. Allin cupped her hands around the rim of the bowl and set her round jaw resolutely. I joined Ryshad on one side of her, Halice and Guinalle on the other, all of us trying not to crowd the mage but increasingly anxious to see what her magic might reveal.

The invisible film of oil shone as if sunlight were playing on it. The green-gold sheen thickened, trails of radiance falling through the water, spreading and diffusing until the colour filled the bowl. It deepened to a grassy hue, then to a mossy darkness and, faint at first, a reflection formed on the glassy surface. “Don’t jog the table.” Allin concentrated on the bowl, her tongue caught between her teeth.

“Is that the ship?” I saw an ocean vessel drawn up on the shingle strand of Suthyfer’s best anchorage.

“That’s Den Harkeil’s.” Ryshad pointed to a ram’s head carved on the stern rail.

Halice scowled. “Hardly fit to sail.” The wheeling magic showed us where planking had been stripped from the ribs of the ship, leaving it broken like the carcass of a dead animal.

“What do they want the wood for?” As I wondered, Allin sent the spell searching across from the shore. We saw crude shelters sprawling over the grass, some canvas, others built from hatch covers and doors. Chests and casks were stacked beneath crude nets weighted with pulley blocks.

“Who are they?” Halice put careful hands behind her back as she bent closer to study small figures, some barefoot in shirtsleeves with an air of purpose, others more leisurely in boots and cloaks.

“Pirates,” said Ryshad coldly. “Scum of the seas.”

“Where’s Parrail?” Guinalle’s eyes went from the image to Allin and back, frustration chasing anxiety across her face.

“I’m looking for Naldeth.” Allin’s voice was tight with concentration.

It was like flying over the camp on the back of some seabird. The spell carried us to the edge of the scrub that fringed the forests and we saw a rough-hewn stockade below.

“They’re not just stopping to take on water,” murmured Halice.

Ryshad glowered. “Who’s inside there?”

Splintered spikes and the heavy gate were no barrier to Allin’s magic. We surveyed the crushed captives within.

“That’s him.” I hadn’t seen Naldeth since the year before last but a gambler cultivates a memory for faces.

“Parrail.” Guinalle cupped her cheeks with her hands, eyes dark with distress.

“Allin, can you show us the anchorage again? Looking north.” The mage-girl nodded at Ryshad’s request and the shifting image made my stomach lurch.

“That’s their ship.” He nodded. “The Tang.”

We saw a second ship anchored in the sound. “They’re not stripping that one for timber,” I commented.

“They’re looting the cargo.” Halice pointed to laden longboats heading for shore.

“But Kellarin wants those things,” said Guinalle with anguish.

“And the pirates want the ship.” Halice pointed at a scarlet pennon snapping at the top of the mainmast.

“With all those wharf rats to crew it, they’re not worried about killing the original company.” Ryshad scowled as a longboat’s oar shoved a floating corpse aside.

Halice hissed as a sleek-hulled, single-decked pinnace appeared in the sound, followed by two substantial ocean ships built and rigged for speed. All three flew the scarlet flag with the black line of the snake device. “That’s a god-cursed fleet.”

“I’m sorry,” Allin gasped as the image abruptly blinked into nothingness.

“We’ve seen enough,” Ryshad assured her. “I’m getting D’Alsennin.”

As he turned on his heel, the rest of us stood in pensive silence.

Halice looked at Allin. “Could you bespeak Naldeth?”

“And let everyone know he’s a wizard?” I looked sceptically at her. There were some advantages to the more discreet workings of Artifice.

Halice grimaced. “Which could get him killed out of hand.”

“Can’t you lift him out of there?” I asked Allin. Shiv’s wizardry had once got me out of a prison cell.

“Not without a nexus,” the mage-girl said sadly. “Not so far away.”

“The Elietimm used Artifice to move people over great distances.” Halice looked at Guinalle. “Could you—”

“I cannot rely on the strength of the aether over such a distance, not over water.”

The two magic wielders looked at each other with mutual regret.

“We’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way then,” I said bracingly.

“Pirates?” Temar hurried in, open face betraying his shock.

“Holding Suthyfer, if we don’t do something to shake them loose.” Halice moved to pick up the map Ryshad had been studying.

“How soon can we set sail?” Temar planted his hands on the table.

Halice looked up. “You’re not thinking of going in alone?”

Temar jutted a single-minded jaw. “We’ve the Eryngo and the coast ships besides and men enough to fill them with blades.”

“Ploughmen and artisans.” Halice stuck her thumbs through her belt, clasping her buckle. “We need trained swords against pirates, my lad.”

“I led my cohort—”

Ryshad spoke over Temar’s hot indignation. “Granted the Eryngo’s bigger than the pirate ships we’ve seen so far but it’s also heavier, higher and slower. They’ll run rings round us if we’re not careful.”

“The coasters are more nimble.” But Temar was looking less sure of himself.

Ryshad gestured at the blank bowl. “No more than the Tang and they captured that.”

“We need a full corps of mercenaries,” stated Halice firmly.

“How long will that take to arrange?” Ryshad demanded. “Give that lot half a season to dig themselves in and we’ll never get them out. Speed’s as important as weight of response.”

“Can you whistle up ships loaded with fighting men?” demanded Halice.

“Yes,” replied Ryshad. “As soon as Allin has Casuel tell D’Olbriot the peril we’re facing.”

“Casuel can send letters to all the corps commanders who owe me favours,” countered Halice. “He can use the Imperial Despatch.”

“No.” Temar was almost as pale as Guinalle had been. “I won’t run to D’Olbriot like some child failing his lessons. Nor will I put Kellarin any deeper in anyone’s debt, not Tormalin princes or mercenaries, not unless my back’s to Saedrin’s threshold.”

Halice and Ryshad turned on him like twin halves of a double door.

“We call the miners down from Edisgesset.” Temar lifted his chin defiantly.

“Where do we find swords for them all?” Halice challenged.

I raised a reluctant hand. “If you bring all the miners down here, who guards the prisoners in the diggings?”

That silenced everyone.

“They have all given their parole. None is a threat.” Guinalle’s voice shook.

Ryshad, Halice and Temar studiously avoided each other’s eyes. I was glad they all realised this was no time to reopen that particular argument.

Allin had no such qualms. “They came here to kill everyone. They’re Ice Islanders!”

“They surrendered as soon as their leaders were killed,” Guinalle insisted.

Which was true and, Saedrin forgive me, had been cursed inconvenient. Seeing no prospect of ransoming them back to the Elietimm, Halice had been for killing them out of hand and Ryshad would have called that deserved execution under the fortunes of war but Temar had baulked at yet more bloodshed. So the silent, sullen captives had been sent upriver to dig for ore under the watchful gaze of miners used to a life of hard knocks. Accident and disease was culling them fairly effectively from what I heard, if not fast enough to suit Halice. Guinalle on the other hand protested such treatment every time she visited Edisgesset to torment herself over the sleeping figures still in the cavern. Temar did his best to ignore both issues by seldom going up river at all.

“D’Olbriot can send all the help you need,” Ryshad told Temar firmly. “Or if you’re worried about being obligated, call on Tadriol. He’s your overlord, you’re entitled to his aid.”

“Which makes his suzerainty plain in fact as well as in theory,” Temar retorted. “If Tormalin blood’s shed for Kellarin, half the Sieurs who wanted to throw us off here last year will insist Tadriol claim a share in our land and offer their own people to defend it for him.”

“We can call up a couple of mercenary corps as quick as any Imperial cohorts,” interjected Halice. “Once they’re paid off, that’s an end to it.”

“Paid off with what?” Temar threw up his hands with irritation. “If they don’t demand gold up front, it’ll still cost us land granted to men with no idea how to till it and less interest.”

“Why risk death or injury to anyone?” said Guinalle, agitated. “Artifice and elemental magic both can bring a ship safely over the ocean without having to stop at Suthyfer.”

“Don’t be so foolish.” Temar made no attempt to hide his scorn. “They’d have a stranglehold on our very lifeblood.”

“No one would risk the crossing with pirates camped on the route,” Halice said more courteously. “Even without any need to stop.”

“The threat would kill all our trade.” Ryshad looked at Temar. “And from that base, they’ll plunder the whole ocean coast. With the Inglis trade at their mercy, the Emperor will act with or without your agreement. If Tormalin cohorts set foot on Suthyfer, you want it on your terms, not Tadriol’s.”

“Which is why you want mercenaries.” Halice slapped a roll of parchment against one booted leg. “Pay them with the pirates’ loot.”

“No!” Guinalle objected. “We’d be no better than those thieves!”

I’d had enough of this. “What about Hadrumal? Numbers don’t count for so much with wizards chucking handfuls of fire or skewering people with lightning. Any size ship will sink if magic lets in the sea below its waterline.” I’d done my best to steer clear of magic for most of my life but since I’d found myself reluctantly involved in such matters, I’d come to appreciate its uses in the right place at the right time.

<>What will the Archmage demand by way of recompense?” challenged Temar.

“If you want to make a break with Tadriol, bringing Planir in will do it,” Halice pointed out. “Tormalin suspicions of magecraft’s ambitions will have a field day.”

“That could do as much harm to Kellarin’s trade as pirates,” said Ryshad reluctantly.

“I don’t think Planir could help.”

Allin’s soft words nearly went unheard but Temar stopped and looked at her. “Go on.”

She went pink. “Obviously he could use his magic, but I don’t think he’ll want to, not involving Hadrumal on his authority as Archmage. The Council’s badly split over whether or not wizardry should be involved in mundane affairs—”

Ryshad hushed Temar’s indignant exclamation. “How so?”

“Fighting the Elietimm was one thing,” Allin said with an apologetic glance at Guinalle. “They’re a magical threat, but pirates are just pirates. Planir’s being pressured to nominate a new Cloud Master—”

“Such concerns are so very much more important than life or death for Kellarin,” Temar interrupted scathingly.

Even though his anger wasn’t directed at her, Allin blushed scarlet and ducked her head so that all we could see was her coiled braids. I promised myself that sometime soon I’d wake Temar up to the lass’s silent devotion for the insensitive clod.

“But what about Parrail?” Guinalle’s distress was giving way to anger.

“Let’s see the lay of the land.” Halice unrolled her parchment on the table.

“At least we can see what forces we’ll need,” Ryshad said to Temar.

I looked at their three heads bent close together. If Halice was as stubborn as an offside ox, Ryshad and Temar made a matched pair just as bull-headed. Their deliberations were going to take quite some time.

Guinalle shot Temar’s oblivious back a fulminating glare and stalked off to sit on the settle by the fire again.

I tapped Allin on the shoulder and she looked up. “Planir can’t actually keep an eye on every wizard’s doings, can he?”

Allin looked puzzled. “How do you mean?”

“If we had mages helping us without Planir necessarily knowing, so no one could blame him for it, maybe we could find a quicker route through all this than sending in any swords.” I spared a glance for Ryshad who was plainly trying to stop Halice and Temar falling into outright disagreement. I was never going to share his or Halice’s relish for a fight and if magic could keep my friends from risking a pirate sword in their guts, I’d try any way I could to make the runes fall my way.

“I’ll do my best,” quavered Allin.

“I’m not asking you to take them on alone!” I let slip louder exasperation than I intended and caught a curious look from Ryshad. “Let’s get some air.”

We left for the tiled lane. I didn’t dare look back and wondered how long we had before Ryshad came to find out what I was up to.

“Can you bespeak Shiv?” I asked Allin. “You’re not too tired?”

“Not for something using fire.” She ventured a modest smile. “He’s right, you know, Shiv. The more magic I work, the stronger I become.”

I realised some of the people who’d come to Temar’s assembly were watching us from the end of the lane with lively curiosity. I smiled blandly at them and turned to lead Allin into the creditable start of a kitchen garden that Bridele had planted behind the hall. “Where can we find a little peace and quiet for you to work?” I wondered.

“The shrine?” Allin suggested. “No one will disturb us at our devotions.”

“Good idea.” It would take some while before Ryshad would think of looking for me there. I led the way to the sanctuary the older women of the colony had dedicated to Drianon out beyond the marketplace. The small stone building stood in its own little garden, not a weed to be seen among the burgeoning flowers. The door was already dotted with ribbons and scraps of cloth pinned as token of some boon sought from the goddess. I’d been thinking of hanging one there myself, just to hint that the coming summer’s ships could usefully bring hopeful girls willing to earn their place in this new life as maids of all work. Well, that wasn’t going to happen, not till we’d got rid of these pirates.

Inside, the walls were empty of the serried ranks of funerary urns that we’d have seen back in Ensaimin and I for one was glad of that. In the centre was a statue of Drianon, elegance at odds with the rustic shrine. That had been Temar’s doing last summer. He’d searched among half the sculptors in Tormalin before fixing on one he felt both skilled and pious enough to craft the Harvest Queen’s ripely beautiful figure, her serene and mature face crowned with wheat, autumn fruits spilling from her cupped hands.

A few offerings were laid at her sandalled feet, mostly the everyday trinkets that had so offended Mistress Beldan’s sensibilities. There was one garnet necklace more akin to the ostentatious displays of devotion customary these days and I wondered what might constitute me having sufficient need for it to placate Drianon. I dismissed the notion as Allin picked up a polished pewter plate.

“A spill, please.”

I handed her a slim scrap of wood from a box by the incense burner and watched the mage work her magic with flame and metal. “Shiv?”

I edged round to stand at the mage-woman’s shoulder. “Shiv, it’s me, Livak.” I looked into the brilliant circle burning a hole in the pewter to see the wizard sitting peacefully at his own kitchen table.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Shiv looked amused and his lover Pered raised a friendly hand in greeting. Allin dimpled and gave a little wave that nearly set her fringe alight with the flame.

“No pleasure,” I said grimly. “We need your help. Pirates have set up camp on Suthyfer and they’ve seized two of this year’s ships. Scry for yourself.”

Shiv looked dubious. “Planir—”

I cut him off abruptly. “I don’t want to go to Planir. Allin says there’s a miser’s hoard of reasons why he won’t help. I want you and Usara, if he’s willing.”

Allin spoke up. “Everyone else who might help will want their piece of Kellarin in payment or they’ll just argue till Poldrion claims everyone over whether or not they should get involved.”

Shiv leaned back, trying to find words for something troubling him.

“You owe me, Shiv,” I warned him. “You and Usara. You blackmailed me into working for Planir in the first place and you’ve been racking up the debts ever since.” I smiled just enough to let Shiv know I held all the winning runes in this hand. “I’m calling in your marker.”

Allin stifled a giggle and the spill’s flame flickered.

“It was Darni put the thumbscrews on you, not me,” Shiv objected. “Anyway, I’ve saved your skin enough times to balance the ledger.”

“Who got you off the Ice Islands in one piece?” I challenged him. “Who got Lord Finvar to hand over that rancid old book you needed so badly?”

“Just what is it you want me to do?” Shiv asked. “Besides risking Planir’s wrath.”

“Naldeth and Parrail are prisoners,” I told Shiv bluntly. That got his attention and Pered’s too. “Along with crew and passengers and whoever else was on those ships. Those ships are full of things Kellarin needs too.”

“You’re not going to get all that back with just me and ’Sar,” said Shiv with undeniable truth. “There’ll have to be a fight for it. We’ll translocate ourselves to you and bring our magic to bear,” he offered.

“And me,” Allin added at once.

“Ryshad, Halice and Temar are all arguing about how best to go in at the moment,” I admitted. “But Kellarin barely has the men for it.” I considered the problem. If Shiv said magic wouldn’t do it, I’d have to believe him, no matter how many ballads might claim otherwise. Well, we needed another shipload at very least. “You could help there couldn’t you? Bring in a ship from the other side of the ocean, play the anvil when Temar’s men go hammering in?”

“Raise mercenaries?” I could see Shiv was dubious even through the spell. “From where?”

“Bremilayne, Zyoutessela, wherever you know well enough on the ocean coast to magic yourselves to. There are always sailors hanging round docks who’ll sign on for a fight if you offer them enough coin,” I urged. “Then with you along, the whole job will be done and dusted a good deal quicker. The faster we can act, the fewer people will find themselves queuing for Poldrion’s ferry.”

“I’ll scry for myself and see what I think,” Shiv temporised.

I judged I’d pushed him far enough for the moment. “Tell Usara it’ll be a splendid way for him to impress Guinalle. Most suitors just turn up with a bunch of flowers or some ribbons.”

Pered laughed and I blew him a kiss. I liked Pered.

“I’ll bespeak Allin at sunset, our sunset.” Shiv still looked severe and broke the spell with a snap of his fingers.

I looked at Allin. “Let’s keep this to ourselves for the moment, shall we?”

The Island City of Hadrumal, 18th of Aft-Spring

Skewered like a rat to a fencepost,” Shiv said with distaste but his light touch on the wide earthenware dish that framed his scrying didn’t waver.

“I don’t think he’s dead.” Usara looked sick and gripped the fronts of his sombre brown gown.

The wizards were in Shiv’s neatly appointed kitchen, every pan on its hook above the wide hearth, plates and bowls racked by the window.

“It could take days.” Pered scrubbed a blunt-fingered hand through his dark blond curls. “You wanted a copper-bottomed excuse to go to Kellarin, didn’t you?” He swung a kettle above the glowing heart of the slow-burning fire and chose a spice jar from the colourful array on a shelf.

“Be careful what you wish for, you may just get it,” Shiv said without humour.

“He can’t forbid us now, surely?” Usara absently ran a finger over the grain in the table raised by years of scrubbing.

“Let’s ask.” Shiv abandoned his spell. He rolled down the sleeves of his leaf-green linen shirt and threaded silver links through the cuffs with deliberate precision.

“Don’t let Planir turn you into a toad,” Pered warned lightly as he emptied the ink-tainted water from the bowl into the stone sink.

Shiv paused, catching up a light cloak discarded on a chair. “ ’Sar will find a bucket to bring me home in if he does.”

Usara grinned and sketched a wave of farewell. He followed Shiv through the front room of the narrow house where an iron-studded door opened on to an unremarkable street. Outside, an identical terrace of grey stone houses faced Shiv’s, the cobbles between dotted with detritus brushed from the flagway by proud housewives.

A diligent youth hovered where the side street met the high road, offering his services as crossing sweeper. Shiv tossed the lad a copper but didn’t wait for him to wield his broom. He walked rapidly through booths and stalls set out along the centre of the wider road, oblivious to the blandishments of the traders.

Usara waved aside an urchin offering him a basket of fish. “How are we going to play this?” he demanded.

“By ear.” Shiv stepped around a barrow piled high with waxed ochre rounds of cheese. He didn’t slow his pace as they left the market behind and started up the shallow sweep of the hill where the halls that were the heart of Hadrumal loomed. Lesser dwellings lined their route, each storey jettied out an arm’s length further than the one below, homes and workshops for victuallers, cobblers, drapers and tailors and all the rest who supplied this sanctuary of wizardry with the mundane necessities of life.

“’Sar!”

The mage looked to see who had hailed him. “Planir, we were just on our way to see you.”

“I thought I’d run a few errands to get the archive dust out of my throat.” The Archmage tucked a couple of small paper-wrapped and well-sealed packages into a pocket of his jerkin, whose original rich purple was faded to a midnight indigo, bare patches rubbed in the velvet.

Shiv cocked his head to study Planir. “There’s news from Hadrumal.”

“Bad news,” Usara amplified.

Planir raised an eyebrow. “Let’s hear this somewhere a little less busy.”

He led the way to a narrow gate all but invisible in the dark shadows cast by the tall houses on either side. Planir touched the lock and it opened with a grating whisper. He ushered Shiv and Usara through before securing it with another brush of magic and a smile. “We don’t want children or animals poisoning themselves.”

Trees lined the walls that enclosed the garden divided into quarters and eighths by low walls and hedges. Every bed was patterned with herbs and flowers, some tall, some creeping, dull green and bright shoots mingled. On the far side of the physic garden a second gate gave access to a small orchard where bees bumbled among blossoms in the sunshine. Heady fragrances came and went on the fitful breeze, refreshing after the dry stone breath of the highroad.

“Let’s sit,” Planir suggested genially.

“Pirates have landed on Suthyfer, those islands in the mid ocean,” Shiv told him bluntly.

Usara glanced around but there was no one else among the orderly ranks of methodically labelled plants. “It’s more than one ship and a formidable count of men.”

Shiv gestured to the limpid pond at the heart of the garden. “Scry for yourself.”

Planir shook his head, walking slowly towards a stone bench set in an arbour of aromatic vines. “No, no, I trust you, both of you.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Shiv demanded.

“They’ve already captured two ships bound for Kellarin.” Usara’s face was grim. “Made slaves of crew and passengers.”

“Those they haven’t already killed,” added Shiv. “The captain’s been nailed to his own mast.”

Planir winced, then frowned. “Why do that?” He took a seat.

“Naldeth and Parrail were on board the ship that was taken.” Usara perched on the edge of the bench.

“They’re alive for the moment.” Shiv stood shifting his weight from foot to foot. “But who knows for how long.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Usara urgently, looking from Shiv to Planir.

Planir plucked a sprig of camomile from a wooden trough. “Has Naldeth bespoken you?”

“No, but I don’t suppose he’s able to.” There was faint rebuke in Usara’s voice.

“So D’Alsennin’s sent word? By Allin’s good graces?” Planir savoured the faint apple scent of the bruised herb.

Shiv’s boots crunched on the gravel and he folded his arms. “Livak got Allin to send word.”

Planir pursed thoughtful lips. “So this is no formal request for Hadrumal’s aid. Do we know what D’Alsennin’s planning?”

“They’re talking about raising men and ships,” Usara said slowly.

“But you can see the complications there,” urged Shiv. “Mercenaries—”

“It’s a sensitive situation.” Planir nodded. “As is everything concerning Kellarin.” He tossed aside the camomile. “I appreciate the warning. As soon as D’Alsennin asks for my help, I’ll bespeak Cas. I’m not sure how much leeway the Emperor will allow us but we’ll do what we can, always assuming the Council doesn’t raise too many objections.”

Shiv and Usara stared at him, aghast.

“But Naldeth’s one of our own!” Usara sprang to his feet. “And Hadrumal’s name will be cursed in Vanam if Parrail dies.”

“The mentors know as well as anyone else that taking passage to Kellarin entails risk,” said Planir curtly.

“Storm and shipwreck, maybe.” Shiv looked belligerent at Usara’s shoulder. “Not being abandoned to pirates.”

“We can help resolve this with the least bloodshed,” urged Usara.

“Perhaps.” Planir looked up at the two infuriated wizards. “We can do so much, can’t we? Involve ourselves, brandishing the threat of raw wizardry and no mainland prince or powers could curb us, if we chose to ignore them.” He smiled. “But we’ve had this conversation before, more than once.”

Shiv wasn’t amused. “Yes, Archmage, and I for one am tired of it.”

“What is the use of power if it’s never brought to bear?” Usara was barely less confrontational than Shiv.

“Dear me, you’re allying yourself with Kalion and his ideas.” Planir’s voice grew a little cold. “I had no notion.”

“Forgive me, but that’s not true and you know it.” Usara swallowed his indignation with difficulty.

“Kalion wants to be fed and feted by the rich and powerful and have them hanging on his every word, doing only as he tells them,” said Shiv with contempt. “We just want to save lives in imminent danger of being lost!”

“It’s pirates, Shiv,” Planir said patiently. “They’re a running sore on Tormalin’s ocean flank and, yes, they could prove a serious problem for D’Alsennin. But they’re nothing new. The oceanward Sieurs have scourged the coast clean of wreckers and raiders for generations. This is no sudden catastrophe that needs the Archmage to save Tadriol’s neck. Hadrumal’s action without justification will just stir up every old prejudice against magic and doom-laden ballads of wizardly arrogance will do the rounds of every tavern from Inglis to the Cape of Winds.”

“What do we do to counter that ignorance?” challenged Shiv. “It’s all very well saying we don’t get involved with the mainland, not unless it’s a matter of life and death and some ruler comes begging on his knees but what does that get us in the long term?”

Usara spoke with rather more moderation. “If the commonalty only ever see magic as a scarce resource for the powerful, they’re bound to resent it.”

“Mages work everyday sorcery clear across the Old Empire.” Planir sounded indifferent. “Apprentices go back to their homes with the turn of every season.”

“But they don’t go back to spread any knowledge of magic,” countered Usara. “Most just tire of our isolation here or find a life of study holds little appeal once they’ve learned sufficient control of their affinity not to be a danger to themselves and others.”

“It’s fear that brings them here in the first place,” Shiv nodded. “Or has them sent, thanks to age-old bias. How many who leave here ever work anything more than cantrips to ease their way through life or impress the gullible?”

“Wouldn’t you rather mageborn sons and daughters were sent to Hadrumal eager to learn useful skills?” pleaded Usara. “Knowing they’d be welcomed back home and valued for what they can do?”

“I don’t recall hearing of mages starving by the wayside.” Planir plucked another sprig of camomile. “Even the least of wizards can earn their bread with their magic”

“If their hide’s thick enough to put up with snide remarks like all I heard in Ensaimin last year,” Usara said with exasperation.

“And jibes from the Rationalists,” snapped Shiv. “I don’t know what’s worse. Ensaimin, Caladhria and the rest with their credulous dread of tales from the Chaos where every wizard’s a threat, or the so-called forward-thinking Rationalists who say magic’s as much an irrelevance as outmoded piety in their search for quantifiable explanations of the world’s workings.”

Planir smiled at Shiv’s indignation. “The most blinkered natural philosopher or wooden-headed Rationalist cannot deny the reality of elemental fire singeing his toes.” He turned to Usara. “And the rediscovery of Artifice should put paid to their scorn for religion. How much old lore have you unearthed in the temples of Col and Relshaz?”

“More than I expected, but the greater part has been lost since the Chaos, thanks to ignorance and prejudice.” Usara looked steadily at Planir. “Are we going to see Hadrumal’s learning lost to worm and decay as well? Wizardry withering, disregarded?”

“Look at Aritane’s people in the Mountains,” Shiv invited with an outstretched hand. “Their Artificers, the Sheltya, they won’t act to stop the Mountain Men being driven from their land, their forests, their mines—and they lose respect with every step and with every generation.”

“As I understand Aritane’s explanations, the Sheltya hold back because aetheric powers were gravely abused in the past, by those clans who were driven into the ocean and became the Elietimm. You’ve seen the tyranny of Artifice in the Ice Islands at first hand.” Planir’s grey eyes were bright with challenge. “When the Elietimm offered help and the Mountain Men seized their chance, brutal Elietimm Artifice brought them to the brink of warfare with the lowland cities and further discredited the innocent Sheltya.”

“There has to be a middle path between disuse and abuse,” insisted Shiv. “Look at Kellarin. Before the Chaos, aetheric magic was an everyday part of life. The colonists don’t fear magic of whatever hue or nature.”

“Aren’t we rather getting off the point?” Planir stood up. “What has this to do with pirates?”

The two mages hesitated.

“Our help in Vithrancel would show Tormalin merchants wizards helping everyone, not just the rich and powerful,” said Shiv slowly. “And Dalasorian traders, whoever takes word home.”

“I believe Guinalle and Allin work together as much as they are able.” Usara looked hopeful. “Seeing how their skills complement each other could be valuable to Hadrumal.”

“That’s something to lay before the Council.” The Arch-mage’s face was inscrutable. “What if you fail?”

Shiv and Usara looked uncertainly at him.

“When you’re worn to exhaustion by trivial demands after a season or so in Kellarin?” Planir waved an airy hand. “I can’t see even the most bored apprentices joining you to spend all their time mending broken pots. What will there be to interest our more skilled mages? Will we see the rarified magic of Hadrumal’s masters cosseting sick beasts or digging out a mine collapse thanks to some fool thinking magic should save him the cost of shoring timber? What if some catastrophe does befall Kellarin and you prove unequal to the task? On the other side of the coin, what if you do drive off some disaster and everyone assumes you’ll be saving them from every peril from a cut finger up for ever more? Perhaps it’s not fear of failure that checks the Sheltya, but fear of the consequences of success.”

Planir pointed a questioning finger at Usara before turning it on Shiv. “How exactly do you plan to rid the islands of these pirates? How do you plan to reach Suthyfer? You’ve neither of you been there, so you’ll need a ship. Where will you find that? The power to guide wind and wave is all very well but you’ll still need hands to reef sails and pull on ropes or whatever it is that sailors do. They won’t be doing it for the love of Naldeth or in hopes of a better future for wizardry. Have you got enough gold to hire them?”

“We’ll find some from somewhere,” said Shiv crossly. “We want to help rescue Naldeth, Parrail and any other poor bastard who manages to stay alive. Do we have your permission to go?”

Planir studied one well-manicured fingernail. “No.”

Usara looked at him closely. “You’re forbidding us?”

“Oh, no.” Planir glanced up. “As Archmage I’m duty bound to curb dangerous ambition but I trust you, both of you.”

“So we can go?” Shiv asked with a touch of confusion.

“That’s entirely up to you.” Planir smiled. “As I said, anyone can take passage to Kellarin, at their own risk, naturally.”

Planir rose and the two mages moved apart as the Archmage walked away. “Lock the gate behind you.” He disappeared between the tall houses.

“So we’re going?” Shiv looked at Usara.

“He didn’t say we couldn’t.” The sandy-haired wizard scratched at his beard.

Shiv took a deep breath. “Right then. Where do we find a ship?”

“Zyoutessela?” suggested Usara. He looked doubtful. “Have you spent much time hanging round docks?”

“Let’s deal with one problem at a time.” Shiv looked rueful as they left the garden. “I’ve got to tell Pered before we do anything else.”

They walked in silence through the busy morning bustle of Hadrumal.

“What’s going on?” Usara’s surprise as they turned the final corner startled Shiv out of his musing. He watched, mouth half open, as two less than competent lads manoeuvred a bed through the narrow entrance of his home.

Pered appeared just as the two mages reached the doorway. He stepped aside for a grey-haired man who counted solid gold coin into his palm. “And here’s the luck back.” Pered delved into one pocket and handed the man a silver penny.

“Morning, Shiv.” The grey-haired man nodded before following his purchase to the third doors up the row.

“Master Wryen.” Shiv followed Pered into the house, Usara avidly curious behind him.

The front room was still dominated by the broad slope of Pered’s copying desk but new ribbon tied all the parchments into neat bundles now, every stage of work from the first faint lines ruled for pen and ink to bright illuminations needing only the final burnish of gold. Pered picked a slim wooden case out of a small casket full of coloured bottles and began putting pens into it. “I told you; the next time you went off on some quest for Planir or whoever, I wasn’t being left behind again.” His voice was affectionate.

Usara ducked his head on a smile.

“We’re not exactly leaving on Planir’s instructions,” Shiv admitted.

“So much the better.” Pered put a careful lid on his pens. “You’ve been talking over your tisanes about striking out on your own for long enough.” He grinned at their guilty faces. “I’ve heard all your plans for setting wizardry to rights in the kitchen while I’ve been working in here.”

A knock at the door saved Shiv from having to find a reply.

Pered opened it to a thin woman who peered inside with lively interest, adjusting her tawny headscarf with nervous fingers. “So you’re off then?”

“That’s right, Abiah.” Pered led the goodwife through to the kitchen. “So you’re welcome to whatever linens or pots you want, for coin on the table.”

“Off to Col, are you?” The woman looked at Pered. “You’ve your sister there, haven’t you?” Her eyes brightened as she looked at the exotic array of spice jars. “You won’t be wanting all them weighing down your bags. Make a nice spot of colour in my parlour, they would.”

“We’ll manage a few pennyweight of spice.” Pered’s voice was friendly but he stood protectively in front of his collection.

“Rent’s paid up till the quarter year.” Abiah shook her head, at the same time continuing to make interested inventory of the kitchen. “Must be urgent business to call you away and leave that for old Barl’s profit. He’ll have someone in here before the hearth’s cold, you do know that.”

Pered was proof against the invitation to confide in her. “If he does, you tell him to send the rent he owes us to my sister.”

Abiah laughed. “I will, at that. You’d best write down her direction for me.”

“Tell Barl I can keep an eye on him no matter where I am,” Shiv added.

Abiah looked unsure that this was a joke. “I’ll do my best to see he does right by you lads.” She gave Pered a quick hug. “I only hope we get neighbours as good as you’ve been. You know, my daughter’s getting wed at Solstice. She’s no great store in her bottom drawer so I’ll go and get her, if that’s all right.” She hugged Pered again but Shiv stepped deftly out of her reach so she had to content herself with a wave of farewell.

Pered took her through the house and closed the front door behind her. He turned. “You needn’t laugh, ’Sar. You’ll have half the hall wanting to know why you’re packing up.”

Usara set down a small portrait he’d picked up from Pered’s desk. “We’re leaving for good then.”

Pered looked at him and then at Shiv. “You don’t seriously imagine you’ll be coming back? Not after all that’s been said?”

Suthyfer, Fellaemioris Landing, 19th of Aft-Spring

Are you awake?”

“I barely slept.” Naldeth roused himself, heavy-eyed and dishevelled. “What is it?”

“Food, I imagine.” Parrail sat creased and grimy beneath the shelter of the stockade’s wall walk. He hugged his knees as the heavy gates swung open just wide enough to admit three men and a woman lugging a basket.

Naldeth looked nauseous. “I’m not hungry.”

Parrail’s look of grim determination sat oddly on his boyish face. “We have to keep our strength up, if we’re to get out of here.”

“How are we to do that?” Naldeth looked around hastily in case anyone had noticed his incautious despair but everyone else was already forming a sullen line. Parrail returned with a soft loaf of bread tucked under his arm, hands occupied with a slab of yellow cheese and a succulently meaty haunch. “This is what they were smoking. It’s some beast from the woods.”

“Ugly as an unwed maid but good eating,” a voice above them remarked. Startled, they looked up to see a pirate on the parapet. He nodded a cordial greeting. “We don’t do so badly.”

Naldeth and Parrail exchanged a wary glance and applied themselves to their food.

“You two with your soft hands and new-bought clothes, I don’t reckon you’ve gone hungry too often.” The pirate raised his voice and caught the eye of three lads huddled some way beyond the magic wielders. “Join Muredarch and the ache of an empty belly’ll be but a memory, my oath on it.”

“Where do you hail from?” Parrail asked cautiously.

“Me?” The pirate leaned against the splintered bark of the stockade. “A village called Gostrand, three days up the Dalas from Inglis and just where the hills reach high enough to keep your feet out of the floods.”

“You’re a long way from home.” This wasn’t the Gidestan who’d dragged them out of the hold the day before, Naldeth realised.

“Fifty times richer than I’d be on my deathbed if I’d stayed. A man in Muredarch’s crew sees full value for his work.” The pirate gave the three youths another significant look. “I’d had enough of breaking my back for whatever pittance some silk-gowned bastard in Inglis would pay for a year’s digging, and of watching him sell it off down the coast for ten coin in gold for every silver he paid for it.”

Sudden activity drowned out the man’s words; bellowed commands, obliging shouts answering and the thud and crash of casks and bales outside the stockade. Parrail nudged Naldeth and nodded towards a ladder that another pirate was setting firm in the trampled ground so the prisoners could get on to the wall walk. Naldeth looked doubtfully at the scholar but followed him up.

The looted contents of the Tang had been piled beneath rough shelters of sailcloth and raw lumber in the open space in front of the stockade. Muredarch surveyed the booty, strolling along in a scarlet linen shirt over black breeches, gold chains braided around his waist and catching the sun. A dark-haired woman in dull green walked at his heels, a ledger cradled in one arm, pen poised.

Muredarch’s whistle carried clearly across the encampment and summoned women and pirates who’d been busy about the scattered tents and huts.

“Can you hear what he’s saying?” Parrail asked Naldeth in a low tone.

Naldeth shook his head.

“It’s all written up, so there can’t be no quarrelling,” said the pirate with approval. “Them as drew the tail end lots last time around step up first.”

A man and woman waited for Muredarch’s nod before taking a bolt of cloth and a barrel. The woman in green made a note in her ledger as the man wheeled the heavy barrel carefully away, his companion balancing the cloth on her shoulder. Both were smiling broadly. The next man stopped to speak to Muredarch before departing with a heavy casket whose rope handles strained at the weight within it.

“That’ll be my uncle’s tools,” said the lad glumly. “And my apprenticeship gone with them.”

“Swear your oath to Muredarch and earn something to trade for them.” Another pirate came up, a saturnine man with scars on his forearms both long healed and freshly red. “Indentured to your uncle? No masters here, my lad, to take all the coin and begrudge you half the pay they promised you. Anyway, I wouldn’t go back to a journeyman’s full day rate.” He laughed and flourished a lavishly beringed hand marred by filthy nails. “I earn thrice the coin in half the time!”

“You’d be Tormalin, by your accent,” Naldeth commented cautiously.

The pirate looked at him. “Savorgan bred. What’s it to you?”

Naldeth shrugged. “Nothing, just making conversation.”

The pirate turned back to the apprentice lad. “You’ve got an answer for Muredarch yet?”

The lad looked scared. “I’m not sure.”

“You’ll be asked once the shares are made.” The pirate nodded at the patient knot of people waiting with pails and pannikins as barrels of salt fish and dried peas were broached. The woman in green had joined a sandy-haired pirate who was opening a succession of small bottles and flagons. He took a cautious taste of one before holding it up. “Green oil.”

A woman raised her hand and hurried forward to take it. Spiced vinegar and mustard oil were claimed with similar alacrity but the woman in green waved away a man wanting a jar of physic oil. The sandy-haired pirate rinsed his mouth from a waterskin at his belt and spat before continuing his sampling.

“Who’s she?” Naldeth watched as a growing selection of condiments and luxuries were stacked at the woman’s feet.

“Ingella.” The scarred pirate sounded wary. “Muredarch’s woman.”

The woman looked around and shouted to a grey-headed man in the rags of a sailor’s breeches. His feet were bare, lash marks criss-crossing his naked back. He flinched as if he expected to be hit when the woman pointed to her new possessions.

“That’s your lot if you don’t take the oath,” the pirate commented with friendly concern. “Every man’s slave and no man’s friend.”

Parrail tugged at Naldeth’s sleeve and they edged away along the wall walk. “What are you going to do?”

“Swear, I suppose,” the mage whispered uneasily.

Parrail paled beneath the dirt on his face. “It doesn’t bother you, being forsworn?”

“I don’t suppose Raeponin will hold it against me.” Naldeth’s feeble attempt at a smile failed.

A new flurry of activity caught everyone’s attention. A burly pirate was dragging a youth up from the shoreline. The lad tried to hold on to his unlaced breeches but lost his grip and stumbled as they fell down around his ankles. He was pulled along regardless, naked buttocks pale in the sun, humiliation burning his face scarlet.

His captor dumped him prone before Muredarch, expression eloquent of outrage even if the gusting wind snatched his words away. Muredarch listened with close attention and then turned the lad over with a booted toe, bending over to talk to the cowering youth.

“Which hand will it be?” chuckled the Tormalin pirate.

“What’s he done?” asked Parrail.

“Shat in the wrong place.” The pirate sucked condemnatory teeth. “Muredarch says no one’s to foul the sound. You drop your breeches where the tide’ll clean the rocks or that’s what you’ll get.”

A heavyset man came up, shirtless beneath a buff jerkin and swinging a five-stranded whip. Parrail recognised him as the one who’d nailed Gede to his own mast and winced as the lad was stripped of his shirt and tied to an upright spar planted down by the water. Muredarch held up a hand for everyone to see. It was the four-fingered hand, prompting a general murmur of approval.

The Tormalin pirate nodded. “That’ll learn the lad without crippling him.”

But the man with the whip still set to with a will, barbed lashes ripping into the boy’s skin, blood spattering in all directions. Naldeth and Parrail both turned away, sickened, but saw more pirates had come into the stockade to chat apparently idly with their captives.

“Do you suppose many turn pirate just for the chance to dress like whoremasters on market day?” The mage watched a bald-headed pirate in an incongruously lace-trimmed shirt advancing on a meek-looking girl.

Parrail watched the raider’s expansive gestures, doubtless offering all manner of inducements. All smiles, he wasn’t about to let the girl escape him, rough fingers stroking her hair and her cheek.

“Muredarch did say rape was forbidden.” Parrail looked sick as the girl’s feeble protests waned. She stood mute with misery as the pirate put a proprietorial arm around her shoulder.

“Holding a lass down and ripping up her petticoats, maybe.” Naldeth rubbed his hands together as if his fingers pained him. “Scaring some poor poult into laying herself down seems allowed.”

A ship’s bell rang and the pirates amiably socialising inside the stockade abruptly changed tack.

“Down the ladder,” ordered the Tormalin on the wall walk, sharp face brooking no argument. Naldeth and Parrail hastily obeyed, hurrying to the back of the huddle of captives as the gates opened wide.

Muredarch stood in the centre, his smile welcoming, his height forbidding, eagled-eyed henchmen stern on either side. “You first.”

He summoned a middle-aged man nervously twisting a kerchief between his hands. “I’m just a miller, your honour,” he blurted out.

Muredarch nodded. “And now we’ve got wheat, thanks to your ship. Will you grind it for us? I’ve a fancy for fresh bread after a season and a half of twice-baked biscuit.”

The miller’s face creased with confusion. “I can’t think what’s best—”

“Take all the time you need.” Muredarch laid a reassuring hand on the cowering man’s shoulder before nodding to a flat-faced brute with tattoos all down one arm. “In the meantime, you can start paying your debts.”

The tattooed pirate held the miller fast while the man who’d flogged the boy stripped him of gown, shirt, socks and boots. The tattooed pirate knotted a thick leather strap securely around the miller’s neck and, using it as a handhold, hauled him away. “If you won’t grind the wheat, you can carry the sacks, old fool.”

“Let me know when you’ve made your mind up,” Muredarch called genially before pointing at the next man who met his eye.

The erstwhile sailor ducked his head in a hasty bow. “I’ll swear but I won’t go raiding.”

“Fairly spoken,” said Muredarch in an oddly formal tone. He drew himself up to his full height. “Do you swear to obey me in all things, to treat all so sworn as your brothers and sisters in oath? Do you put your fate in my hands according to the vow we all trust in?”

“Yes.” The sailor managed a strangled whisper.

“I so swear,” the whip man prompted with a ferocious scowl.

“I so swear.”

Muredarch looked at his new recruit for a long contemplative moment. “Go see Ingella. Set your mark or your thumb to your name in the muster book and she’ll sort you out a pitch.”

The next few all swore the oath, some with visible reluctance, two women stammering through their fear to insist they wouldn’t take part in any piracy. Muredarch treated them both with exquisite courtesy. The defiant few were stripped and either dragged off to some toil or thrown to the back of the stockade. Naldeth and Parrail watched glumly as pirates came to pick over the heap of clothes and boots on offer. Some of the apprentices who’d sworn Muredarch’s oath with suspicious enthusiasm joined them.

“Do you swear to obey me in all things, to treat all so sworn as your brothers and sisters in oath? Do you put your fate in my hands according to the vow we all trust in?” Muredarch was smiling at the woman who’d nearly been dropped in the water the day before.

“I so—” She broke off and swallowed hard. ”I so—” She tugged at the neck of the chemise below her bodice but the collar was neither high nor tight. “I so—” The woman coughed, face scarlet as she choked. She fell to her hands and knees, struggling for breath as Muredarch looked down impassively.

“Mama!” Her daughter screamed and would have run to her but the tattooed pirate caught her, one broad hand slapping over her mouth.

The woman collapsed, panting like a stricken animal, lips fading to a deathly blue.

The remaining prisoners stood frozen with shock but few of the raiders, men and women alike, spared more than a passing, regretful shake of their heads.

Parrail’s eyes were wide with horror as he nudged Naldeth. “Artifice,” he mouthed silently.

Naldeth was trembling, fists clenched, sweat beading his forehead.

“It’s her own fault.” Muredarch explained in conversational tones. “She tried to take the oath without meaning it. Oh, didn’t I say? We’ll have no falsehoods here. Try it and you’ll die like this poor fool. Think on that before you decide.” He smiled at the dead woman’s daughter whom the tattooed pirate released to sob out her heart over the corpse.

After that, the prisoners gave their oath or refusal with terrified speed and, finally, there was no escape for Parrail or Naldeth.

“I cannot swear to you.” The scholar shakily pre-empted Muredarch’s question.

The pirate chief assessed the scholar with merciless eyes, examining him from head to toe. “You might like to reconsider. Ingella tells me she wants a clerk.” He nodded and Parrail was handed over to the tattooed pirate and the lash man. They stripped him with ungentle hands and flung him into the dank shadow of the parapet where the other prisoners cowered.

He’d barely got his breath back when Naldeth landed on the trampled grass beside him. The mage winced, easing the leather collar away from the weal it had scored on his neck. “Bastard didn’t give me a chance to stand up.”

“On your feet.” The tattooed pirate surveyed the cowering prisoners. “You’re nameless and friendless and that’s how you’ll be unless you swear to Muredarch. You take any order you’re given and you’ll eat. No work, no food. Right, you can start by gathering firewood.”

Parrail reached out to help Naldeth up but a vicious stick smacked his hand away.

“If he can’t stand, he can sit there till he starves.” It was the Gidestan pirate, no hint of friendship in his eyes now. “It’s every slave for himself, soft hands and all.”

Parrail retreated, hugging his arm to himself.

Naldeth watched in wary silence until the Gidestan advanced on the dead woman’s daughter who was vainly trying to preserve her modesty in her torn shift, the mark of the tattooed pirate’s hand still scarlet on her ashen face.

“If they’re using Artifice, we have to let Guinalle know,” the wizard whispered urgently to Parrail.

The scholar’s face was tight with pain. “I’ll try tonight.” He winced. “But I think that bastard broke my wrist.”