Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“Yes, sir.” The maid bobbed another curtsy. “But I can make up the extra time, and I’ve ever so ef-efficient, the Lady said.” Beneath her tangle of hair, she frowned. “At least, I think that was the word she used.”

In spite of himself, Miathan found that he was smiling. What a droll little creature she was. Perhaps she would be just the thing to amuse Vannor, and soften his mood. “Well,” he said, “if you are sure you can do this without inconvenience to your mistress ...”

“Oh, I can, sir, I promise you. I’ll work ever so hard.”

Janok ground his teeth. Pushy little brat! Always toadying to the Magefolk and putting herself forward!

“Very well,” said Miathan. “I must say, it makes a refreshing change to see such enthusiasm. Janok, prepare a tray with food and wine—the best you have. You, girl, will bring it upstairs to me as soon as possible.”

When the Archmage had gone, Janok turned on the maid. “Why, you little—”

“You touch me, an’ I’ll tell the Lady Eliseth,” the girl shrilled, scrambling deftly out of his way. Janok cursed her, but he was defeated for the moment. He was terrified of the Lady Eliseth, as were all the servants. But one day this little bitch would slip up, and when she did . . . Thinking dark thoughts of revenge, Janok went to prepare the tray.

Vannor, exhausted, frustrated, and in pain, had fallen asleep at last in the chair by the fire. But he had scarcely closed his eyes, it seemed, when he was awakened by the sound of the door being opened, and the rattle of crockery. Miathan entered, followed by a small, slight figure staggering beneath the weight of a laden tray. The merchant sprang to his feet, his first thought one of relief that the Archmage was unaccompanied by guards. Though where Miathan was concerned, that meant very little! “What do you want of me now?” he growled.

The Archmage shrugged. “I merely came to bring you some food.” He smiled mirthlessly. “We must take care of you, my dear Vannor. It would be tragic to lose you too soon.”

Turning to the maidservant, Miathan gestured for her to put the tray down on the table. She lurked behind him, head down and face averted. Then Vannor caught a clearer glimpse of her. Though a ragged fringe of hair obscured most of the maid’s face, there was something so familiar . . . The merchant gasped. Quickly, he swung away from the Archmage to hide his shock. The maid banged the tray down onto the table, almost spilling its contents, and with a scared glance at the Archmage, darted from the room like a startled hare.

“If you’ve only come to threaten me, Miathan, I’m not interested,” Vannor snarled, to cover her retreat.

“Very well. The next time I come, you must be prepared for more than threats.” Stiffly, Miathan stalked from the chamber, locking the door behind him.

When he was gone, Vannor shot across the room to the tray, lifting the dishes with trembling fingers. Sure enough—under a plate he found a folded note, curling and damp from the heat of the food. Carefully, the merchant peeled it open, stifling his impatience. The ink was beginning to spread in fuzzy lines, but the hasty scrawl was still legible.

Dad, don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can, but it may take a while before I can think up some kind of plan. Be patient, I beg you. DON’T DO ANYTHING TO GIVE ME AWAY.

Beneath the signature, blurred and dotted with tears, was a hastily added scrawl: “I love you.”

A weight of worry suddenly lifted from Vannor’s shoulders. Quickly, he read the note again, then threw it in the fire.

“Well, of all the sheer nerve! Of all the bloody insane, ridiculous, dangerous notions . . .” he muttered. Then his face broke into a grudging smile. Zanna! The little minx was spying in the Academy, right under the very noses of the Magefolk!

Vannor shook his head, half aghast, half admiring.

“She’s my daughter, all right!” he admitted to himself. “Bless her and blast her for her courage!” With that, Vannor bent to his meal with a better heart than he would ever have thought possible.

The lean, fleet Nightrunner vessel, with its sails of shadowy gray, slipped into Norberth Port long after dusk and tied up to a derelict, unused jetty on the south side of the harbor. This year’s evil weather had all but put an end to trade, and the town seemed quiet and subdued, with few windows showing lights. There was no sign of activity on the handful of ships moored on the north side of the harbor, and the docks were silent and deserted. Remana, standing in the prow of the smuggler ship, snuggled more deeply into her heavy cloak, and shivered. Already it was getting on for autumn again, and this year they had never seen a summer!

Remana thought wistfully about Fional’s description of the Valley, where this eldritch winter held no sway. From along the deck, she heard muffled rattles and scrapes, and the creaking of rope as the ship’s boat was lowered in the darkness with a dispatch that betokened long practice. A figure materialized at her side out of the gloom, and Remana, expecting Yanis, was surprised to near the voice of Tarnal, the devoted young Nightrunner who had taught Zanna to ride.

“Are you ready to go, ma’am?” Tarnal whispered.

Remana nodded, feeling a twinge of excitement—then remembered that Tarnal could barely see her in the gloom. “I’m ready,” she whispered. “Where’s Yanis?”

“Waiting in the boat—he’s still not happy about you going]” Tarnal replied. “Had it not been for Gevan whining about taking a woman to do a man’s work, you’d have problems. But you know how Gevan gets under our leader’s skin!” He chuckled. “Yanis will take you now, just to spite him!”

“It’s not up to Yanis—or that idiot Gevan!” Remana retorted in astringent tones. She scrambled down into the rowboat, profoundly grateful she’d thought of wearing britches instead of skirts—though her clothing had provided Gevan with another bone of-contention. She sighed, annoyed because everyone thought that Yanis had included her just to irritate his irascible mate. Ever since her dearest Leynard had been drowned they had all wanted to wrap her in wool like a babe in arms!.

“Come on, Mam!.” Yanis hissed. “What kept you?” His words did nothing to improve Remana’s mood, but she took a deep breath and bit back the acid comment that sprang to her lips. Only by her actions would she finally prove her worth to the men as a Nightrunner.

With Gevan and Yanis at the oars, Tarnal keeping a lookout in the bows, and Remana, at her own insistence, steering, the ship’s boat skirted the docks under cover of the shadowed wharves, heading toward the springing span of the great white bridge that marked the river’s mouth.

Before long, the scattered lamps of Norberth had faded behind them. Curls of mist were rising from the dark water, shrouding the surface of the river with glimmering silk. Peering ahead into the gloom, Remana caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth and concentrated on her steering. If she ran aground or hit a rock, she would never hear the last of it from those wretched smugglers—especially Gevan!

Judging from the labored breathing of the two men, it was hard work rowing upstream against the current. It also took longer than Remana had expected. When at last she heard the roar of water rushing over the weir, she was greatly relieved. Briefed by Yanis on what to expect, she steered the boat into a calm bankside pool beyond the swirl of the turbulent waters, and the two men scrambled to steady the craft while she disembarked. With muffled grunts and curses, they hauled it out and carried it up the sloping bank and around the weir, returning it to the water in a place beyond the pull of the ferocious current.