Prince Maesa, page 9
The pair met upon the shore. He was arrogant, like most aelves. But this one, he had an air of desperation, and though he tried his best to stand tall and haughty over our craftsman, his gaze kept drifting sideways, as if he expected his worst fears to emerge from the sea, and pull him under. The craftsman stood with legs apart, his fingers hooked into his belt. He was the very picture of indomitability. He looked confident, Bertgilda said, he looked stubborn.
‘Do you have the necklace?’ said the aelf.
‘Do you have my payment?’ the craftsman said. He patted the butt of his gun.
‘You shall have it, I promise,’ said the aelf, and he appeared sufficiently apologetic that our craftsman lost a little of his anger. ‘Please,’ the aelf pleaded. ‘Let me see the necklace.’ He looked nervously over the water again. ‘She will be here soon. She is my love, but we must not anger her.’
The craftsman thought nothing of this. Duardin women are notoriously fiery of temper too, and with a people as mercurial as the aelves, well… Let’s just say I am glad my wife is no aelven female.
‘His isn’t either!’ hissed Shattercap, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘You be nice, beard-bearer. Make bad thoughts about the poor prince. His wife is–’
‘Silence, Shattercap,’ said Prince Maesa, so firmly the spite cringed. ‘Pray continue,’ he said to Stonbrak’s questioning expression. Maesa left no doubt that he would not speak further on the matter.
The necklace was presented. The light of eight seas shone into the grey aelf’s face. His unfriendly demeanour was banished as he wondered at the work.
‘Truly you are a master of your craft!’ the aelf said. The craftsman bowed.
‘I am,’ said our craftsman, and he took the necklace back. The aelf’s yearning gaze followed it all the way into the pouch. ‘Now. My payment,’ said the duardin.
The aelf shrank in on himself, for he was rightfully ashamed, and gave the craftsman a desperate look. ‘You must give me the necklace and go.’
‘Are you mad?’ said the craftsman. ‘You will pay me!’
‘I will, I will,’ said the aelf. ‘Payment will be left here. You must leave the beach, turn your back on the sea. Do not look to the water, or it will go badly for you. My lover has the gold, and I swear by Mathlann, who she worships, I shall leave it here for you.’
‘Lies!’ boomed our craftsman. His voice rolled out over the lazy slap of the water. His talented hands drew his pistol and pointed it at the aelf’s head.
‘I am sorry!’ wailed the aelf. He clasped his hands together. ‘I did not wish to trick you, but this is the only way.’ He blinked. ‘I told you a little mistruth. I have no way to pay you myself.’
‘Then I shall blow your lying aelven head off!’ roared the craftsman, who by then had had more than his fill of aelven nonsense.
‘Wait, wait! I mean for you to be paid! She has riches beyond compare. She is beauty incarnate. She will give you what you seek, I swear, but please, you must leave. Get away from the water, for your own sake!’
‘I,’ said the craftsman through lips flecked with rage’s spittle, ‘am an honourable being. I have endured questioning, and innuendo, and threats because of the funds I borrowed to make your necklace. I refused to listen. Our contract is binding, but you have invalidated it. I am going, and I will sell this necklace of the eight seas to recoup my loss.’
‘You mustn’t!’ said the aelf. Ignoring the gun held at his head, he ran to the shoreline and back again. His feet whispered over the stones. The click of the hammer drawn back halted him, loud and clear in that listless, leaden bay.
‘Goodbye, master aelf,’ said the craftsman. He began to back away.
The aelf remained staring out to sea. ‘Oh no, I have erred. I have erred most gravely!’ A haunting horn note echoed from the cliffs, penetrating the mists, and travelled far out to sea. ‘Too late!’ the aelf said in anguish. ‘She comes!’
The craftsman paused. ‘Then she can pay me herself,’ he said, his pistol not wavering one hair’s breadth from the aelf’s head.
Bertgilda watched with mounting horror. She wished to shout that the craftsman should flee, but he was her elder, and she had no right to tell him what to do. The scene took on the feeling of a dream. The sea boiled not far from the shore, and from the waves a pale-skinned aelf maid rose. Although she left the water, it did not appear to leave her. Her hair and clothes moved with the slow dances of the drowned. Fish darted through the air beside her. If she swam herself or flew towards the shore, Bertgilda could not be sure, for she seemed to do both. Her account was confused. Her recollection of events was slipping from her when I heard the tale, and the second time I spoke with her about this matter, she had forgotten most of it, all in the space of a day! Aelven witchcraft.
The aelf maid floated to the beach, her feet not once touching the floor.
‘You have the necklace?’ she said.
‘Give it to her!’ the aelf hissed. ‘If you value your life, please! If she is satisfied you may depart with your soul and your sea-gold. Ah,’ he said, as he saw the expression on the maiden’s face. ‘At least your soul.’
Still holding up the gun, the craftsman pulled out the necklace and raised it for the aelf maid to see.
She gasped with pleasure and drifted nearer, not once touching the jewellery, but caressing it with her gaze. As she peered into each watergem and saw the worlds entrapped therein, she laughed, and said in delight, ‘A fine gift you have brought me, my dryshod love. A worthy price for my affection.’
A look of pure avarice gripped her. The look she gave my kinsman was far, far worse.
‘You have another item for me, I see.’
The aelf looked at the craftsman. ‘Please!’ he said ‘Run!’
Too late did our honest jeweller see the peril he was in, and even when he did, a duardin does not run. Never! He fired his gun. The report of the shot banged off every stone and out into the mist. But the violence of the noise was all the shot availed him. The bullet slowed, as if caught by water, and drifted down, scaring apart a shoal of fish swimming in that uncanny ocean surrounding the foreign princess. The maid descended upon him, hands outstretched. His gun fell to the shingle.
What act of sorcery the aelf performed, I cannot say. Bertgilda was gripped by an awful, unnatural terror, and could not watch. The last she heard was the craftsman’s strangled groan, the awful scream of the male aelf, and a mighty splash. She lost her senses for a while. When she regained them the aelves were gone. The craftsman, by a miracle of the ancestors, lay upon the shingle, eyes wide, still breathing. At first she laughed through her tears, until she found her attempts to rouse him failed, and she realised his body lived utterly devoid of mind.
Upon his chest was a weed-wrapped net full of treasure dragged from cursed wrecks. The promised payment for his work.
Stonbrak pulled hard on his pipe, his exhalations filling the space around the table with a cloud of smoke. The fire was burning low, lighting the room through the pipe’s exhaust much as Stonbrak had described Ulgu, a glowing mist, never bright, never truly dark.
‘Bertgilda returned to the city half out of her wits,’ he said. ‘Days later, our clan heard a rumour. An aelf of low birth had taken the most precious treasure owned by the mountain king and used it to buy the hand of the daughter of a foreign lord. That treasure was eight watergems.
‘For some time, the grey aelves argued with us about the fate of the craftsman. Eventually, the Alder Council declared the craftsman at fault on account of reckless brokering; the aelves admitted their share of the blame. His creditors called in their loan. The sea-gold covered the debt, and his family were lucky to avoid penury.
‘I learned all this when I returned home. The craftsman’s deathless state persisted for some days before he expired, but he never once spoke again. By the time I saw Bertgilda, she was ill of mind, though I managed to piece together the events from what she said before she forgot them all. She lived, thank Grungni, but it took her a long time to recover.
‘Every day for ten years I walked from the city to hammer on the mountain gates of the grey aelves. Their guards and their functionaries spoke with me, but their high lords would not see me, until, annoyed by my persistence, they paid blood money for the craftsman’s death and told me that was to be the end of it. Unwilling to risk relations with our neighbours, the Alder Council ordered that I drop the matter. I did, and though they assured me I did so honourably, it stung me.’
Stonbrak grumbled into his pint pot. ‘From this tale I learned three things. Generosity is a weakness. Always take payment up front.’ He jabbed his pipestem at the prince. ‘And never trust an aelf!’
Maesa sipped the last of his wine and gestured for more. Horrin hurried off to oblige. ‘Surely the message of your tale is that greed is a weakness?’ said Maesa. ‘Pride, a desire to maintain his honour and goldlust were his downfall. Can you not see?’
‘And you imply these are flaws?’ Stonbrak slammed his pot down. ‘Not at all. Pride drives a being to do his best. Honour, to maintain it. Greed is good, so long as it does not overrule sense,’ said the duardin. He clamped his pipe in his teeth with an audible click.
‘Yet all three led to his demise.’
‘Life,’ said Stonbrak coolly, ‘can be cruel.’
‘Who was this craftsman to you?’ said Maesa. ‘I guess he was close, from your sorrow.’
‘What of it?’ snapped Stonbrak. ‘He was my clansman, his dishonour tarnishes the reputation of all his kin. Enough to shame me twice over.’
‘He was more than a cousin or an uncle, I think,’ said Maesa.
Horrin returned with a jug of wine. ‘I’m sure his highness here meant no offence,’ he said cheerily, keen to head off disagreement between his guests. Before either could reply, a strong gust buffeted the inn, and a rattle of hail. He looked up momentarily as the structure shifted. Dust sifted down from the rafters. The building settled.
‘I seek merely to understand,’ said Maesa.
‘Not much to understand,’ grumbled Stonbrak. Horrin poured.
‘Then tell us,’ said Maesa. ‘Who was he?’
Stonbrak removed his pipe, grasped it hard in both hands, and stared at it.
‘His name was Jurven. He was my brother. I loved him dearly,’ Stonbrak said shortly, embarrassment clamping his jaw so he bit off the words. Then he softened with the sentimentality his kind hide so well. ‘When we were young, people assumed I would be envious of him, but it was not so,’ he said. ‘His works were a marvel. I lacked his perfect skill, but I never had any feeling for him other than pride in his ability. As I could not compete, I became a merchant, travelling the realms beyond Ulgu to sell his crafts, and many a pretty profit I turned. It was while I was gone that tragedy befell him.’
Shattercap reached up his cup to the innkeeper. ‘More, more!’ he said.
Horrin looked to Maesa. The aelf nodded.
‘Just a little more,’ he said.
Horrin obliged, tipping a few drops into Shattercap’s thimble.
‘I tell you what else I learned,’ said Stonbrak. He patted his axe. ‘I don’t use firearms after what I heard. I trust my life to my axe.’ Runes glimmered on the shaft and head, fading only reluctantly when his hand left the metal. Barnabus crept up to Ninian, and snuggled into her. Warmth enveloped the company.
‘Now,’ Stonbrak barked. ‘You have had your story from me. I nominate this aelven princeling next.’ The wind was dropping, but the rain picked up, its nervous fingers rattling on the shutters. Thunder cracked.
‘The weather is improving, perhaps,’ murmured Quasque. ‘The storm breaks. Perhaps the ship will come sooner?’
‘I am afraid not,’ said Horrin. ‘The eye of the storm is closing in on us. There will be a drumbeat of thunder, a dazzlement of lightning!’ He had consumed all his fourth drink and much of his fifth while listening to Stonbrak, and was thoroughly set in the storytelling mood. He was eager for more. ‘The eye will drift over, and linger awhile. When it goes on its way, we’ll have more wind, more rain. There is plenty of time for more tales,’ he said. ‘Will you, could you, tell us a story, Prince Maesa?’
‘I could.’
‘I would like to choose!’ said Stonbrak. ‘An aelf like him will have lifetimes of tales, but there is one in particular I would like to hear.’
‘Is there?’ said Maesa. ‘And which is that?’
‘I want to know about him,’ said Stonbrak, pointing at Shattercap. ‘Tell me how you came into the company of this little monster here.’
Shattercap hissed.
Maesa set his glass down. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shall.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
A SHORT BREAK
Shattercap grinned slyly. ‘This is the best story!’
‘That may be,’ said Pludu Quasque. He was the quietest in the company, the storm frightened him, but the promise of Prince Maesa’s tale woke a little of his curiosity and he peered at the spite. ‘I have some experience with arcane creatures.’
‘My name is Shattercap!’ said Shattercap indignantly. ‘Not creature!’
‘It is a forest daemon,’ said Stonbrak dismissively. ‘No good can come of having it around.’
‘Then why do you wish to know where he comes from?’ asked Horrin.
‘For protection’s sake,’ said the duardin sternly. ‘Stories have a power of their own. Useful magic, when dealing with things like that.’
‘He is not a daemon,’ said Quasque. ‘Is he?’
‘He is not,’ agreed Maesa.
‘He is a spite,’ said Quasque.
‘He is,’ said Maesa.
‘I have read of spites, but never seen one, until now,’ said Quasque.
‘You are familiar with the breed?’ said Maesa.
‘Book learning only,’ said Quasque bashfully.
The wind was dropping as the eye of the storm circled around the Brazen Claw. Each dying roar drew out a shudder from Quasque, but his fear was lessening as the wind dropped, and his spine uncurled slightly so that he looked a little less hunted.
‘I would be…’ Quasque said. Thunder clashed. He cringed. His voice rose, as if he were stifling a shriek. He swallowed, and composed himself. ‘I would be grateful for any information you could provide. I am, ah…’ He licked his lips. His eyes darted at his fellow travellers. ‘A student of the esoteric arts.’
More thunder, then… quiet. The wind had dropped to a sigh.
Maesa drained his second drink and motioned for his glass to be refilled again. Horrin leaned over to pour from the bottle.
‘While you’re at it,’ said Stonbrak loudly, ‘you can get me another.’
‘Of course, Master Stonbrak,’ said Horrin, and bustled off.
‘And bring the whole cask this time!’ Stonbrak shouted. He grumbled at his pint pot like its emptiness was responsible for the world’s ills. ‘Manling measures,’ he complained.
‘The spites are creatures of magic and spirit,’ Maesa said.
‘So, a daemon,’ said Stonbrak. He peered into his pot in case any beer had escaped his attention.
‘Not a daemon,’ said Maesa, refusing the duardin’s attempts to irritate him. ‘Though inclined to mischief they are not things of Chaos. They are aelemental beings. They have free will, or else how would I be able to teach Shattercap here how to be good?’
Shattercap burped and grinned from ear to ear.
Maesa stroked the tiny spite’s back, rustling the leaves there. ‘To change, one must have the power of self-determination. A daemon is a product of its monstrous patron, and can make no choice that would lead it away from its master’s essential character. Spites are born of the woods and trees. They are the will of moss manifest. They are the dreams of branches. They are the thoughts of ferns, and the musings of grass.’
‘A plant daemon then,’ said Stonbrak. He refilled his pipe. Quasque produced a small brass pipe of his own from an inner pocket, held it forth, and gave the duardin a hopeful look. Stonbrak rolled his eyes. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but this is duardin smokeweed. I’ll warrant it’ll choke a strip of crackling like you dead.’ He tossed his tobacco pouch over the table. Quasque took it up gratefully, and filled his pipe bowl to the very brim, to Stonbrak’s scowling annoyance.
‘Like all things of free will,’ continued Maesa, ‘a spite may make the wrong choice. They can be enslaved, or dominated by those of greater will. They can be evil of their own accord. So although he is most assuredly not a daemon, Idenkor Stonbrak, he is dangerous, as you have asserted.’
Horrin came back with a small keg under one arm and the other hand supporting a tray crammed with drinks balanced in that magical way common to barkeeps everywhere. He set the keg down before the duardin with a thump. Stonbrak licked his lips.
‘That is more like it!’ Stonbrak said.
Horrin passed out drinks to the others, explaining that he thought it better to make sure everyone was well supplied, then Stonbrak said he was hungry, and Quasque requested the location of the privy. Barnabus was falling asleep in his foster mother’s arms, and she nudged him towards his spot by the fire. He awoke and loudly refused to go. Their argument over his bedtime started a flurry of activity. The travellers toileted, Horrin fetched food. Barnabus won a reprieve from his bed. For a brief while the inn was all a-clatter, evoking a sense of busier nights, so that a sense of safe conviviality outdid the storm’s menace.
Finally, relieved, refreshed and with plates of bread and cheese in front of them, they were ready to continue. Horrin was the last to sit. Before he did, he ostentatiously noted down the fare consumed upon a slate, peering at each traveller and counting the provisions they had consumed not quite aloud but in such a way they were sure to see, in case any of them assumed greater generosity of Horrin than he actually possessed, and attempted to duck the bill.
