The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter XXVI

It was almost daylight by the time I piloted our ship past the cliffs guarding the port of Timras. We saw, to our left, great bronze rings set into the stone cliffs. A bronze chain was passed through the rings, a full league long, in times or war or danger, when the Prince of Timras wished to close off the harbor. Huge winches stood beside the rings to raise the awesome weight of the chain, which at this moment lay along the bottom of the harbor.

Quinquius pointed to the rings and said, "Valerius tried to do that at Trentum, but the harbor is five miles wide. He lost the chain the first time they tried to winch it up from the bottom. Now the pearl divers and salvors go down and gape at it. A waste of twenty thousand gold sestrians."

I grinned and gazed as we passed under the cliffs. Quinquius and Sored stood at the railing with as many of the remainder of the troop as could stand. Mourner was below, still resting. His leg was healing too slowly to suit me, and he was under orders to lie still for a day.

Quinquius was bearing Kenui's passing well. I wasn't surprised, though. He was a realist as only a Roman could be. He faced what had to be faced and tried not to waste his time bewailing what couldn't be helped. It's an attitude I'd recommend to anyone who seeks peace of mind.

The cliffs reared above us like high, dark sentinels guarding the entrance to the port of Timras, wreathed with the shreds of the morning's mist that raveled and thinned even as we watched. A cloud of smaller boats‑‑fishing smacks and small traders‑‑came toward us, glinting in the light of the rising sun that shone red on their wet sides. They parted to starboard and port and passed us with a twitter of pipes and small horns. There were shouts of greeting and we could see faces upturned toward us, eyes wide with wonder as they scanned our tattered canvas. We heard the notes of a trumpet as we slid beneath the shadow of the cliffs. I didn't recognize the call.

Sored turned and said, "I think we just rang the front doorbell."

Another call, this time from a large, deep‑waisted ship to port, seemed to confirm what he said.

Quinquius nodded toward the ship. "The Morwen," he said. "Prince Hethra's flagship. I saw her eleven years ago, at Rome. Hm. She's too big to be running harbor patrol: I wonder what she's doing here."

I watched the Morwen as she came about. Her captain did a good job of it. She glided toward us, heeling slightly as she came across the wind, twin plumes of froth curling to either side of the bronze ram in her bow. Bright bronze shields overlapped her sides, glistening like the scales of a fantastic serpent.

Now she was upon us, and a voice hailed us in the name of Hethra, Prince of Timras. I could see the captain standing by the railing, his hands cupped around his mouth. I could also see the rows of archers flanking him with drawn bows.

Well, I had no intention of offering resistance; in fact, I had come to Timras with the express intention of surrendering myself and the remnants of the troop to the Prince. I told the captain so, told him who we were and where we came from, leaving nothing out. And then I offered to stand back and let his men board our ship.

** ** **

I faced him on the deck ten minutes later, apart from the rest of my men. He was a tall, strapping man, older than me with graying black hair and sea‑green eyes that bordered on gray. I liked his looks and his voice. In fact, I liked everything about him except the fact that he was my captor, but I could forgive him even that because his first question when we stood apart was whether I had sufficient medicines, and whether I needed the assistance of his surgeon.

I thanked him, said we were all right for the moment, and then told him who I was. "Oristides, from Latriae‑‑in Hellas, that is. I'm Prince Anakreon's second‑in‑command. He was wounded in the fighting with Ghurthai's ships, and he's below, unconscious. I act for him and with the consent of the troop."

The captain nodded. "I hear you put up a good fight," he said. "Thirteen ships against a hundred, and you fought for hours."

"We had no choice," I said bitterly. "The Northane of Verheim wouldn't allow us to surrender. That's how Anakreon was wounded and Kenui‑‑"

I wasn't as practical as Quinquius. I was gripped by a twinge of grief, just for a moment. It must have shown on my face, because the captain made a motion with his hand. "I see," he said gently. "You may rest easy now."

I heard what he had left unsaid: I could surrender now. It rankled a little, but I had to admit that he had a point. I had been part of a force fighting an ally of Timras. The Northane of Verheim also had close family ties with the Varan dynasty of Timras, since his older sister was married to the Crown Prince, Ramsin, and he had actually been fostered by Hethra himself during the years of his minority, when Hethra had acted as regent for him. I had heard that they were as close as father and son.

The Prince of Timras is the most powerful ruler on the continent, governing Timras and the North Islands as well as the vast Varan trading concerns. They were tricked out of the kingship of Verheim through plain treachery on the part of the Rus lords of Vorgaroth, but they retained the title of 'King', and when the last Rus died‑‑and the line was growing thin‑‑they would regain the throne. The Rus never felt comfortable about usurping Verheim, so they kept their old title of 'Northane' or warlord. They ruled as stewards, often deferring to the judgement of the Princes of Timras.

Verheim was only a relatively small chunk of the Varans' holdings, and Prince Rurlin, who had lost Verheim, commented that since the Rus were taking away a most troublesome piece of comparative wasteland, why, they were welcome to it, and good riddance to them. They didn't waste time in ill feelings, and they had forged strong, warm ties of friendship with Verheim over the passage of two hundred years. I had never heard ill of the Varans, and I thought surrendering to Prince Hethra was the wisest move I could possibly make as matters stood.

So I unbuckled my sword belt, which I had donned for the occasion, and presented it to the captain. He accepted it, returned it to me, and offered me brandy from his own flask.

Just about then I needed something, so I took the tiny cup he offered, drank, and then said, "My men need time to recover, and if we had the time here‑‑I would give my word to keep the peace, if he required it. Would‑‑would Prince Hethra consider giving us sanctuary?"

The captain sipped from the cup that covered his flask and smiled quietly. "I don't think he would object," he said. "We'll see, of course. Come along. I'll have my pilot stay with you and guide you to your berth, then I'll escort you to the palace. His Highness will want to see you right away. I wouldn't worry, though, if I were you. Hethra has a mind of his own, and though Ghurthai is with him now and may still be angry about Garius, I think you'll be safe."

GhurthaiI!

I felt the deck tilt beneath my feet. The next thing I knew I was sitting on a coil of rope with the captain bending over me.

Ghurthai! What was the use, I wondered, since ill luck seemed to dog my footsteps? I was a dead man, and I might as well put the bravest face on it. And that captain‑‑I looked up at him and frowned‑‑he was a slick one, and cruel to boot, taking my surrender with such cordiality, mouthing insincere concerns about my wounded. Ha! We'd all be hanged.

The captain seemed to read my thoughts, for he took a grip of my elbow and helped me to my feet. "Don't look like that," he said. "I'll speak for you. Prince Hethra may have a mind of his own, but my word carries weight with him. I'm Jemail, his third brother, Admiral of the Fleet. My brother, Moryan, the Grand‑Master Swordsman of this continent and Commander of the Verhemese corps of Bersaukar, is with me, returning to Timras.  You're my hand , Captain Oristides."