Worlan, Neserea
In the deep gray of the misty afternoon, the Maitre stands behind the parapets of the ancient structure that had once been the keep of Belmar. He looks beyond the cliffs on which the hold is situated and northward out onto almost black waters of the Bitter Sea, dotted here and again with the white of ice floes. Somewhere to the north, beyond his vision, is the fleet that should port at Worlan on the morrow. After a last glance into the dimness, he turns and descends the narrow stairs two levels before turning off at the landing and stepping into a small room that contains little more than a scrying pool and one tall man in Sturinnese white who is checking the tuning on a stringed instrument more angular than the lutars employed in Defalk, if of similar size.
The man straightens, lowering the instrument. “Maitre.”
“What have the pools of the noble Belmar shown you, jerClayne?” asks the Maitre, a humorous tone in his inquiry.
“Ah…Maitre…” The Sturinnese sorcerer swallows. “The Shadow Sorceress is not headed to Neserea. Nor to Mansuur. The Ranuans carry her westward, and they are nearing the Ostisles.”
“You are certain?” The Maitre stares intently at jerClayne.
“We cannot yet scry her directly, but she is aboard one of the Ranuan ships, and she is far nearer to the Ostisles than to Liedwahr. That is all that I can tell with any certainty, Maitre.”
“For her, that is more than certain enough.” The Maitre tightens his lips for but an instant. “How many vessels?”
“Still just a half-score. The same as before.”
“And the ships of Nordwei?”
“They are nearing Osta. They are close enough to land that the glass is more certain. The home defense fleet is within a day’s sail.”
“Yes. The Assistant Maitre sent a plate this morning stating that. If the northerners will fight, then we will soon hold all the north of Liedwahr.”
“You do not think that they will?” inquires jerClayne.
“They are only in the Ostisles to keep our fleet from attacking the Ranuan ships carrying the sorceress. If we form to attack them, they will flee with the wind, and regroup later, closer to Nordwei, and where it will suit them to make a defense, if and when our ships near Wei.”
The tall jerClayne nods, waiting.
“I will write a message. Come by my study in a glass to fetch it. Then you will transfer the words to a bronze plate, and have it sent to the Assistant Maitre in Stura. He may not think the shadowsinger a threat, nor understand her goal. He has enough vessels left to intercept their small flotilla. And even should she raise a wave or two against our cities…they are well built.” The Maitre shakes his head. “While she is in midocean, she can do nothing to save Neserea. Nor is there much she can do against Stura.”
“Did she not destroy an entire fleet south of Dumar?”
“Our commanders will not mass their vessels so, but use the tactics of the lancers, to attack in waves until the sorceress and her assistant are too exhausted to cast more spells. They are to harass the Ranuans until they turn from the isles or are defeated, and they will be.”
The duty sorcerer nods dutifully.
“Even if she does reach the shores of Stura, what can she do? Our greatest fleets are here, as are our lancers. If she lands, she will be lost, for every man’s hand will be against her, and no woman would dare leave her chains.” He shrugs. “We may have to rebuild a port or two, and replace some of the defense fleet.” A cold smile punctuates his words. “We can suffer great losses, if need be. She can suffer none. She is also malicious, and malice makes a poor guide. For those reasons, and because we are of Sturinn, we will triumph.” He pauses but briefly. “Come and get the message in a glass.”
“Yes, Maitre.”
JerClayne’s eyes follow the Maitre as the older sorcerer turns and leaves the scrying room.
The Maitre descends another three levels to the chamber that had once been Belmar’s.
Even as he steps through the door, the waiting serving girl immediately prostrates herself on the cold stone floor. She wears but the shortest of armless tunics, and the heavy chains that restrict her arms so that they cannot rise above her shoulders clank against the grayish granite. The redness under the wrist and ankle cuffs has almost faded from her pale skin. Except for the shivering that she cannot control, she does not move as the Maitre looks at her.
“You may rise and attend me.”
The girl rises, her eyes dull, fixed on the granite floor.