IGMS Issue 11 Read online

  We jumped to our places, scrambling up the rigging, heading below to man the Fox's two paltry cannons. My job at times of crisis was to man the ropes that controlled the jib and generally do what I was ordered to do. The Fox didn't fight -- she ran. She was a sloop, built for speed, not strength. But there was no wind and the sails lay slack and limp against the masts. No wind, and yet the other ship was still coming on.

  "How do they have wind? We're cursed!" said Davin.

  "It's the gods-be-damned box! Toss it over the side!" said Geberich. His words sparked a chorus of agreement.

  My heart hammered within my chest and the two mages exchanged glances. They could not allow it to fall to the sea. Nor could I. I was sworn to protect it.

  Captain Teilos erupted out of his cabin, spyglass in hand. He took the ladder to the poop two rungs at a time and studied our pursuer. Lowering the glass, he turned and caught sight of me. "Aeduin!"

  I dropped the limp and useless rope I'd been holding and scurried up the ladder myself, the two mages close behind. From this higher vantage point, I could clearly see the ship which followed us. They'd unfurled their flag -- the azure dragon of Marfras.

  "Suggestions?" the captain asked, raising one eyebrow.

  "Give them their property back," I said, all pretense falling away. Dwarf began to sputter like a leaky bilge.

  "You stole that Urn from the Marfrasian Magery. Don't bother to deny it."

  "Why should I deny it?" Dwarf said. "The Marfrasians had no more right to the Urn then we do. By displaying it openly for any fool to steal they put us all at risk."

  "From?"

  "The men on that ship," Hawk said, grabbing at my arm. "You're one of us. Don't you bother to deny that! Look at that ship. Look at it!"

  I knew he meant for me to look with more than just my physical eyes, so I stretched out, listening within for the familiar voices of my order. I heard nothing but chaos, jumbled confusion. Noise. They were not my people.

  "They will use it for the worst possible end," Hawk said. "If they get the Urn, they'll take it to the heart of the Five Lands and raise the army. Not one man, woman or child will be left alive when they are done."

  "How do you know that?" Captain Teilos asked, but I already knew. Hawk's betrayal weighed on him like a sodden cloak.

  "Because he's one of them."

  "No longer." Hawk glanced up at the oncoming ship. "Captain, you must fight. If you cannot run, it is our only option."

  "Can't you do some weather magic of your own? I don't like our chances in a fight." Teilos stroked the hilt of his sword, and I knew what he was thinking. They were larger, would have a bigger crew complement. More weapons.

  Dwarf shook his head. "No. Even if your man here helps, it would take twice our number. Don't worry about the cannons. They won't risk sinking this ship. They'll grapple and board."

  The other ship, a huge three-masted square rigger, was making for our starboard side. A massive grey-green wall of water reared up behind the enemy ship like a cliff. She was coming on under the force of the storm's momentum and would be on us in moments.

  "We fight, then," Teilos said, and drew his sword. "Prepare for battle!" He wheeled away from us, heading downship. "Prepare for battle! Move like your lives depend on it!"

  My first battle, and no time to prepare my soul for Return, and neither priest nor priestess to shrive me in any case. We lined up before Geberich who passed us each a weapon; cudgels and long knives for the common sailor, cutlasses and pistols for the more experienced. The rounded hilt of my knife dug into my hand as I stood trembling, waiting for the other ship to close.

  "Stick with me, Aeduin, and you'll be fine," Davin said, grinning. Whatever fear the Urn had ripened in him had fallen away with the promise of action.

  "Why don't we fire the guns? I know why they don't fire at us, but surely we don't care if they sink?" The sky was turning a horrible charcoal grey as the force of the magical storm covered us.

  "Guns are on the port side, they're approaching to starboard. We could try to turn, but with no wind, it's a chancy thing."

  The shouts of the enemy became audible over the roar of the sea. They lined their deck, clothed in the colors of the Red Clans, shaking their weapons and howling curses to their blood-stained gods. Mercenaries.

  Davin aimed his pistol and fired. Across the water, a man fell. "Got him! Listen, stay low, plunge that knife into bellies and legs, whatever you can reach. Don't --"

  A hiss of arrows rained down on us. Davin fell, a long shaft sticking from his throat. For the space it took to take a man to breath, the ship stood frozen in the unnatural calm. Then harsh iron smashed onto wood -- grappling hooks, heavy chains clattered onto our deck and the Fox lurched sideways. They had us. The ship shuddered as the enemy vessel slammed against it. The mercenaries, like a flood, poured over the side. Our men moved forward to intercept. The clash of steel, the sound of shots and the screams of men hung heavy on the trembling air.

  I fled. Boys of noble birth are trained to arms from childhood; the common lot fight as easily as they breathe. But mages may not strike a man in anger; the magical orders ascribe, officially at least, to peace. To stab a man, to feel the force of the blade slicing through his body as his life drained away? I couldn't do that. So I dropped the knife, thrust poor Davin's pistol into my belt and fled down into the upper hold.

  There it was. The cursed Urn lay half out of its crate as though Hawk and Dwarf had made an abortive attempt to remove it to safety. It was safer here in the security of the hold, out of sight of the enemy. Out of sight of everyone but me. Footsteps echoed on the decks above me. They'd be searching the hold soon. No time to think. I grabbed up the Urn and ran, thinking only to take it as far from the water as I could. Up, then, up to the deck, I darted through the thicket of swords, protected by some god or fortune. Men were dying around me, pierced by arrow and sword, shot through by pistol, but I remained untouched. I would have said it was magic, but I was no mage. I was a pirate, and I carried my booty tucked close to my chest.

  To the crow's nest, away from the battle and the stench of blood and powder. Fear sped my passage and strengthened my arms and legs for the unfamiliar climb. From so high, looking down on the fighting, it seemed like a child's game, like the tin soldiers boys would push around a table, pretending to be Javitz at Melanolia or some other famous general defeating their nation's foes.

  But never did tin soldiers bleed so nor cry out for their mothers. I looked away, away from the Fox, which had become a death ship, and studied the enemy ship from this higher vantage. Its sails now hung as limp as our own. Beyond it the wall of water waited. All the power of the storm held in check in by the mages on that ship -- seven in all, I saw, standing in a circle with heads bent in fierce concentration. If they released their hold, the water would overwhelm us all. And they would have to release it. That much power had to be grounded eventually.

  That must have been what they intended. Once they had the Urn, they would disengage, allow themselves to drift to a safe distance, and then let loose the storm, trusting in their larger and more capable vessel to safeguard them while we would founder and die. I glanced down; Captain Teilos's sword flickered furiously against a man half a head taller with arms as thick as the Fox's mast. The battle was not going our way. I'd been a fool to think I was safe in the crow's nest. Their mages would scry the Urn's location and they'd have it from me as easy as having the skirts off a thrupenny whore. The Urn would be taken, and I would be twice forsworn; once as a mage for failing to guard it, once for running from battle.

  I raised my hand to shade my eyes from the blinding sun and looked east. At the very limit of my sight, I saw a haze of green. Land. We were so close -- if the Urn could be got safely to land, it could be buried, hidden. The wall of water was to our west. When it came crashing down, it would drive us towards the land. All I had to do was break the concentration of that circle of mages. And protect the Urn from the sea.

  I explo
ded with hysterical harsh laughter that sent a gull perched atop the mast wheeling into the sky. How could I do all that? A failed mage, a carpenter's apprentice? But I had to. The spell to repel water was one of the first they'd taught us; it was useful in protecting our scrolls and books from rain. But half the time on rainy days, the ink ran down my scrolls in black rivulets. Half the time, I'd come to class drenched and dripping to the derisive taunts of my peers. This would have to be one of the other times. I couldn't fail, not now. A man screamed, and, smelling smoke, I looked down to see the mainsail ablaze. There was no more time.

  I set the Urn down at my feet then drew magic around me like a cloak -- a thin cloak barely fit for a beggar, but it would have to do. I pushed with my mind and sent the shimmering veil of protection around the ancient jar. Hold, hold, hold. I drew the pistol. It held but one shot, and I had never fired before. But I knew the theory.

  Trying to ignore the Fox trembling around me like a dying man gasping out his last breath, I steadied my hand and took aim at the tallest of the enemy mages. The cloak of power still burned around me, the force of the magic gripped me like a fist thrust through my gut. Guide my shot, I thought, praying to my power, to the gods of magic, to the open sky and the waiting storm. From far below, I heard Captain Teilos call my name.

  The force of the pistol's retort knocked me back into the rough boards of the crow's nest. As I struggled to rise, I heard a roar like thunder, saw the wall of water rushing towards us, a black mountain of salt-stink. The joined ships lurched and bucked as the wave hammered down on us. Then I felt nothing more.

  I came to myself with my head resting on a hard cushion of sand, my legs half-submerged in lapping waves. Every inch of my body ached as though I'd been beaten. Debris and wreckage floated around me, pieces of ship and bodies. I staggered to my feet and turned away from them, not wanting to see if they were friends of mine. A little way up the beach, I saw the slender figure of Captain Teilos sitting with his back to a spindly tree, staring down at something in the sand. I approached.

  Blood streaked his clothes and he bore a purpling bruise on his left cheek, but was otherwise unscathed by the both the fight and his journey through the waves. If I'd not known better, I'd say he had magical protection to survive when so many had died. He showed no surprise at my presence.

  "I should have known you weren't dead, lad. It would take more than a storm to kill you." He continued to stare down into the sand. I followed the direction of his gaze.

  The Urn. It had survived, but some force had broken the seals. The lid had come off; the contents spilled onto the beach. But what spilled out of it looked like sand. Just plain beach sand, yellow-white and gritty, interspersed with the occasional flash of white shell. Or was it bone? Was this what the remains of a hundred thousand dead men became with the intervention of time and magic?

  "Is it sand?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "I don't know. But I wouldn't want to be on this beach when the tide comes in, just in case."

  I knelt beside the Urn and let the contents sift through my fingers. I felt nothing. No hint of power, no thrum of magic. It was dead as rock. As sand. Had it always been sand? Or had Hawk and Dwarf somehow managed to secret the contents away?

  "You know, Aeduin," Capain Teilos said. "It occurs to me that you have an opportunity here. You could take the Urn back to your magery in triumph. They'd probably welcome you with open arms."

  "The seals are broken. They'll know it's not intact." They'd know I failed as I had always failed. I suspected the masters had been secretly relieved when I'd been taken."

  "So fix them. They're just magic, aren't they?"

  "I don't have that kind of power."

  Teilos laughed. "I saw what you did to those foreign mages. Don't tell me you haven't got the power."

  "I don't know what you mean. I shot the leader with Davin's pistol which distracted the others."

  Teilos rose to his feet and stretched, brushed the sand from the back of his trousers. "Davin fired his pistol at the start of the battle. I saw that too. You don't know much about guns, do you? That was a single-shot flintlock. Did you reload?"

  Numbly, I shook my head.

  "Thought not. It wasn't a bullet killed that man. It was magic. Your magic."

  "I can't . . . I didn't . . ." But I had. The pistol had been the focus, but what had burst through that barrel hadn't been lead and powder. It had been raw power. If I could do that, I could remake the seals. I could fill the Urn with sand, remake the seals and none would be the wiser. I closed my eyes, thinking of how my former tormentors would have to pay me homage, how the masters would embrace me as one of them. I could walk with kings. If I went back.

  "By my reckoning we're about two days' walk from the Port of Bees. If any of the rest of the crew survived, they'll head that way. The Fox is gone, but I've got funds enough in reserve to get myself a new ship." Captain Teilos smiled. "I'll need good men. If the life of a mage doesn't appeal, you might consider the life of a pirate."

  "Can't I be both?"

  I'd only just discovered my power, to give it up without exploring it, without seeing how good a mage I could be? I couldn't do that.

  "Mages belong in mageries. That's how the world works, isn't it? The gift of magic must benefit king and country, not be used for private gain. That's the tradition." He spoke bare truth, but his tone was full of mockery. "The choice is yours, lad."

  I watched him start up the beach. A strong breeze, a remnant of the false storm, came off the sea, bringing the smell of salt with it. I remembered the feel of a ship beneath my feet, how I'd struggled to learn to walk like a sailor. But now the land felt wrong, foreign. I hadn't chosen to be a sailor any more than I'd chosen to be a mage. I'd been shoved down those paths against my will and had done my best to walk them, and to keep my two worlds separate as the world said they must be.

  The Urn still lay at my feet, a reminder of how my two worlds had come together. Whether or not it had ever held dead men's bones, it held me. I picked it up, marveling at how ordinary it now felt. Had the Urn changed, or had I? With all my strength, I smashed it against the tree. It splintered into gold-streaked shards which rained down onto the ground becoming nearly indistinguishable from the sand.

  Awkwardly, I ran through the soft sand to catch up to my captain.

  He didn't break stride, but looking out of the corner of my eyes, I saw him smiling with satisfaction.

  "So much for tradition, eh?"

  "Tradition had us wasting a thousand years guarding a clay jar full of sand. Tradition would lock me behind walls where I'd never feel the sea spray on my face again. I can't give up magic, it seems, but I can't give up the sea either. If you need a carpenter's apprentice, I'm your man."

  "I was thinking of something with a little more responsibility. A pirate-mage would make a formidable first officer, at least till you set your sights on your own ship."

  I started to say that I'd never want such a thing, then stopped, unwilling to close any doors till I'd at least tried to walk through them. "Done."

  I looked back at the remnants of the Urn lying alone and abandoned on the beach. The tide was coming in, each white-tipped wave drawing closer and closer to where it lay. Sand. Just sand. At least, that's what I told myself as I turned my back on it.

  The Port of Bees and a new life lay ahead of me.

  The Man in the Tree

  by Orson Scott Card

  Artwork by Nick Greenwood

  * * *

  The kingdom of Iceway has no eastern border. It runs up against Icekame, the frozen mountains that are always deep in snow, and its glaciers creep downward year after year, plowing the poor soil and stony earth of the high valleys before them.

  Many miles below these valleys, in his city of Kamesham on the Graybourn, King cares nothing for that edge of his kingdom. Beyond Icekame there are no marauding hordes eager to pour over the high passes. There is only the Forest Deep, where no one dwells but thornmages, who seek n
o visitors and never leave.

  From a king's point of view, Icekame was better than a border. On that edge of his kingdom, there was no one who coveted his crown or his lands, and he need not spare thought or money to guard that border. And the higher you journey up the valleys, the poorer the people are, so there's no purpose in trying to tax them. You could only do it once, and then, deprived of the slight margin of survival, they would either die or become expensive refugees farther down the valley.

  So the people in the high valleys were left alone. Poor and powerless, scrabbling in their poor soil for food enough to last out the winter, eking out a bit of meat by killing a bird or a squirrel now and then, they buried many a child, and a man was old at forty.

  Between hunger and loss, however, they found time to live. The children had games and rhymes and contests and grand adventures between the work they did to help their families survive. They got older and felt the stirring of the hot sap of love rising through them like trees in spring. The women built their mud-daubed hovels and symbolically sang their lovers into husbands at the hearth, and then babies came and they delighted in them and taught them and raged at them and clung to them for however long they might survive.

  The people in the King's city of Kamesham would think these highvalley folk lived like animals. But in truth these villagers lived pure human life. They needed each other to survive, and knew it. They had no conspiracies and no secrets, no ambitions and no feuds. They couldn't afford the luxury of treating any man or woman or child as expendable.

  The highvalley villagers knew what the King in Kamesham did not think about: every passage over Icekame into the Forest Deep. In high summer, when the crops were doing well and could take care of themselves, families would pack up a bit of food and hike over a pass and then down the other side.

  As they walked, the parents taught the children what they could and could not take in this place: Food enough for meals while they were there, but nothing to carry away. Water enough to drink, but nothing for the return journey.