of sailors, back
of the inn a corral with fenced in ponies, the ponies for rent as
haulers of inland cargo.
Staying in the inn was the young king, soon
to be asleep in his small bed on the upper floor, unaware that he
was king of ... nothing.
The messenger bird Gagar brought to Coluth
that morning had revealed how beggared the young Yarro had become,
most of Stil-de-grain in enemy hands, Orpiment just surrendered to
the white-faced forces of the evil, Azare band. Likewise, the
whites had overrun -- though, this time not stopping to root up
every blade of grass -- the entire up-light band to the Lake of
Quince. A straggler from across the Tartrazine had reported that a
Malachite vanguard had taken Hero Castle!
True, there were rumors of scattered
resistance from tiny, marauder companies. But the cold truth was
that all that remained of independent Stil-de-grain was here in the
area of the Claws, the Claws protecting the exhausted remnant of
the army's "glorious" expedition to relieve Carotene.
The fleet was also here. What was left of it.
Mostly merchant ships converted into troop transports.
Yes, there was a hardened knot of naval
ships, deadly rams of bronze added to their prows on the advice of
the Mage. But too few to resist the naval forces of Malachite.
Even the capital -- long thought to be safe
on Xanthin Island -- was in enemy hands. (Foreseeing that
eventuality, Coluth had gotten young Yarro away in time.)
All that remained were re-formed companies of
the Stil-de-grain Army -- armed with light weapons only, the
ponderous catapults abandoned in the retreat. A few companies and
the merchant marine. Hiding here in Realgar waters, a light band
place which, Coluth hoped, men from the heavy band of Malachite
would find uncomfortable to conquer.
Down-light was fast coming. The orange sky
over the Realgar band, browning out.
Finished with supper, the oarsmen on the
boats -- as they were, no doubt, doing in other docks in other
claws stretched across the bottom of Sea Minor -- had begun to row
the ships away from land, backing out as far as the tie-ropes would
stretch. At rope's end, they would drop anchors to keep them away
from the dangerous, nighttime shore, at the same time, secure the
ships from drifting out among the deep water monsters of the
nighttime sea.
A land-guard no longer needed, Philelph, at
dock's end, gave his salute then stepped into a punt. Standing in
the small craft with the loose balance of a seaman, Philelph poled
himself over the shallow stretch of foggy water to join his
shipboard comrades for the night.
The darkness settling fast, Coluth must also
return to the sheltering inn.
And yet, he lingered.
His rough hands clasped behind him, Coluth
kept his weathered face turned seaward, his light eyes seeking to
penetrate the increasingly thick mist, now fading to a raw
sienna.
As if ... at any moment ... out of the sea
... would come ... the Mage.
For John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was their only hope,
if hope there was.
The Mage had evaporated ... like an up-light
haze. Rumor said, from Hero Castle. Gone to the other world.
Simple sea captain that he
was, Coluth was less afraid of John-Lyon-Pfnaravin than other men.
Was this because he'd met the Mage before the Sorcerer had been
generally known to be the Mage, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin but a passenger
aboard the Roamer ?
A strange man who, from the first, asked
unanswerable questions. About something called the "sun." About the
"moon." The "stars." About a phenomena called tides -- all
meaningless queries.
In those days, John-Lyon (as he called
himself) seemed, almost, to be simple. Still, he had pulled his
weight of oar. Truthfully, more than his weight of oar, the Mage
with unusual strength.
Taking into account his ... odd ... qualities
... there was no hint at that time that John-Lyon was
Pfnaravin.
After the naval defeat, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin
-- now Mage of Stil-de-grain -- had appointed Coluth Naval
Head.
Now, the army also defeated, all
The Science of Leonardo: Inside the Mind of the Great Genius of the Renaissance