He felt as if he gazed out of the window beside Harana when she first saw the Anthorian lords ride through the gates of Atonir, when she first caught sight of the dark figure of Bolythak and loved him. He was there, too, when she disguised herself as a man so that she could leave her women’s apartments and go hunting with the Anthorians and the Relanese lords. He felt her astonishment that some of the Anthorian lords were trousered ladies, and her resolve to escape forever from the palace apartments that were now like a prison to her.
Perhaps Keashil had added some verses, Menish was not sure, but at the close of the song, when the lovers rode away to Anthor with the hard-won blessing of Harana’s father, the Emperor, his eyes were misty and his mouth trembled.
‘‘ I've never heard such skill on the harp, nor with the voice. You've even cured my sea retch.” It was true. The boat still rocked and swayed but Menish’s ill effects were gone, for the moment anyway.
“Sire? Oh, you startled me. I'd forgotten you were there. Is there something you would like me to play? ‘The Battle of Ristalshuz’ perhaps?’
“No, not that one. It's a mere tale anyway. Play as you feel, but please avoid songs about me.’
“Are they none of them true, Sire?” Her sightless eyes looked past him.
“They must be, Mother,” put in Olcish, “or we would have been murdered by the Gashans.”
“Not you, boy. It was all years before you were born.”
“But the songs are true, for here is the King of Anthor himself!”
“Olcish,” said Menish, “much of what the songs say is true. But it's the work of a harper to entertain on long, cold evenings when the fires burn low. At those times the real world is a dull, dreary place. So the songs must grow larger than the real world to fill the gaps in the walls or the winter wind will steal through.”
“The King of Anthor is a poet!” said Keashil, delighted.
“Not I,” said Menish. “It's a thing our harpers often say to introduce their songs.”
Late in the afternoon of the second day after the storm the town of Deenar appeared on the shore.
They had noticed a change in the cliffs that marched down the coast some hours before. They had become low and broken. A hint of green meadows could be seen on their crests and, once Menish saw a sheep grazing on the cliff edge. It seemed casually unconcerned that it was but a step away from a headlong plunge down the cliff face to the rocks below. But sheep are always sure-footed.
They rounded a small headland and Deenar lay in the gentle curve of a wide bay. A smooth pebble beach swept up from the tossing sea to a green valley. A stream emptied itself over the pebbles as it curved around a high palisade. Tall, straight logs with sharpened ends had been thrust into the ground close together surrounding the town within. Several small buildings lay outside the walls, clustered around the gate that stood open.
A squall blew across the deck, making it difficult to see much welcome in this place, but to Menish it appeared that Deenar was well constructed. No doubt the wall was to fend off pirates. He hoped they were hospitable to travellers, for he knew Drinagish needed a night off this rocking deck even if it meant spending it in a Vorthenki village. Awan had said that they did not have a sailor’s lodge here like the inn at Lianar and was reluctant to land. Another ship lay at anchor not far from the shore. It was a trading vessel like their own, Menish wondered where the crew of that ship were spending the night.
Awan’s booming voice shouted across the water and was answered, even above the noise of the sea, from a figure in a watchtower that rose above the palisade.
Men in heavy sea cloaks appeared in the gateway as they hove to and Shelim let go the anchor.
Menish knew that the Vorthenki sometimes greeted visitors with an alarming war dance but either they recognised Awan or they did not feel threatened. The men on the shore launched two small craft, which had been lying keel up on the beach stones, and rowed them out to sea. The waves grew more restive by the moment and this made heavy work for the rowers, but Menish could hear them chanting a work song to the rhythm of the oars. From the calls back and forth between the two boats it appeared that they were racing each other to the ship. When the first vessel thumped hollowly against their hull the crews of all three boats roared with laughter, cheering, and friendly abuse.
They were Vorthenki folk, of course. No one else lived on this coast. In the second boat stood a tall, red-bearded man who was dressed as a warrior. His helmet was even gaudier than Althak’s, for it sported a dreadful, nodding plume of horsehair that echoed every shift of his head. Menish noticed that he had not had to row. He was obviously the village chief.
The red-beard and two other armed Vorthenki hauled themselves over the gunwales. Menish held himself ready. Awan and Keashil had assured him that the folk of Deenar were friendly, but it would do no harm to have his sword loosened in its sheath. The red-beard drew himself up to his full height, about six and a half feet judged Menish. A little taller than Althak, and he was built more heavily. His face was partly obscured by the helmet so Menish could not judge his age easily, possibly he was in his mid forties. He had the look of a seasoned fighter, the stance of one who has been well trained. The two who stood beside him were younger men, the one on the left was younger than Drinagish.
Menish was about to introduce himself when the red-beard noticed Keashil. “Kopth’s balls!” he cried, “it’s the blind harper!”
He crossed the deck in three strides and crouched beside her figure. Menish saw him turn and notice Olcish too. “And the lad as well,” he murmured, “but only the lad. Woman, do you know me?”
She had been smiling from the moment she heard his voice.
“I know you, Darven. I've harped many times in your house.”
“Aramish? Falia?”
“Aramish is dead,” she reached out and fumbled to grasp Olcish’s hand in her own. “Pirates attacked us. I don't know what happened to my daughter.”
The red-beard gabbled something that Menish recognised as the Vorthenki words of passing and then added an eloquent oath of his own. Menish tried to remember something but could not think what it was.
“Darven? Yes it is,” cried Althak. “M’Lord, it's Darven of the Olsha fords.”
“Of course! I knew I had seen him before.”
Darven rose, looked about him and then pulled off his helmet, releasing a tumble of red hair.
“It is not… aye, but it is! Young Althak and M’Lord the King!” Suddenly he was caught by Althak who held him in a bear hug and thumped his back while he whooped for joy. The exuberance of Althak’s greeting dismayed Darven’s attempts to greet Menish more formally. Finally he extricated himself from Althak’s grip and bowed to Menish. It was a bow that made Astae’s efforts seem fawning.
“M’Lord, it’s good to see you again. But what brings you to Deenar? And by ship?” He glanced at Drinagish, on whose face the sea retch was plain.
“We travel to Atonir. But we're weary and need a night with solid ground beneath our feet.”
“Then you're most welcome. You'll lie in my house tonight, the ground's solid enough there!”
A rope ladder hung from the gunwale to one of the lighters. The little boat rose and fell alongside the larger, making the operation of getting from one to the other rather precarious as far as Menish was concerned.
Somehow he clambered down and found himself sitting in the middle of the boat, clutching at the wooden seat with white knuckles. He tried to smile a greeting to the other men in the boat but he suspected that all he managed was a bare-teethed grimace.
Hrangil managed well enough but Drinagish’s face was a greenish colour by the time he found his seat. Althak and Darven assisted Keashil down with Olcish supervising.