Turn 106

    Yestin shrugs. "We would be oblivious to the matter of your false identity if you had not brought the subject to our attention, unbidden." The giff colors purple-black. "_I_ would be oblivious, at least."
    "Don't sell yourself short, First Officer. I'm good at what I do."
    Then he takes a deep breath, and says (troweling on the Zakharan accent), "Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor of introducing the Faris Arif ibn Hassan Dawud Fadil Olnfar. Al-Quadir," he adds for the sake of completeness. Dropping the accent again, he continues, "I work for my family, which is called Olnfar. Among the things we deal in is information. I really don't know what use they made of what I was able to send them.
    "And I didn't say it was the Victor that I suspect is behind these problems."
    "Nor did I," Yestin responds. "Only that his ships may have provided transport to Rigol for the order, in which case your interests in the Hextorians and our service to the trading company coincide."
    Ibn Fadil (or Farissarif or whatever) grins at him, apparently pleased by the officer's perception.
    The Giff rubs his prodigious jowls for a moment. "Your service to your family does not mark you as an enemy of Bral or Three Trees, then?"
    "It's not about enemies and friends, it's about buying and selling. And trading. But to answer your question, we've nothing against Bral or Three Trees that I know of. We're interested in peace and profits for all -- and especially ourselves, of course -- which means we're against such things as piracy and pernicious activities like I'm afraid we're looking at right now."
    The First Officer nods. Coming from a race of professional mercenaries, he could understand and respect the neutral but honorable trade attitude the Zakharan espoused.
    Yestin sighs, clearly unused to, and uncomfortable with, this sort of public interrogation. He silently searches the crews' eyes for support, in the hopes that someone else will take up the questioning.

* * *

    In the aftermath of the attack, a great deal is accomplished. Ibn Fadil in particular is very busy now that he longer needs to come up with excuses for being nosy. A somewhat dazed Mihal follows him around, nodding in appropriate places as his new mentor explains what he's doing--it's hard to say how much he's actually picking up, of course. Upon their return to Myrr, the half-elf asks the priests if he might take another look at Cenon's papers, but they tell him no more than they did before. His suggestion that they speak with Master Wiktor of the blacksmiths is noted.
    As far as the Stoat -- if he is still in town, no one seems to know where. Either he's burrowed into the deepest of holes following the loss of so many men, or he has left town entirely. In either case, it seems likely that his interest in the matter has been purely financial; at least, no one has ever known him to have an interest in anything but himself.
    Meanwhile, Lynden ensures that his charitable work will not be untended in his absence, however long it proves.
    After assurances that word will be sent at once if any news of Valarin or Hiro should be learned, the crew of the _Distraction_, plus Lynden, Mihal, Gerard, and of course Cog, and minus one marine and its captain, lifts off and bids Myrr farewell.
    Gerard, trying hard not to appear at all awed or frightened, spreads out his charts on the bridge. He seems to have something stuck in his throat, and keeps clearing it while they talk, but eventually the two pilots have enough information to figure out where they're going, and that it will take slightly more than a day to get there, given the bad weather they can already see brewing and their dependence on visual navigation. Pham steers the ship straight away from the city, across the channel, until they meet an identical frost-mired landscape on the other side, then turns counter-spinward, into the wind's teeth.
    The little spelljammer shudders but is in no danger, and the nervous newcomers eventually take their cue from the older hands and relax a bit, though they jump whenever the gale rises to a howl.
    Yestin goes through the stores, noting that they are very low on supplies and looking for something that would make a fit gift to the king for their arrival. The silk, possibly--they don't seem to have anything even vaguely like it here. weapons and armor, of course. Or some of the glassware that has spent the long journey packed away in straw-padded casks?
    Alais, meanwhile, experiments with his silver and amber circlet, testing it exhaustively to see what benefits it might confer. Its aura is faint, but it seems to be some sort of divination spell. Curious, he leaves it on while he goes about his morning, and eventually finds that wearing it, a certain text he bought on their last visit to Bral and has rather laboriously been reading comes quite easily now.
    Then he goes to join the conversation in the galley, where the others are questioning Gerard about what they can expect to find in Narain.
    "The greatest of cities," Gerard tells them with pride. "Anything in the world that you want, you can find it there. Nowhere will you find more people, or finer, nowhere such markets and festivals." Ever since the high kings ceased wandering and settled there, all the world has come to them, and they have spent freely on their own city. Between the mountains and the river, the city is relatively sheltered from Rigol's weather, and the lands around it are some of the most productive in the world.
    There is King Roald himself, a young and martially keen, it seems. Queen Natalia, it is asserted, is the most beautiful woman in the world. There are any number of important lords who reside at court, and very wise wizards as well, and even dwarves, ambassadors from the Deep King during this time of uneasy peace. Gerard doesn't know much specific about these people, of course -- he is a humble navigator thrust into this position quite unexpectedly -- but he's a good source of gossip. Everyone seems to know there is some sort of resolution looming with Lord Durrell, perhaps this very year.
    Alais relentlessly grills the guide on the history of the city, with special attention given to any plagues or natural disasters, and gets an earful in return. The Great Fire of 117. The Year of the Dragon, 199, when several of the great beasts attacked the city and were defeated by eight champions called by the gods to fight them in their very lairs, one of them the heir to the throne, who did not return, and whose brothers fought one another for the crown. The Summerless Year in 203 when thousands starved and the Winterless Year ten years later, when plagues swept across the earth, the rivers dried up and stars fell from heaven to strike down towers.
    Lynden listens in, trying to stay out of the crew's way. No seasickness; aside from the occasional buffet from the wind, the ship's motion is very smooth.
    Like the other Rigolians, Gerard has little idea what to make of the women and so tends to ignore them. Inez has given up on this planet, its stupid people and their politics, and is sulking in her cabin once the ship is on its way. Nyala has been quiet and watchful as usual, observing the crew's reactions to ibn Fadil's revelation and keeping her own thoughts, as usual, to herself. More patient and tolerant than Inez, she is also looking forward to leaving this place for somewhere more congenial (and warmer), but currently more curious about what they will find in the capital.
    The following morning the ship soars silently through clear skies, and below them a darker glimmer in the endless fields of snow turns out to be a river, wide enough that it is not entirely frozen even now. "The Lorant," Gerard identifies it, and directs Alais to follow it inland. Soon there are more mountains ahead, and a bend in the river, and encompassing that bend, the city of Narain.
    It is indeed many times larger than Myrr, and surrounded by an even greater wall. The river flows in and out through great arches in the rock, about sixty degrees apart in the rough circle of the wall, and small boats pass through as well, while docks sprawl out along both shores to accommodate larger vessels that dared the deep winter storms. Villages dot the landscape around it, the lines of the fields visible even under the snow.
    On the side of the river closer to the mountains, the land rises. Buildings are sparser there, as if someone had picked up one edge of the land and everything had slid down it, toward the river. On the height stands the castle of the High King, massive and strong, and above it floats his banner. The field is grey for the steel that gives mastery; across the top half, red the sword that maintains it; the bottom divided into thirds by sheaves of golden grain and showing the dominion of the kings in the form of a running horse, a white mountain, and a ship.
    Swinging lower over the city, they see the now-familiar architecture on a somewhat grander scale, picking out marketplaces and temples, granaries and theaters. The streets are wider than Myrr's, and many are paved.
    "Over there. I think," Gerard directs them uncertainly, pointing to an open space near the castle. Alais circles for a moment, watching the people scurrying around below them, which seems to be the usual response upon seeing the ship. Some bright person down there has got hold of a red flag and waves it around to indicate where he's supposed to go. The _Distraction_ settles to the ground with barely a bump, and everyone organizes to disembark.
    Awaiting them on the ground are a half dozen armed and armored soldiers, and it's something of a shock to see all that metal in one place. One of them steps forward and gives a brisk little bow, and he's clearly very well trained because he's not the least bit discomfited by any of this. "Welcome to Narain and to His Majesty's court, and may the gods' blessings attend you while you remain. Which of you is Captain Valarin?"
    'Your arrival has been prepared for, if you will be so good as to follow me. I am Sergeant Andras, and my men will assist with anything you wish to bring with you. *All* of you," he adds, glancing at the ship. Maybe it isn't training so much as plain old natural arrogance.
    The visitors are led inside. Gerard parts ways with them, probably to be debriefed. Tesfaye's little castle is downright cozy compared to this stone labyrinth; they pass down halls and up stairs and are eventually shown into a comfortable little suite, with four small chambers arrayed around a central room. The windows look down into hexagonal courtyards. Fires of pleasant-smelling wood are burning cheerfully, and a keen-looking young man in livery is poised near the door.
    "In the morning, His Majesty will see you. My orders are to see that you are refreshed and comfortable between now and then," he says with a very low bow. "If anything is lacking, you have only to request. This rope," he indicates the pull near the door, "will summon a servant at any time. Food and drink are being prepared now. Is there anything else I may bring your lordships?"
    Later that day, as the swift Rigolian nightfall conquers the land again, there is a knock on the door.
    "Lord Fynn to see your lordships," a servant announced. It takes a moment to place the name - the king's chancellor.
    

| Top |