The Pirates of Pacta Servanda
(Pillars of Reality-4)
by John G. Hemry
To
my niece Megan Englehart
For S, as always
Chapter One
Master Mechanic Mari of Caer Lyn awoke from a nightmare of being pursued by remorseless killers through a maze of city streets, some of them crumbling ruins and others in flames. Those hunting her and her friends wore the black jackets of Mechanics and carried rifles, or were armored Imperial legionaries bearing swords and crossbows, or had the robes and emotionless faces of Mages who held long knives. One by one Mari’s friends died until she was trapped, the killers closing in, and behind them a raging mob destroying all in their path, a mob which would soon sweep over her and the killers alike, leaving nothing but death in its wake.
And inside that nightmare, everything was her fault. She had caused all of the deaths, including those of her friends.
She stared at the wooden beams and planks above her bunk, her breath coming in short gasps and her heart pounding. She was alone in the small cabin, but she could hear the clump of boots and the soft thud of sailors’ bare feet on the deck overhead.
She controlled her breathing and focused her thoughts. She wasn’t in a prison cell, or trapped in the dead city of Marandur, or being chased through the streets of Altis by assassins. She was aboard the small schooner Gray Lady, surrounded by her friends, and as safe for the moment as someone being hunted by at least half the world could hope to be.
The safety was only an illusion, though, because if the Mages were right, the mobs which haunted Mari’s nightmares would soon arise to smash everything on this world. And the Mages claimed that only she could that stop that from happening.
Her gaze fell on the promise ring on her left hand. The sight of that brought Mari back to full wakefulness. Where was Alain? And why did the Gray Lady feel as if the ship were motionless, instead of sailing for whatever brief sanctuary the city of Julesport might offer?
Mari rolled out of the bunk, shrugged into her shoulder holster and ensured that the pistol nestled there was ready for use, pulled on the dark jacket of a Mechanic that she stubbornly continued to wear, and headed out on deck.
Mage Alain of Iris stood at the rail of the Gray Lady, peering into the formless world beyond. The harsh and brutal training of a Mage acolyte ensured that his face revealed none of his feelings: not the annoyance at this setback or the fear he felt for Mari, who had changed his world just as she was fated to change this entire world. If she lived.
The morning sun had risen, but the only visible sign of it was a brightening in the white cocoon formed of sea mist, where the Gray Lady sat becalmed, her sails hanging limp from their spars and booms. Not even the faintest breeze stirred sky, fog, or the waters on which the Gray Lady rode. The air felt heavy and moist, so that each breath required extra labor and conjured up uncomfortable sensations of drowning. Water pooled on every flat surface and formed droplets on every mast, spar and piece of rigging, the drops sliding down the slack canvas of the sails and the rough cordage of the stays, shrouds, halyards, and ratlines, the drops growing as they absorbed other drops until they fell in a fitful rain to add to the wetness on the deck. Sound carried with startling ease, somehow magnified by the moist air, but colors were dimmed, as if the mist were stealing their vibrancy and leaving only pale, washed-out remnants. Those on the Gray Lady looked like ghosts to their comrades, looming vaguely out of the mist until they came close enough to be seen clearly.
A world’s fate hung on the balance, but they could not move. They had left the burning city of Altis behind less than two weeks ago, riding the breezes south and west out of the Sea of Bakre, dodging warships of the Mechanics Guild and those ships forced to serve the Mage Guild and even more than one Imperial galley forging far afield in pursuit of them. But now not a breath of wind stirred the unusually placid waters of the Jules Sea. Somewhere not far to the east-northeast lay Julesport, a city founded long ago by a pirate and still famously disreputable, but that possible refuge might as well have been a million lances distant.
And their dilemma had just become far more urgent. Alain heard noises of something coming closer under the cloak of the fog. Slow, rhythmic splashing of water and creaking of wood, the soft chant of someone calling cadence to rowers, the occasional rattle of metal on metal which warned of soldiers in armor with swords and shields.
The captain of the Gray Lady, a man who had proven to be suspiciously familiar with avoiding those searching for or pursuing his ship, came quickly along the deck, stopping only to whisper brief instructions to sailors who hastened to pass the word to others.
Reaching Alain, the captain bowed. “Sir Mage,” he said in a low voice. “I most humbly request that everyone remain as quiet as possible. There is at least one galley out there, and from its movements and attempts to muffle noise I believe it is searching for someone.”
Alain nodded once in reply. Despite his outward poise, the captain was not comfortable addressing a Mage, but then no common people were. None of them spoke to Mages if they could help it. Mages were unnerving not only in their ability to show no emotion, and apparently to feel none, but because they possessed mysterious powers that no common wanted employed against him or her on the whim of the Mage. Mages, for their part, rarely bothered to speak to commons unless to issue brief orders. Most Mages, rather, because those who had chosen to follow Mari were slowly learning to regard other people as something other than mere shadows, and Alain had already come far down that path. “Where is the galley from?” Alain asked quietly. “Has the Empire pursued us to the doorstep of Julesport?”
“It’s not the Empire, I am certain, Sir Mage. The Imperials don’t come out this far. Cities of the Confederation operate few galleys, and the galleys once employed by the broken Kingdom of Tiae are all sunk or foundered now. My guess is, this galley hails from Syndar. I’ve caught a few words carried through the fog and I believe I recognized the accent.” The captain waved briefly toward the west, where the islands of Syndar lay.
“Does the Syndari galley hunt us?” Alain said.
“I cannot be certain, Sir Mage,” the captain said. “But I believe that it does. Your Guild, and that of the Lady Mari, have doubtless offered immense rewards for either of you, and from what I have heard of your earlier travels the Imperials as well will pay dearly to have both of you dead.”
Alain turned his gaze upon the captain. “You are not tempted by such rewards?”
The captain didn’t flinch at the question. He smiled slightly, shaking his head. “No, Sir Mage.”
“Why not?”
Taking a deep breath, the captain spoke carefully. “I value freedom, Sir Mage, which is very hard to find in a world where the Great Guilds control everything. The sea has offered the best and sometimes the only refuge in all of Dematr for those seeking liberty. The rewards offered for you and the Lady are no doubt immense, but they dwindle to nothing compared to the chance that she might succeed, that she is the daughter of the prophecy who will overthrow the Great Guilds and grant everyone in this world freedom.”
He paused, then added in a rush “I know such as the Imperials will not be free just because the Great Guilds are overthrown. The citizens of the Empire will still have their Emperor or Empress, will still have to deal with Imperial police and Imperial law. And other places will have lesser rulers. Syndar is a nest of petty tyrants and a few colonies of freebooters. But people everywhere will have a chance at freedom, Sir Mage. A chance they now lack. And there is this. The world ashore feels oddly strained, like a line pulled too taut and apt to snap, smashing everything in its path. I’ve felt that tension growing worse and worse in recent years, and it feels to me far too much like Tiae was before that kingdom came apart and fell into anarchy.”