I nearly forgot; no, I have no idea what Den Fellaemion was up to when he sailed last. In all the confusion that surrounds us these days, I couldn’t even tell you how many years ago it was. I can’t think of anyone else who might either. I think Den Rannion was somehow involved, but the present Sieur seems very keen to hush it up, so I can only suppose it came to naught.
The lost settlement of Kel Ar’Ayen, 42nd of Aft-Summer
This is rather different to our little excursion last year,” I observed to Shiv as the wizards’ ship swung slowly at anchor in the broad estuary. It was a relief to be out of the gales that scythed across the open ocean and I turned to the warmth of the late summer sun, noticeably hotter here than I would expect at home this end of the season. I smiled with pleasure at the sensation of the sun on my clean-shaven face.
“If I have to cross the ocean, I’d rather do it in a well-built three-master with the mightiest of the Council subduing wind and wave, I have to admit,” Shiv grinned back at me. “It’s a sight better than that fishing boat, isn’t it? Even Livak only got a little seasick.”
I didn’t want to discuss Livak at the moment. “When will the rest of us be going ashore?” I nodded at the ship’s row-boat, which was unloading a group of mercenaries on the nearby beach.
Shiv frowned. “There still seems to be some disagreement about that. Most of the mages want to stay aboard for a while, let Halice and her—er—‘associates’ scout out the terrain first.”
“Surely the search would get done faster and more effectively with magic to help?” I turned to Shiv, puzzled.
He shook his head ruefully. “I think it’s going to take a while for my esteemed colleagues to become used to working cooperatively with fighting men, whatever Planir may require of them.”
I looked along the rail, to where Halice stood with the commander of the mercenary force, a massive man called Arest with an uncompromising attitude and an ill-educated Dalasorian accent. Lack of education didn’t mean lack of intelligence however; his narrow eyes were alert with practical cunning, and from what Livak had told me he’d been a major player in the endless games of the Lescari wars for a good few years. More importantly he had no problem treating Halice as an equal, leaning his blunt head close to hers as they discussed their next moves. I wondered briefly if they might have been lovers at some stage; they had that air of familiarity about them but discarded the notion as irrelevant. I looked at Halice’s leg, now much straighter and able to bear some weight, though still far short of being fully healed. I wondered what part she would be playing in this particular game.
When Planir had got his decision from the Council and instantly set about organizing this voyage, he had been momentarily wrong-footed by the discovery that all his own most valued agents, men whose skills and sword arms were retained for his use by liberal amounts of coin, were absent on other commissions. It had been Halice who had suggested looking for mercenaries spending the Summer Solstice in the Carifate. It seemed the battles of Aft-Spring and For-Summer between Parnilesse and Triolle had been bloody, vicious and inconclusive, hardly a surprise in itself, and the self-declared neutral region around Carif had been full of the disgruntled remnants of scattered corps, looking around for a hire that offered them a better than even chance of ending the summer with coin in their hands, instead of as ashes in an urn.
Halice had made herself extremely useful to the Archmage, using her many contacts to weld together a troop of hardened fighters sharp enough to have seen the way the fish were running and get clear of the futile slaughter that was overwhelming the central dukedoms. The roll of Raeponin’s runes had brought bloody chaos back to Lescar once more after a few years of comparative peace. I spared a thought for Aiten’s family, hoping Messire’s gold was giving them either a measure of security or the means to flee.
Shiv and I watched a second group of fighting men and women getting their gear together, tightening straps and adjusting sword-belts. The mercenaries were a battered lot, I had to admit, which was probably what was disconcerting the wizards. Nearly all bore scars on faces and hands, old and white as well as new and purple, some ugly and puckered, betraying a lack of the skilled treatment a sworn man can justifiably expect. Their clothes were mostly leather, black and brown with only rare touches of color, covered with cloaks of fur and crudely tanned skins rather than the good broadcloth that a true patron provides. 1 stifled a pang of muted sorrow, remembering Aiten arriving to take service with Messire in similar rough attire.
“Halice was saying these are among the best she could hope to find.” Shiv smoothed his own immaculate tunic unconsciously and adjusted the ornate silver belt buckle that Pered had given him before we left. “It doesn’t look as if they spend much of their loot on clothes, does it?”
“Who needs to look smart to fight? I reckon their money goes into their swords.” The quality of the weapons each warrior carried had been the first thing I had looked for. “Workmanship like that doesn’t come cheap.” The ragged and stained garments worn by the mercenaries contrasted sharply with their armor and weaponry, ready for anything they might discover in this untrodden land. Most wore two swords as well as daggers in belts and in boot tops, while many carried bows, a mace or a spear and more besides. Well-honed metal scattered bright reflections from the hot sun, in sharp contrast to the dull sheen of plate and chainmail, newly scoured free of the biting rust that had gnawed at the metal on the long voyage, fed by the damp, salt air. I was having to burnish the steel of my mirror almost daily if I wanted to shave without cutting myself, but at least my own armor required little maintenance.
Arest started down the ladder into the ship’s boat and Shiv and I both involuntarily held our breath as rope and wood creaked with protest under his weight; the man wore a full hauberk and coif, greaves and vambraces, as well as carrying swords, a shield and a pack. He reached the boat and sat on a bending thwart without mishap and we breathed a sigh of relief.
“I wouldn’t fancy anyone’s chances of dragging that lot off the river bed if he went in!” Livak said cheerfully as she came to lean on the rail next to us. I turned to her with a smile. I’d seen precious little of her on this voyage as she’d rapidly allied herself with the mercenaries, leaving me tied by my oath to continued attendance on Planir.
“What do you reckon then? Do they look as if they’d be useful in a fight?” she asked me, a tentative smile on her face.
“I’d say so.” I had been watching the warriors covertly on the voyage, wanting to make sure of the quality of help I’d have at my back, if need be. Most had the cock-on-a-dunghill arrogance that any mercenary picks up along with a sword paid for by the season, but the intensity of the regular drills and exercises they had undertaken with unspoken consent during the crossing had won a measure of my respect. I certainly felt more comfortable with them than I would have with the Archmage’s agents, if the man Darni whom we’d met the previous year was anything to go by. Learning that individual was employing his abrasive arrogance in Solura to further Planir’s ambitions had been no loss. “They look as if they could take on most things and force a draw, if not an outright win. So, what’s the plan?”
“Let’s ask her,” Livak whistled sharply. Halice looked round, raising a hand in acknowledgment as two female mercenaries stopped her with some question. Both were shorter than Halice, one slightly built with masses of curly chestnut hair and a delicate, heart-shaped face curiously at odds with her chainmail vest and crested helmet. The other was one of the few mercenaries not in armor of some kind, wearing stained and patched black leathers with a surprising number of daggers about her person. Black-haired and with an open, friendly expression, she looked as if she should be running a market stall or a busy household rather than hiring out her services to the highest bidder.