Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis) Read online

  Jilseth could only be grateful that Planir had been able to drive that devastating power down into the bedrock deep below the corsair harbour. That he had cast it out into the seas surrounding the remote island and hurled it into the winds that scoured the Aldabreshin sky. The destruction of the raiders’ island wasn’t so great a calamity, not compared with the catastrophe that could have befallen so many of Hadrumal’s greatest mages and so many of her friends.

  ‘There’s no trace of any other ensorcelled artefacts sunk to the sea floor.’ Velindre ran a thoughtful hand through her close-cropped golden hair. ‘Is there any way that the renegade could have sent some of his loot to an ally?’

  ‘We don’t know that he had any allies in Mandarkin or anywhere else.’ Mellitha drummed impeccably manicured fingers on the rosewood table top. She looked at Jilseth. ‘Have our esteemed colleagues in Hadrumal made any progress in learning just what his homeland’s magical traditions might be?’

  ‘Not beyond confirming that Solura’s Orders of Wizardry condemn all Mandarkin’s mages as venal and as violent as Anskal proved,’ Jilseth replied.

  ‘His ambitions went beyond mere wealth,’ Velindre argued. ‘Why else would he gather a circle of Aldabreshi mageborn to train in his own tradition? If all he sought was gold, he could have gathered ten times such riches by simply lying to the corsairs about which of their treasures had some wizardry bound within them. The Archipelagans have no way to know. They would have handed over whatever he pointed to, repelled by even the suspicion of magic’s contaminating influence.’

  ‘Perhaps but we still have no reason to think that any artefacts escaped us,’ Mellitha said firmly. She gestured and a tall oil lamp obediently glowed to relieve the gloom deepening in the long room.

  Now Velindre turned to Jilseth. ‘How are Hadrumal’s own investigations into the Mandarkin’s loot progressing?’

  ‘No better than our attempts here today,’ Jilseth saw nothing to be gained by dissembling.

  ‘I never came across any such things, not in all my time in the Archipelago.’ Velindre scowled at the arm-ring.

  Jilseth wondered why the magewoman took it so sorely amiss that she hadn’t encountered any trinkets or jewelled ornaments imbued with spells, when she had been travelling the Archipelago in the guise of a eunuch scholar a handful of years before.

  ‘Why should you?’ Mellitha challenged Velindre. ‘You weren’t looking. Besides, if you had admitted to sensing magic within some warlord’s treasure, you’d have seen your own flayed skin nailed to a gatepost before you died.’

  Jilseth shuddered at the thought of the Aldabreshin hatred of magic; so absolute that such atrocities were deemed essential to preserve the purity of the omens of earth and sky which governed every Archipelagan’s life.

  Had the past year’s events given any Aldabreshin warlord pause for thought? Had the Archipelagans realised their savagery was a two-edged sword? With no wizards to call on, they could have no defences against a mage as vicious as Anskal.

  Velindre scowled, still brooding. ‘I might have noticed ensorcelled trinkets being passed from hand to hand if the art of crafting such things wasn’t so scorned in Hadrumal.’

  Mellitha looked at Jilseth. ‘I take it the Soluran Orders of Wizardry are still refusing to share what lore they hold on such things?’

  Jilseth nodded. ‘As long as Hadrumal refuses to share the secrets of quintessential magic.’

  Velindre folded her arms. ‘If you and Merenel haven’t come here with any news, you must have come with questions from the Archmage. What does Planir want?’

  ‘He asks what you know of the current situation in the Archipelago, of the consequences of last For-Autumn’s events.’

  When they had arrived though, the senior magewomen had immediately sought their assistance in making a nexus in hopes of prying open the gilt and crystal arm-ring’s secrets. Jilseth and Merenel had both been just as eager to try.

  ‘The winds are still unsettled in that reach of the Nahik domain and are likely to remain so.’ Velindre gazed towards the long windows, as though she could see across the hundreds of leagues to the Archipelago. ‘Without the corsair island on the western fringes several important sea lanes are now left unshielded from approaching storms.’

  ‘The sea currents are similarly reshaping themselves and everything else under the waves,’ Mellitha added. ‘What should concern Planir is we’ve seen no ships sailing northward from the Miris domain since the corsair island’s destruction, or passing through the Miris islands from anywhere further south. While we wouldn’t expect to see Archipelagan galleys risking the winter sailing from the islands to the mainland, the usual trading between the warlords’ domains should have continued.’

  ‘Do you think that the galleys and triremes will sail north again once they have got the measure of the shifts in the currents and winds?’ Jilseth watched the scrying spell fading to leave clear water glossed with the rainbow sheen of the perfume’s oils. ‘Such changes are a natural consequence of the corsair island’s loss even if such destruction itself was magewrought.’

  ‘The Aldabreshi won’t make any such distinction,’ Velindre asserted, ‘not as long as they see the omens and portents around those islands thrown into chaos.’

  Jilseth pictured the map which Velindre had once shown her, of the northernmost islands and the two neighbouring domains whose sea lanes were the conduit for all trade between the mainland and the Archipelago.

  ‘What does this mean for the Khusro and Jagai warlords?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Now Mellitha sounded just as affronted as Velindre had done earlier. ‘The Aldabreshi have managed to convince the Relshazri to shun any dealings with wizardry.’

  ‘Still?’ Jilseth knew that the locals here had sought to placate the Archipelagans after the shocking news from the south had caused initial panic among the galleys and triremes tied up along the dockside. After a full season had passed, she had imagined that this city of traders and merchants would resume their pragmatic and profitable ways, turning magecraft to their own advantage as they always had.

  If Mellitha didn’t use her wizardry directly in her lucrative business of collecting taxes for the Relshazri magistrates, her magebirth was no secret after three decades living in the city. Indeed, as she had cheerfully told Jilseth, her underlings tactfully let newcomers know that they were dealing with a wizard, in case those optimists fondly believed that a second set of ledgers or some concealed stash of coin could escape her mage-enhanced eyes. As a result, Mellitha rarely had to work any actual spells to uncover such deceits.

  Velindre traded openly on her wizardly skills, surveying the skies and winds and selling her knowledge of incoming storms and sea states to mariners charting a course towards the Archipelago or heading eastward across the Gulf of Lescar to Tormalin’s ports.

  ‘No ship’s captain sailing anywhere from Col to Toremal who has dealings with the Aldabreshi dares to be seen in my company.’ The blond magewoman scowled.

  Mellitha sighed. ‘We haven’t been idle. Tell Planir that we’ve sent ciphered letters to Kheda by a range of different routes. Though I cannot say how long it will be before we get a reply. Such a letter must pass through ten or twenty hands to conceal its origin and its destination.’

  ‘Planir will know who this Kheda is?’ Jilseth knew that was a foolish question; of course the Archmage would know, but she didn’t and she was curious, having heard this Archipelagan mentioned a few times in this house. He had been involved Velindre’s own mysterious and perilous travels in the Archipelago some years before.

  Mellitha smiled with wry understanding and answered Jilseth’s unspoken query. ‘Kheda is that rarest of Aldabreshi, one who understands that magic is no more good nor evil than any other tool or authority. What matters is the use which it’s put to. He travels between the Archipelago and the mainland, trading in knowledge and practical solutions to common problems. He believes that hostility between the islanders and the norther
ners stems from ignorance more than anything else.’

  Velindre snorted. ‘It would be as well to remind Planir—’

  All three women looked around as the door opened and a chill draught prompted a combative glow in the charcoal brazier set between the table and a trio of silken settles further down the room.

  ‘Forgive me.’ Merenel stood in the doorway, a blush of embarrassment on her cheekbones. ‘You’re quite right, Madam Esterlin—’ she bowed to Mellitha ‘—the more we know of the Caladhrian boy Hosh’s experience, the better our chances of understanding the spells crafted into that arm-ring. I was wondering if Jilseth and I should pay a festival visit to Halferan Manor to ask him what he recalls.’

  Jilseth nodded in swift agreement. ‘To see if something he says chimes with what little we’ve learned so far.’ She would also be glad of an excuse to see Lady Zurenne and Lady Ilysh, to see how they were faring as they ruled their barony in most unCaladhrian fashion.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Mellitha beckoned Merenel to the table. ‘But first, we have thought of another approach. If we three ward off the other elements, Jilseth may discern the earth magic bound within it more clearly.’

  Jilseth looked across the obdurate arm-ring as her friend sat down. ‘This could well show us what questions to ask Hosh.’

  Even with her new and untried strengths, she didn’t really think that she would be able to penetrate this artefact’s mysteries with some further clue. Perhaps the Caladhrian boy would hold some key, all unknowing.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Halferan Manor, Caladhria

  Winter Solstice Festival, 3rd Evening

  ‘MIN GARTAS.’ THE balding demesne reeve opened his purse with fingers stained and scarred from working alongside the manor’s craftsmen as they restored their village.

  ‘...fourteen, fifteen and sixteen.’

  Master Rauffe carefully counted each silver mark aloud before these witnesses and then wrote the tally in his ledger.

  ‘Our most sincere thanks, Master Gartas,’ Ilysh said warmly.

  ‘And our admiration,’ Zurenne added quickly. ‘You must have worked long days and most diligently.’

  Truth be told, she refused to believe that this was a tenth of whatever Gartas had earned on his own account since autumn’s equinox. Of necessity Zurenne had taught herself the intricacies of the barony’s finances since her husband’s death and during Corrain’s absences pursuing corsairs. This much silver must be nearer to a fifth of Gartas’s share of the trading dues he’d collected through this past quarter year. The tenth-day market in Halferan village was still barely worth the name and no merchants or casual peddlers had passed this way since the turn of For-Winter.

  She saw the same realisation in Ilysh’s eyes. They had educated themselves together, defying all tradition which insisted that a manor’s accounting was none of a noblewoman’s concern.

  ‘Athim Sirstin.’ The tall man stooped to set his coins down on the table, the breadth of his shoulders as impressive as his height. Softly spoken as he was, there was no mistaking the pride in his voice at being able to make this payment.

  ‘Twelve silver marks.’ Master Rauffe recorded the total with brisk pen strokes.

  ‘Our thanks.’ Ilysh smiled with sincere gratitude.

  Zurenne echoed her daughter, even as she calculated that the blacksmith’s skills would have earned him the coin to pay at least half as much again in a year of peace and plenty.

  ‘It’s my honour, my lady.’ Sirstin favoured Lysha with a fatherly grin. ‘My lady Esnina.’

  Neeny giggled as the smith bowed to her, still pink-cheeked with elation at being so honoured. Zurenne spared her younger daughter a smile, privately surprised that boredom or weariness hadn’t yet overcome the little girl’s earlier promises to behave.

  ‘Our thanks for your son’s service.’ Sirstin’s lad Linset was the most youthful of the barony’s guards currently accompanying Corrain to the Duryea parliament.

  Zurenne spoke loudly enough for her words to reach those in the hall below the dais. Let them remember that their tithe would be spent feeding and equipping the troopers who defended Halferan’s roads and herds from any villains still seeking easy pickings after the barony’s recent troubles.

  ‘Tye Fitrel.’ The old man climbed stiffly up onto the dais, a surprisingly fat purse in his weathered hand, and scars of swordplay visible across his knuckles.

  ‘Fair festival.’ Zurenne greeted the veteran guardsman warmly.

  ‘Master Fitrel, you are most welcome to our feast.’ Lysha’s eyes shone with equal gratitude for the old man’s stalwart service.

  Neeny bounced forward in her chair. ‘Sergeant!’

  ‘Not any more, moppet, I’m retired. Now, here’s something for your festival.’ Fitrel opened the purse to take out a little toy rabbit, fashioned from the fur of the real coneys which he raised in pens around his house.

  Corrain had helped the old warrior rebuild his holding on the edge of the village across the brook. Comparing the manor’s newly drawn tithe map with one surviving from the old archive Zurenne had noticed shifting boundaries had favoured the old man significantly.

  She didn’t begrudge him a finger-width of the ground. Fitrel hadn’t only rallied old men and beardless boys to the manor’s defence this past year. A generation ago, barely older than Lysha was now, Corrain had been bereft of both parents. Fitrel had taken him under his roof. Zurenne had come to realise just how much Halferan owed to the loyalty which the old man had instilled in the guardsman.

  As Neeny squealed with delight over her new toy, stroking the little rabbit’s stitched face, Fitrel chuckled with affection.

  ‘Four silver make a gold star and one silver mark over.’ Master Rauffe recorded the tally of coin in the correct columns.

  Zurenne saw that this second strong box was nearly full, soon to join the first which Kusint had already stowed behind the iron gate barring the stair to the cellars beneath the muniment room.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Fitrel.’ The red-headed captain echoed Ilysh.

  ‘I plan on staying retired.’ The old man looked at Kusint with a glint in his eye. ‘Don’t give me cause to come back to the barrack hall to show you how to keep your troopers properly harnessed.’

  ‘You can sleep easy,’ Kusint assured him with a grin.

  ‘Once I’ve got a meal and some ale in my belly.’ Fitrel nodded to them all and went on his way

  Zurenne saw that someone had sent word to Doratine that the old sergeant was the last waiting to pay his tithe. Trestles had already been set up, supporting long tabletops. Now kitchen lackeys and maidservants appeared at the far end of the hall carrying platters and bowls. The demesne folk cheered, breaking off their conversations around the broad fireplaces newly built on either side of the hall to replace the old-fashioned central hearth.

  Zurenne noted few roast birds or haunches of mutton and pork amid the festival bounty. With Halferan’s herds and flocks so sorely reduced, the young bullocks and rams usually supplying tender, flavoursome meat would see an unexpected spring, to be fattened up to a greater weight or to be sold on to neighbouring baronies.

  This feast offered a preponderance of stews; the best way to cook the tough cuts from older, barren heifers and ewes earmarked for autumn slaughter, not worth the fodder to see them through winter. Fortunately Doratine knew how to render such meat palatable with spices and long simmering. Zurenne also saw plenty of pies doubtless filled with bottled fruit salvaged from the back shelves of storerooms across the barony, mixed with the last shreds of meat stripped from the carcasses.

  The dishes were interspersed with decorative evergreen garlands, the better to fill the tables. Zurenne also saw bowls of nuts and rounds of cheeses and wrinkled apples from the hay barn lofts; humble fare normally never seen at a festival.

  She smiled as Halferan’s assembled tenantry and yeomen greeted their feast with loud cheers. They didn’t care that these tables weren’t laden with extravagant de
licacies. Halferan barony was renewed and a new year was opening and that was reason enough for celebration.

  Precious little would be left for Halferan’s hounds, Zurenne reflected, beyond bones to crack for their marrow. Still, better that the manor’s dogs went hungry instead of the household. Besides, well-fed hounds would be more inclined to doze in their kennels instead of staying alert for sneak thieves hoping to take advantage of the manor’s festival generosity.

  She turned to Kusint as Master Rauffe totted up his ledger’s columns. ‘Have any beggars knocked at the gatehouse today?

  The truly indigent could still expect a share of this feast, insofar as Halferan could afford to honour Ostrin, god of hospitality.

  ‘Just one sturdy rogue looking for a handout instead of doing a day’s work to fill his belly.’ Kusint closed the coin coffer and locked it. ‘He got a stale crust and a cup of water and then young Linset escorted him back to the high road.’

  He broke off as a louder cheer than any yet greeted the appearance of three kitchen maids carrying foaming jugs of ale in each hand.

  Zurenne heard Corrain’s name saluted with several upraised tankards. She smiled. The demesne folk should certainly be grateful. Their new baron had ridden out time and again with his newly-drilled troopers before the turn of For-Winter left the roads hock-deep in mud. They had recovered most of Halferan’s scattered herds and taken back the grain illicitly harvested by Baron Karpis’s henchmen. Now none of Halferan’s villages would go without bread for lack of wheat this winter and there was enough barley to keep the manor’s brew house and most taverns’ tuns from idleness.

  ‘My lady?’ Zurenne’s personal maid arrived at her side, offering a pewter goblet on a linen-covered silver tray.

  ‘Thank you.’ Zurenne took a sip of the darkly glinting liquid rimmed with creamy foam. She summoned up a smile to hide her desire for wine instead. This time next year, perhaps, as long as Halferan’s fortunes were sufficiently restored for such self-indulgence. ‘Raselle, take Esnina to choose something to eat, before she gets too tired.’