The boy glanced up momentarily, then returned to his work. "Hello," he said quietly. "I knew there would be visitors today. The Seer said there wouldn't, but I knew there would."

  "Oh?" said Jaminus. "Your village has a Seer?"

  The boy nodded. "Master Inari. He tells us when there will be visitors, and if they're going to be nice or not." He pushed a stone away from his track. "If they're nice, we sometimes have dinner in the field. If they're not nice, the grown-ups take their bows and go to meet them." He shrugged.

  "That's very sensible."

  The boy stopped his work, leaning on his stick like an old man on a cane. "I'm Verren," he declared.

  "Hello, Verren. I'm Jaminus. Pleased to meet you."

  Verren cocked his head a little. "You have other names."

  "I do, but this one is easier for travelling." His voice became quieter. "I have two daughters. One of them is about your age."

  "Oh," said Verren. He seemed to consider that, looking down and absently poking at the ground with his stick. "Master Inari says I'll be the Seer someday."

  "I believe him. You'll be good at it, I think. Most Seers can't see me."

  Verren looked back up at Jaminus, squinting as a beam of sunlight passed over his eyes. "I saw you. I knew we'd have visitors today. I knew it'd be someone important."

  "Why do you think I'm important?" asked Jaminus, raising an eyebrow.

  Anson watched as the boy cocked his head again, pointing up the hill toward herself and Howe. "Because you have two knights with you. Real knights."

  "Yes," he said to Verren. "They're real knights. They keep me safe."

  "And," continued Verren, "you have very shiny boots." The boy nodded knowingly. "My uncle – everyone calls him Lad – he says important people always have shiny boots. He says you can tell people that never do any real work because their boots never get dirty."

  Anson grinned as her lord looked down at the gleaming black leather of his boots. "Ah," he said quietly. "I guess I can't argue with that." He stared at his boots for a while, raising one hand to silently run a finger along a seam. "My bride gave them to me," he said at last. "They're waterproof."

  Verren's face brightened. "You have a bride? Did you have a wedding?"

  "Yes. It was a long time ago. It was… big. There were a lot of people there."

  "Just like today!" said Verren excitedly. "There's going to be a wedding in the village. It's going to be big. There will be a lot of people there. We're all going."

  "I don't know if it'll be quite as big—" said Jaminus, trailing off as the cabin door opened. Out of the corner of her eye, Anson saw Howe take a step forward.

  A middle-aged woman appeared, her hands delicately arranging a garland of flowers in her long brown hair. Her white blouse and blue skirt were both perfectly clean and crisp, and her eyes sparkled as she looked around. "Verrie?" she called. "It's time to get going, my sweet. Are you…oh," she said, falling quiet at the sight of the visitors.

  Anson's lord quickly stood up, dusting himself off. "Good morning madam," he said.

  Verren trotted to his mother's side, grabbing at her skirt. "Mama," he said excitedly. "I knew there would be visitors." He pointed toward them, his eyes fixed on Jaminus. Anson saw a deep calm in the young boy's eyes. "This is Jaminus, mama," said Verren. "He's a god."

  Verren's mother blinked, her mouth momentarily falling open. Anson was impressed by the woman's composure. As Jaminus offered her a polite smile, the boy’s mother recovered quickly, smiling and dipping her head in a hint of a bow. "Good morning, my lord. Please excuse Verren. He's always been—" she looked down at her son, "—intuitive."

  Jaminus returned the bow, walking slowly down the hill. "I hope you'll pardon the intrusion, Linnie."

  "Oh," said the woman, blushing. She put her hand to her cheek. "My grandmother used to call me that."

  "Sorry," said Jaminus. "It was the first thing that came to mind."

  Linnie smiled again. "Not at all, my lord. We were…" she hesitated, gesturing vaguely to the other houses that lay further down the hill. "We were just headed to the village green. My cousin is getting married at midday."

  "I know. It's going to be a nice day."

  "You should come along, my lord," said Linnie. "I'm sure Gwen won't mind."

  "I have already intruded more than I should," he said. "We should be on our way."

  Linnie narrowed her eyes at the lord. Anson remembered her mother giving her the same look. "Maybe I'm wrong, my lord," Linnie said, "but won't the blessing be given in… your name?"

  "Yes," said Jaminus. "Yes, I suppose it will."

  Linnie nodded, the matter settled. "Good. Then let's go, Lord Jaminus. We don't want to be late." She looked past the lord, toward Anson and Howe. "Please tell your knights that it's a wedding: weapons are bad luck."

  She turned to walk away, Verren alongside her, but stopped when Jaminus spoke. "Linnie—"

  Linnie looked back at him. "Yes?"

  "Just like that?" He spread his hands wide. "So accepting?"

  Linnie shrugged. "We have faith. Faith that our lord will keep us safe. If Verrie is right, then I have never been so safe as I am now." She narrowed her eyes again. "And Verrie is always right about these things. Always." Her eyes brightened as she smiled, beckoning to him. "Come, my lord."

  "Please don't tell anyone," said Jaminus.

  "I won't have to."

  As they fell into step behind Lord Jaminus, Howe looked at Anson. All she could offer was a confused shrug.

  Anson followed a few paces behind, Howe beside her, as her lord walked with the mother and child. After last night, Anson still had concerns about his temper, but meeting these villagers seemed to have put him at ease. The young boy's prescience was surprising to her, but not nearly as surprising as how the mother had taken it all in stride. Perhaps, Anson wondered, raising a Seer-gifted child led to moments like this all the time. Perhaps the mother would have just learned to trust the child's intuition without question.

  Beyond the cabin, the ground continued to slope downwards. The trees thinned, revealing a village of several dozen small cabins and houses, scattered across gently-rolling hills, with neatly-tended fields and pastures beyond.

  In the middle of the village was a ring of giant maples, in front of a longhouse: a communal barn and meeting-place. Its front was decorated with flowers and red cloth bunting.

  The open space within the circle of maples was a broad, round pasture, entirely shaded by the trees except for a round clearing in the middle. To one side of the field were long tables and benches, covered in platters of food, pitchers of drink, and still more flowers and decorations.

  In the unshaded centre of the pasture, some three dozen villagers were gathering. Everyone was wearing their finest clothes, mostly in white, and young and old alike were laughing and greeting one another.

  An older man, wearing white robes, approached Linnie and Verren. Anson presumed it to be the village seer; he was surprised to see visitors. Anson didn't hear what was said, but for a moment, the seer's face went white and he seemed about to fall to his knees before Lord Jaminus.

  Almost as one, the villagers approached the lord, greeting him like they were long-time neighbours. Anson smiled kindly at the polite nods directed to herself and Howe. The young knight was about to step forward to remain near their lord, but Anson put a hand on his shoulder to hold him. Without a word, she unstrapped her scabbard from her back and handed it to Howe, motioning to him to keep a discreet distance at the edge of the ceremony.

  As the villagers began to gather into a circle, they all paused to remove their boots and shoes. Now this, thought Anson, was old fashioned. Bare heads and feet for an outdoor ceremony; she didn't think anyone did that any more. She was considering whether to do the same when she looked beside her and saw her lord sitting on the ground. One shining boot was on the ground next to him, and the other was in his hands, his eyes clouded as he held it.

  Anson quickly balanced on one foot, then the other, as she slid off her road-dusted boots and set them neatly at the edge of the circle. With a few gentle words of encouragement, she elicited a wistful smile from her lord and he refocused his attention, setting his own boots aside and pushing himself to his feet.

  As Jaminus walked forward to stand among the villagers, Anson followed, noticing how tiny shoots of new grass sprouted in Jaminus's footprints where he walked. The villagers didn't seem to notice, as they formed a circle and Anson took up a place next to her lord.

  Everyone cheered at the arrival of the bride and groom, parting to create a path to the middle of the circle. While everyone else watched the nervous couple, Anson looked at her lord. His eyes were wet with tears, his mouth turned into a lopsided smile.

  Anson remembered the lord's own wedding, forty years previous, when she was a new recruit herself. The basics were the same, she thought, but the scale was quite different. Here in this village, there was no vast temple. No statues, no white marble or gold or gems. No thousand-strong Elven choir, no ranks of high priests and priestesses. No rows of nobility, no military command, no respectful lines of High Mages. No dragons. But the same prayers. The same invocations, the same songs and hymns, the same blessings of Turon and his heirs. The same looks of joy, hope, and uncertainty on the faces of the young couple.

  As a cheer went up for the newly-married couple, Anson joined in, hearing her lord's voice beside her. Tears ran down his cheeks as he cheered with the villagers, calling for a long and happy life for the couple. Even as he wished them blessings in the name of – when it came down to it – his own ancestors.

  The guests followed the newlyweds toward the banquet tables, and Anson glanced at her lord. Their eyes met for a moment, and he managed a smile. A wide, genuine smile, like she hadn't seen since they'd left the palace to start this journey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Nick: Grandma

  The Blue Griffon rocked gently back and forth with the movement of the waves, her mooring lines going taut before slackening again. The massive wooden hull of the ship nudged against the coiled-rope bumpers protecting the pier.

  Underneath the pier, Nick sat on a crossbeam, his back against one of the uprights. He'd been awake since well before dawn; a shove from Cass had jolted him awake when the moon was still high in the sky. She'd then exited the cave, her warmth vanishing into the cold air, leaving him to stumble to his feet, wrapped in the blanket, and begin pulling on his clothes in darkness. When he emerged, they'd exchanged few words over a breakfast of hard biscuits from her pack; the only discussion had been about how he was going to get to the mage settlement, and where she would be waiting when he returned.

  He pulled himself back to the present, and looked up. Above him was the thick decking of the pier, and above that he could hear the sounds of people moving about on the ship. Two mages had boarded the ship earlier, accompanied by their apprentices and other minions, and Nick patiently awaited their return.

  If he turned his head a little, he could see past the post and all the way to the middle of the mage settlement. Everything was centred around the structure in the middle of the open space. Like a two-storey version of the magical furnace aboard the Blue Griffon, the furnace spewed blue flames that danced their way skyward. The whole time Nick had been sitting under the pier, three mages — apparently working in shifts — had been at the furnace. Though they were too far away to hear clearly, he could see the mages had their arms in the air, constantly moving their hands about; the flames coming out of the furnace seemed to respond in kind.

  Doing some strange mage stuff, Nick presumed. Stuff he doubted he would have understood if someone had explained it to him, but clearly it had something to do with controlling the brilliant fire in the furnace.

  Every quarter hour, by Nick's reckoning, a younger mage would come from the warehouse, bearing a magic item of some sort, usually a sword or wand. It would be tossed into the furnace, which would then seethe and flare with renewed vigour before slowly fading over the next quarter hour.

  He began to mentally retrace the steps that had led him here. Sitting under a pier, on an unknown island beyond the Empire, spying on a group of rebellious mages. Rebellious, powerful mages. It was because of Cass, and those damned dragonhide leathers. He hadn't been forced to follow her; she'd let him out of the dungeon of Whiteport Keep, and he could easily have kept going. A brisk walk in any other direction would have seen him out of Whiteport, and safely on his way to a new life anywhere he wanted. Instead, he'd chosen to investigate, to learn more about this woman and what she was doing. Thinking with his pants again, he chided himself. What chance did he have of –

  Nick paused as he heard footsteps above, and the creaking of ropes: people were descending the gangway from the ship onto the pier.

  A voice filtered down from above. It was a man's voice, deep and rich. "We knew the hired crew was a weakness in the plan," said the man. "We paid them generously, and yet they saw fit to supplement their wages by taking on passengers—"

  "Against our express instructions," said a second man's voice, high and tinny. "Specific instructions."

  "…As you say, Master Turvits."

  "And we will need a new crew. Quiet people. People we can trust."

  Nick looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the two men who had descended to the pier. He could clearly see the sweeping robes they wore — one of blue, the other of brown — but couldn't see their faces from this angle, and didn't want to move to get a better look. The deep-voiced one, in blue, was heavier and moved more slowly; he made the boards of the dock creak as they walked. The other — Master Turvits, the high-voiced one in brown robes — was a thin rail of a man, who moved quickly and excitedly, rocking back and forth on his feet as he spoke.

  "Our lady approaches," said the first man. "Are you certain about the fourth passenger?"

  "Oh yes, I am, I most definitely am. But we can't both be right—"

  A woman's voice interrupted. "You can't both be right about what, gentlemen?"

  Nick leaned to his right to peek around the other side of the column, and saw an elderly woman approaching the steps up to the pier. She wore red robes, and had a tight, lined face. Her white hair was tied into a severe bun. Nick thought the woman looked like his grandmother; childhood memories came to mind of being bounced on her knee and bribed with sweets. When the woman gave a brief wave to the two men on the pier, Nick caught a glimpse of a magic artifact on her finger. He recognised it: the Ring of Fire. His grandmother certainly didn't have that. Only one person did.

  Duchess Banavia of Taneen, the only High Warmage currently ranked, had retired from the Emperor's service two years ago. Rumour had it she had single-handedly killed a dragon — Amanenth the Blue, some said — that had been a personal friend of the Emperor. But at the moment, she still looked like Nick's sweet grandmother, and he found it unsettling.

  As Duchess Banavia ascended the steps to the pier, Nick heard the shuffling of feet and the rustling of robes from the two men; he presumed they were bowing to the High Warmage. "Your Grace," said the blue-robed mage with the deep voice, "We have finished our investigation of the ship." The man half-turned to his colleague. "If I may, Master Turvits? Please correct me if I miss anything."

  "Oh I will, Master Eyand, I will indeed. Definitely."

  The blue-robed Master Eyand took a deep breath. "Your Grace, the civilian crew of the Blue Griffon was once again supplementing their wages by taking on unauthorised passengers, then killing them while in transit."

  "Yes? Go on."

  "It appears, your Grace, that one of the current passengers was more than the crew expected. Two passengers were killed as usual, but one used magic to barricade themselves in their cabin and were thus spared. They are not among the dead."

  "What do the dead have to say?" asked the Duchess.

  "Regrettably, your Grace, we cannot speak to them, because all the bodies were decapitated. Also, your Grace, we have conflicting evidence as to the possible presence of a fourth passenger."

  "Conflicting, gentlemen? You two are supposed to be masters of your craft. How is this possible?"

  "My scrying showed no evidence of the fourth cabin having been occupied. However, Master Turvits—"

  "I checked the cabin as well, your Grace," sputtered the high-pitched voice. "The bed showed signs of having been slept on. It smelled faintly of weapon oil, leather oil…and dragon."

  "Dragon?" said the Duchess.

  "Your Grace," said Master Eyand. "Scrying showed no evidence of anyone having been in that cabin. Furthermore, even though my scrying let me see the crew being killed, I was unable to see who was doing the killing."

  Everyone on the pier above fell silent, which probably meant the High Warmage was thinking, and the other two were being sensibly quiet. "Master Turvits," she said at last. Her voice was clear and taut. "You are certain of what you saw?"

  The thin man bowed, shuffling his feet and making sand rain down between the boards onto Nick's face. "On my life, I am quite certain: someone was on that bunk, who smelled of dragon."

  Up above, the woman shifted her stance,. "Master Eyand, you are also certain?"

  The blue-robed mage bowed as well. "Your Grace, I am certain. I detected no one in that cabin, and did not see who was fighting the crew. I am certain, on my life."

  "It may well come to that," said the Duchess. "Thank you both."

  "Your Grace?" asked Turvits.

  "For both of your statements to be true, there is only one possibility: an Unseen was in that cabin."

  "By the gods," whispered Eyand. "They may have reached the island. We should assume they have."

  Turvits made a brief whining noise before speaking, his voice an excited jumble. "Who has Unseen at their command? Who? Very few. The Empire, and maybe the Guild of Shades, and—"

  Between two boards, Nick caught a glimpse of Duchess Banavia. She was watching the other two mages, and gave them a dismissive wave. "It matters not, even if they have reached the island. They cannot contact their masters, because we control magic here. And the only way off the island is this very ship. So, if there is a spy on this island, we need only wait until they try to use magic, or try to steal the ship."

 

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