Paul Kearney: Hawkswood's Voyage

A shadow fell through the doorway. Aurungzeb sat up at once.

“Akran?”

“No, Sultan. It is I, Orkh.”

“You were not announced.”

“I was not seen.”

The shadow glided into the room and was nothing more than that: an absence of light, a mere shape.

“What do you want?”

“To speak with you.”

“Speak, then. And let me see you. I am sick of this ghost business.”

“You might not like what you see, Sultan.”

“Show yourself. I command it.”

The shadow took on substance, another dimension. In a moment a man stood there in long dun-coloured robes. Or what had once been a man.

“Beard of the Prophet!” Aurungzeb breathed.

The thing smiled, and the lights that were its eyes became two glowing slots.

“Is this what happened to you when—?”

“When Baraz slew my homunculus? Yes. I was relaying your own voice through it, acting as a conductor; thus I could not defend myself against the . . . consequences until it was too late.”

“But why has it done this to you?”

“The surge of power was like the explosion of a gun when the barrel is blocked. Something of the Dweomer that went into making the homunculus was blasted back through me, and I had no barriers up because of my role in the communication. It changed me. I am working on a remedy for the unfortunate effects.”

“I see now why you haunt the palace like a shadow.”

“I have no wish to frighten your concubines—especially one so delicious as just passed me in the corridor.”

“What did you want, Orkh? I am meeting the Nalbenic ambassadors soon.”

“I am your eyes and ears, Majesty, despite the malady which afflicts me. I have agents in every city in the west. It is partly because of my network of information gatherers that this sultanate has risen to the prominence it now enjoys. Is that not true?”

“There may be something in what you say,” Aurungzeb admitted, scowling. He did not like to be reminded of his reliance on the sorcerer, or on anyone else for that matter.

“Well, I have a very interesting piece of information I would like to impart to you. It does not concern the present war, but an occurrence much further west in one of the Ramusian states.”

“Go on.”

“It seems there is a purge in progress in the kingdom of Hebrion, which seeks to rid the land of its exotic elements. I lost two of my best agents to their damned pyres, but the chief targets of the purge seem to be oldwives, herbalists, weather-workers, thaumaturgists and cantrimers—in short, anyone who has an inkling of the Dweomer.”

“Interesting.”

“My sources—those who survived—tell me, however, that this purge was initiated by the accursed Inceptines—the Black Priests of the west—and has not found favour with King Abeleyn.”

“Why does he not command it stopped then?” Aurungzeb asked gruffly. “Is a king not King in his own land?”

“Not in the west, sire. Their Church has a great say in the running of every kingdom.”

“Fools! What kind of rulers are they? But I interrupt. Continue, Orkh.”

“Abeleyn hired a small fleet, I am told, filled it to the brim with fleeing sorcerers and the like and commissioned the fleet to sail west.”

“To where? Hebrion is the westernmost kingdom of the world.”

“Exactly, sire. To where? They did not touch upon any of the other Ramusian states as far as I know. It may be they made landfall in the Brenn Isles or the Hebrionese, but there are rumours flying round the Hebrian capital.”

“Rumours of what?”

“It is said that the fleet sailed with a Royal warrant for the setting up of a new colony, and it carried in addition to its passengers and a complement of soldiers everything that might be needed when starting a settlement in a hitherto uninhabited land.”

“Orkh! Are you saying—?”

“Yes, my Sultan. The Ramusians have discovered a land in the far west, somewhere in the Great Western Ocean, and they are claiming it for themselves.”

Aurungzeb sank back on the bed. Orkh let his Sultan sit in silence for a few moments; he could see the wheels turning.

“How reliable is this information, Orkh?” the Sultan asked at last.

“I am not a peddler of hearsay, sire. My informants know that to feed me false news is the best way to ensure a swift end. The rumours have been investigated, and they have substance.”

Another pause.

“We cannot let it be, of course,” the Sultan said thoughtfully. “We must test the veracity of your rumours, and if they possess the substance you say they do we shall outfit our own expedition and stake our claim. But Ostrabar is not a sea power. We have no ships.”

“Nalbeni?”

“I trust them less than I do Ramusians. No, this must be done further from home. The Sea-Merduks of Calmar. Yes. I will commission them to send a fleet into the west, commanded by my own officers of course.”

“It will be expensive, my Sultan.”

“After Aekir, my credit is good anywhere,” Aurungzeb said with a chuckle. “You have agents in Alcaras. See to it, Orkh. I will select the officers of this expedition personally.”

“As my Sultan wishes. I have one boon to ask of him, however.”

“Ask! Your information merits reward.”

“I wish to be included in this expedition. I wish to sail west.”

Aurungzeb stared closely at the hideously inhuman face of his court mage. “I need you here.”

“My apprentice Batak, whom you know, is well able to take my place, and he does not have the same disability that afflicts me.”

“Are you seeking a cure in the west, or oblivion, Orkh?”

“A cure if I can find one—oblivion if I cannot.”

“Very well. You shall sail with the expedition.”

Orkh faded back into misty shadow as the vizier came into the room, bent low, eyes averted.

“My Sultan, the Nalbenic ambassadors are here. They await your inimitable presence.”

Aurungzeb waved a hand. “I’ll be there directly.”

The vizier left, still bowed. Aurungzeb stared around the chamber.

“Orkh? Are you there, Orkh?” But there was no answer. The mage had gone.

T HE first snows had come to the Searil valley. Shahr Baraz had felt them in his tired old bones before he had even thrown off the furs. His head ached. It had been too long since he had slept out under the stars like his forebears, the chieftains of the eastern steppes.

Mughal already had the fire going. It was almost colourless in the bright morning light and the snow glare. Melted slush sizzled around the burning wood.

“Winter arrives early this year,” Mughal said.

Shahr Baraz climbed to his feet. Darkness danced at the corners of his vision until he blinked it away. He was almost eighty-four years old.

“Pass me the skin, Mughal. My blood needs some heat in it.”

He drank three gulps of searing mare’s-milk spirit, and his limbs stopped shuddering. Warmth again.

“I had a look over the hill as the sun came up,” Mughal said. “They have pulled back the camps to the reverse slopes and are busy entrenching there.”

“A winter camp,” Shahr Baraz said. “Campaigning is finished for this year. Nothing else will happen until the spring.”

“Jaffan’s loyalty is to you, my Khedive.”

“Jaffan will obey the orders of Orkhan or he will find his head atop a spear before too long. He will not be left in command for he was too close to me. No, another khedive will be sent out. I hope, though, that Jaffan will not suffer for letting two old men slip away into the night.”

“Who will the new khedive be, you think?”

“Who knows? Some creature of Aurungzeb’s who is more malleable than I. One who will put his own ambitions above the lives of his men. The Searil will flow scarlet ere we take that fortress, Mughal.”