[page back]
The question was so vital, his heart pounded in his ears as he waited for the Oracle to frame words. Everything pivoted on Iridan’s next riddle.
“The Cosmos, by the enchanter’s will,
Is fashioned from chaos -- being woven, still.”
The meaning was convoluted, dense. Soran struggled with it. “You mean, Faunos told me the truth? The foci exist, and the Power is real? Iridan! Help me, damn you!”
“Three gems, three jewels -- of diamonds, all,
Hidden like secrets, till the heavens fall.”
They were real. Soran’s pulse quickened. “Thank you, Iridan,” he murmured. "Do you know where the foci are?”
“The ocean rolls -- not too far, nor too wide
For the jewels fore’er and e’re to hide.”
“They can be found,” Soran whispered, “but even you don’t know where they are. Damnit. Does he have the Power, Iridan? Is Faunos the One?” Silence. “Iridan! If you see all things, answer me! You know I’m not hunting him down to destroy him. We need him -- Vayal needs him, though Azhtoc would cut his own throat before he admitted it. And I need him most of all. Iridan!”
It was a long time before the Oracle answered, and the ethereal voice was almost too soft to be heard. Soran strained to make sense of it,
“Seek thou the learning ... but tarry too long
And shalt thou miss the sweetest, sweetest song.”
And then the enchanter’s web dimmed, the crystal shards seemed to lose their luster and become no more than chips of broken glass. Soran’s pulse drummed in his own ears, a cold sweat broke fromevery pore, and a restless urgency drove him out of the vault.
Time was his enemy. If he let Faunos slip through into the islands, he would be gone forever. Never in his life had Soran been driven by blind faith, but it was an animal, instinctual belief that inspired him now, sent him out of the labyrinth of the Temple of Mayat at a jog.
He left a gold piece for the priests, strapped on his weapons and sandals, and jogged on, down the steep, narrow alleyway that cut a line directly from the lower palatine to the waterfont. He knew the Incari had been in harbor last night, still undergoing repairs after the insane run she had made through the storm.
By now, Priolas would be looking for a cargo, anything that would turn a profit on the voyage back out to Ilios, Abrax, Thebes, and the islands beyond. He might load the galley with fuel oil if he were unlucky in trade, or silver and silk, sweetmeats and joss, if he had he could find the cargo. Soran prayed to any god who would lend him an ear that the Incari would still be tied up.
A few days ago he would have said it was madness to undertake such a hunting. He would have called himself a halfwit, sent for a physician. Now, he knew such truths as haunted him. He had lain with a witchboy, felt the heat of a living body, the suppleness of youth, the eagerness of his mouth, the buttery softness of his insides, as ordinary and vulnerable as any mortal man. He had seen the green fireflies in the Zehefti eyes, heard the ancient wisdom from his lips -- and had it confirmed by Iridan.
Now, Soran knew, and he was so furious with his father, his teachers, his priests, he could barely contain the wrath. If he could have laid his hands on Druyus in those moments, the high priest would have been whimpering in bloody tatters -- which was better than he deserved.
As it was, Druyus could wait. He and Mahanmec Azhtoc would have their chance to speak for themselves when the time came; and they would not speak from a position of authority, much less threat. Soran promised them this much as he strode down to the quayside, and looked for the bright, high prow of the Incari.
Luck was still with him. The galley was berthed not far along the waterfront from the alley Soran had taken down from the temple. Haunted by Faunos -- possessed and inspired by blind faith -- he jogged on along the quay, looking for faces he knew.
“Priolas!” He cupped a hand to his his mouth. “Priolas, are you aboard?”
The master mariner’s face appeared at the rail a moment later -- weather beaten, tanned bronze by sun and sea, still handsome despite the creases inspired by the elements. “Is that the witchfinder? Soran? What brings you back, my lord? We’re just finishing repairs.”
The acent of Incaria was music to the ears. As Soran came to a halt in the shade of the galley’s high side, Priolas let himself down the rope ladder, and for propriety’s sake dropped to one knee at Soran’s feet.
“Up,” Soran said at once. “You know how I despise the bowing and scraping.”
The man's dark brown eyes glittered with amusement. “And I’m glad it does, or I’d have worn my knees out years ago! What can I do for you, Soran, my old friend?”
“Is she seaworthy?” Soran was looking for damage anywhere on the ship, and not seeing it. “Can you sail right now, this moment? Tomorrow will be too late.”
“We’re taking on stores.” Priolas caught the sun-streaked mass of his hair as the wind tossed it into his face, and cocked his head curiously at Soran. “What hornet’s got into your ear?”
“Are you for hire?” Soran gestured at the galley. “You haven’t taken on a cargo?”
“Not yet.” Priolas folded his big arms on his chest. “Where are we heading this time?”
“I’m not sure.” Soran’s teeth closed on his lip. “A galley shoved off from the gypsy beach, early this morning. I didn’t see it leave, and I have no idea which ship she is, but a vile little rodent named Keffek told me she left carrying a passenger. I wondered if harborside gossip is as fast and dirty as it used to be.”
Priolas chuckled. “And do I know what ship floated off just as your soldiers torched the ruins of Zeheft this morning?” He gave Soran a rueful look. “There’s an angel who guards your back, my lord. You have the luck of the damned -- I never knew a man so lucky.” He arched both brows at Soran. “It was the Quezelus, and you’re fortunate again. The only reason Senmet pulled her up on the beach with the water gypsies was a sudden need to look at the steering oar. The lines broke -- and better they should do it in safe, gentle waters than halfway across the Myrmidae.”
Soran could barely believe his good fortune. Priolas and Senmet had been running in convoy for years. “The little maggot, Keffek, knew of only one ship leaving from the beach this morning.”
“And so do I. The Quezelus shipped out alone.” Priolas stood aside. “Are you coming aboard now? I don’t see your baggage, nor a bodyslave.”
“I’ve one last thing to do,” Soran said grimly. “You’ll be off on the evening tide, no question of it -- and you’re under my hire as of this moment. You go where I send you. Agreed?”
“I’d be glad to,” Priolas mused, “but if it’s the Quezelus you want -- or more rightly, the passenger Senmet took aboard -- I can tell you, we’re headed for Thebes. He's loaded with shipnails, and pottery out of the Iliosian kilns, so he’ll be low in the water and running like a lame old buffalo. You want to catch him?”
“Possible?” Soran licked his lips.
Priolas gave him a reproachful look. “I know the route he’ll sail. He’ll be trying to avoid pirate waters -- you know as well as I do what it’s like between here and Thebes! As soon as you get out beyond the Myrmidae, you’re fair game. The only ships the bastards leave be are warships.” He nodded slowly. “We can catch him long before he gets to Thebes, so long as we get out of Vayal on tonight’s tide. Miss it, ride the morning tide out, and I’ll make you no promises.”
“I’ll be aboard before sundown,” Soran promised, “but if anything stops me -- don’t wait for me, Priolas. Get after the Quezelus, get to her before she makes Thebes. And have Senmet turn her around, bring her back to Vayal … without letting his passenger know why. Mark me well here: his passenger is a young Zeheftman. Very beautiful, very intelligent, educated. His name is Faunos. Don’t let him know where the ship is headed. He’ll know you’ve turned around, but have Senmet tell him some tale about rendezvousing with another vessel to pick up another passenger before he heads on to Thebes. Understand?”
The mariner dropped a bow before him. “Understood … and if I may say it, Soran -- my lord -- you’re making even less sense than usual.”
At last Soran indulged himself in a chuckle. He caught Priolas’s wrist in a warrior clasp and then turned away toward the alleys which ran back up to the palatine. “Trust me. You’ll be well paid, and I’ll be aboard before the tide turns in any case.”
Then he ran, hugging any patch of shade he could find as he took the alley back up to the levels where the nobility lived -- and where he might easily have bought a villa for himself, for Faunos. Those days might never be, but of one thing he was determined.
Faunos Phinneas Aeson was not going to simply vanish, taking with him everything Soran had ever desired, and any slender chance of survival Vayal still had.
“The Cosmos, by the enchanter’s will,
Is fashioned from chaos -- being woven, still.”
The meaning was convoluted, dense. Soran struggled with it. “You mean, Faunos told me the truth? The foci exist, and the Power is real? Iridan! Help me, damn you!”
“Three gems, three jewels -- of diamonds, all,
Hidden like secrets, till the heavens fall.”
They were real. Soran’s pulse quickened. “Thank you, Iridan,” he murmured. "Do you know where the foci are?”
“The ocean rolls -- not too far, nor too wide
For the jewels fore’er and e’re to hide.”
“They can be found,” Soran whispered, “but even you don’t know where they are. Damnit. Does he have the Power, Iridan? Is Faunos the One?” Silence. “Iridan! If you see all things, answer me! You know I’m not hunting him down to destroy him. We need him -- Vayal needs him, though Azhtoc would cut his own throat before he admitted it. And I need him most of all. Iridan!”
It was a long time before the Oracle answered, and the ethereal voice was almost too soft to be heard. Soran strained to make sense of it,
“Seek thou the learning ... but tarry too long
And shalt thou miss the sweetest, sweetest song.”
And then the enchanter’s web dimmed, the crystal shards seemed to lose their luster and become no more than chips of broken glass. Soran’s pulse drummed in his own ears, a cold sweat broke fromevery pore, and a restless urgency drove him out of the vault.
Time was his enemy. If he let Faunos slip through into the islands, he would be gone forever. Never in his life had Soran been driven by blind faith, but it was an animal, instinctual belief that inspired him now, sent him out of the labyrinth of the Temple of Mayat at a jog.
He left a gold piece for the priests, strapped on his weapons and sandals, and jogged on, down the steep, narrow alleyway that cut a line directly from the lower palatine to the waterfont. He knew the Incari had been in harbor last night, still undergoing repairs after the insane run she had made through the storm.
By now, Priolas would be looking for a cargo, anything that would turn a profit on the voyage back out to Ilios, Abrax, Thebes, and the islands beyond. He might load the galley with fuel oil if he were unlucky in trade, or silver and silk, sweetmeats and joss, if he had he could find the cargo. Soran prayed to any god who would lend him an ear that the Incari would still be tied up.
A few days ago he would have said it was madness to undertake such a hunting. He would have called himself a halfwit, sent for a physician. Now, he knew such truths as haunted him. He had lain with a witchboy, felt the heat of a living body, the suppleness of youth, the eagerness of his mouth, the buttery softness of his insides, as ordinary and vulnerable as any mortal man. He had seen the green fireflies in the Zehefti eyes, heard the ancient wisdom from his lips -- and had it confirmed by Iridan.
Now, Soran knew, and he was so furious with his father, his teachers, his priests, he could barely contain the wrath. If he could have laid his hands on Druyus in those moments, the high priest would have been whimpering in bloody tatters -- which was better than he deserved.
As it was, Druyus could wait. He and Mahanmec Azhtoc would have their chance to speak for themselves when the time came; and they would not speak from a position of authority, much less threat. Soran promised them this much as he strode down to the quayside, and looked for the bright, high prow of the Incari.
Luck was still with him. The galley was berthed not far along the waterfront from the alley Soran had taken down from the temple. Haunted by Faunos -- possessed and inspired by blind faith -- he jogged on along the quay, looking for faces he knew.
“Priolas!” He cupped a hand to his his mouth. “Priolas, are you aboard?”
The master mariner’s face appeared at the rail a moment later -- weather beaten, tanned bronze by sun and sea, still handsome despite the creases inspired by the elements. “Is that the witchfinder? Soran? What brings you back, my lord? We’re just finishing repairs.”
The acent of Incaria was music to the ears. As Soran came to a halt in the shade of the galley’s high side, Priolas let himself down the rope ladder, and for propriety’s sake dropped to one knee at Soran’s feet.
“Up,” Soran said at once. “You know how I despise the bowing and scraping.”
The man's dark brown eyes glittered with amusement. “And I’m glad it does, or I’d have worn my knees out years ago! What can I do for you, Soran, my old friend?”
“Is she seaworthy?” Soran was looking for damage anywhere on the ship, and not seeing it. “Can you sail right now, this moment? Tomorrow will be too late.”
“We’re taking on stores.” Priolas caught the sun-streaked mass of his hair as the wind tossed it into his face, and cocked his head curiously at Soran. “What hornet’s got into your ear?”
“Are you for hire?” Soran gestured at the galley. “You haven’t taken on a cargo?”
“Not yet.” Priolas folded his big arms on his chest. “Where are we heading this time?”
“I’m not sure.” Soran’s teeth closed on his lip. “A galley shoved off from the gypsy beach, early this morning. I didn’t see it leave, and I have no idea which ship she is, but a vile little rodent named Keffek told me she left carrying a passenger. I wondered if harborside gossip is as fast and dirty as it used to be.”
Priolas chuckled. “And do I know what ship floated off just as your soldiers torched the ruins of Zeheft this morning?” He gave Soran a rueful look. “There’s an angel who guards your back, my lord. You have the luck of the damned -- I never knew a man so lucky.” He arched both brows at Soran. “It was the Quezelus, and you’re fortunate again. The only reason Senmet pulled her up on the beach with the water gypsies was a sudden need to look at the steering oar. The lines broke -- and better they should do it in safe, gentle waters than halfway across the Myrmidae.”
Soran could barely believe his good fortune. Priolas and Senmet had been running in convoy for years. “The little maggot, Keffek, knew of only one ship leaving from the beach this morning.”
“And so do I. The Quezelus shipped out alone.” Priolas stood aside. “Are you coming aboard now? I don’t see your baggage, nor a bodyslave.”
“I’ve one last thing to do,” Soran said grimly. “You’ll be off on the evening tide, no question of it -- and you’re under my hire as of this moment. You go where I send you. Agreed?”
“I’d be glad to,” Priolas mused, “but if it’s the Quezelus you want -- or more rightly, the passenger Senmet took aboard -- I can tell you, we’re headed for Thebes. He's loaded with shipnails, and pottery out of the Iliosian kilns, so he’ll be low in the water and running like a lame old buffalo. You want to catch him?”
“Possible?” Soran licked his lips.
Priolas gave him a reproachful look. “I know the route he’ll sail. He’ll be trying to avoid pirate waters -- you know as well as I do what it’s like between here and Thebes! As soon as you get out beyond the Myrmidae, you’re fair game. The only ships the bastards leave be are warships.” He nodded slowly. “We can catch him long before he gets to Thebes, so long as we get out of Vayal on tonight’s tide. Miss it, ride the morning tide out, and I’ll make you no promises.”
“I’ll be aboard before sundown,” Soran promised, “but if anything stops me -- don’t wait for me, Priolas. Get after the Quezelus, get to her before she makes Thebes. And have Senmet turn her around, bring her back to Vayal … without letting his passenger know why. Mark me well here: his passenger is a young Zeheftman. Very beautiful, very intelligent, educated. His name is Faunos. Don’t let him know where the ship is headed. He’ll know you’ve turned around, but have Senmet tell him some tale about rendezvousing with another vessel to pick up another passenger before he heads on to Thebes. Understand?”
The mariner dropped a bow before him. “Understood … and if I may say it, Soran -- my lord -- you’re making even less sense than usual.”
At last Soran indulged himself in a chuckle. He caught Priolas’s wrist in a warrior clasp and then turned away toward the alleys which ran back up to the palatine. “Trust me. You’ll be well paid, and I’ll be aboard before the tide turns in any case.”
Then he ran, hugging any patch of shade he could find as he took the alley back up to the levels where the nobility lived -- and where he might easily have bought a villa for himself, for Faunos. Those days might never be, but of one thing he was determined.
Faunos Phinneas Aeson was not going to simply vanish, taking with him everything Soran had ever desired, and any slender chance of survival Vayal still had.
Turn page to Chapter Nineteen...
Return to Chapter Seventeen...
