Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (36 page)

All that mattered was that John had bested
the dark Mage.

But ... had he?

Since it was obvious this hole was the work
of Auro, was it not also John's duty to eliminate this source of
dark-Mage magic?

Fighting his way to the back of the cannon,
digging in his boot-cleats, John again began to push the heavy,
wheeled object toward the raging, electric storm -- a dazzle that
had become so bright that, even though John hid his face behind the
iron gun, he had to close his eyes at the last to keep from going
blind in the flash-bulb brilliance of the electric shaft until, in
a rush, the heavy weapon toppled into the light pit, disappearing
down the hole from which the light was gushing.

* * * * *

Though John eventually remembered turning,
running -- he could not recall the final explosion of the powder --
the cask, the cannon, and the cannonballs.

Later -- how much later?? -- awakening under
Azare's gray-dark sky, it had taken John some time to realize it
was the powder blast going off underground that had knocked him
out, John walking in the dark, surrounded by the intense quiet
following the blast.

He could recall that he'd lighted another
branch to serve as a torch, discarded his metal armor, and had gone
back along the trail.

The explosion sealing off the source of
Auro's magic, it was enough to know that the day of the dark Mage
... was done!

"Stand by the lines!"

Coluth. Ordering men to ready the coiled,
light lines that seamen would throw to stevedores on the Xanthin
dock. Other mariners were backing oars to further slow the ship,
Orig, at the rudder, steering for a tight space between two boats
already docked.

Fastened to the throw lines were figure
eights of heavy hawsers, stacked fore and aft, these thick, hemp
ropes to be dragged to the mole and wrapped around tie-off cleats
to snug the modified catamaran to the dock.

Home at last.

Leaning his elbows on the rail, John turned
his head. Raised his voice to get over the squeak of oars, the
creak of the rudder, and the shouts of dock workers. "Golden!?"
Though Golden seemed to be hovering about much of the time, he was
never around when John wanted him.

"Here," came the faint reply from the back of
the ship. Which figured. That was where the solemn young man did
his exercises. Sit-ups one day. Jumping jacks the next.

Golden had also helped relieve the boredom of
the slow passage home by singing, working magic, and by walking a
tightrope strung between the base of the mast and the outrail -- no
mean feat (as the sailors who tried it discovered.)

Waiting for Golden to make his way through
the ship's rope piles and lashed down supply crates, John turned to
watch the ship ease into its berth.

It was a glorious midday morning. From the
moles came the sounds of any busy port: the creak of wooden cranes
at work; the rumble of three-wheeled loading carts; the calls of
bare-chested porters rolling barrels of beer, wine, and oil; the
grunts of sweating stevedores as they labored up gangplanks with
odd-sized cargo. Behind the prow, the ship's oars splashed quietly,
rhythmically, Coluth giving the order to the starboard rowers to
back oars, in this way pivoting the ship parallel to the quay.

White sea birds darted overhead, making
piercing cries for no obvious reason but the joy of it. Above them
all, the amber sky of Stil-de-grain.

The harbor air smelled ... fresh. (Though the
fetid odors of Xanthin's commercial district no doubt clung to the
offaled alleys higher up Xanthin Hill.)

Used to it by now, John remembered how
shocked he was to find that the sea under Stil-de-grain's amber
sky-band was a pale yellow-gold; that under Malachite's emerald
sky, the sea turned green.

But it made sense.

Even in John's world, the color of lakes and
oceans was a reflection of the sky -- blue sky, blue water -- gray
sky, gray water. It was just that, on earth, you didn't have golden
sky, to say nothing of skies of green and orange and -- though he'd
only glimpsed it at the horizon -- the red sky of Cinnnabar.

In the main, all had gone well. Not that the
trip had been unmarred by tragedy. Deep fishing over the rail on
the way back, Whar had hooked into something big. New to fishing,
he'd failed to let go of the tackle and in an instant, was pulled
over the railing into the sea. Though the sailors frantically
backed oars to hold position against the current, all available men
scouting the sea where Whar had vanished, Whar could not be
recovered.

While it seemed a strange thing to say about
your own guard, John had not known Whar well. Except to recognize
him as a brave and honorable man.

Some would say that men like Whar were cogs
in the workings of the world. John, the historian, knew better,
duty-driven men the engine of mankind.

The remembrance of Whar's loss excepted, it
was a good day. Above all, John realized, because it felt good to
feel good, John a superman compared to the human wreck who'd
stumbled away from dark Mage territory. Was it instinct that led
him through the blackness of that blighted woods until he'd found
Platinia and Zwicia where he'd posted them? It must have been, for
he had no memory of how the old woman and the frail young girl had
managed to lift him to the back of the cart.

The cart so much lighter without the cannon,
the women had gotten the exhausted ponies to pull it down the
trail, out of the forest, and across the dimly lighted coastal
plain where Coluth, Whar, and the sailors waited impatiently for
his return.

The sailors had known he'd beaten the dark
Mage, of course. (He learned this later when he'd come to himself,
again.) Knew it because the evil wind the dark Mage had been
sending out had stopped. (It was John's guess that the wind had
been shut off when he'd blown shut Auro's light pit.)

The dim, smoke-blue light of the sky-band
over Azare had not brightened with Auro's defeat, though, no doubt
because the Mages of Realgar and Cinnabar were still keeping the
pressure on by continuing to black out the band over Azare as best
they could.

Fed, watered, and pampered, John had
eventually come around.

Not that the sailors were doing nothing while
John recuperated. Even before John had returned to the coast,
Coluth had taken it upon himself to order modifications to the
catamaran. With the unnatural wind shut off by the closing of
Auro's light source, the solution to the problem of getting home --
which John fully agreed with when he was capable of agreeing with
anything -- was to convert the cat to a rowing vessel.

Easier said than done.

As it turned out, none of the dust-dry wood
from the dead band of Azare was fit to use for naval purposes. The
solution? Convert the two-hulled Cat into a one-hulled rowing
scull: one hull for the modified ship, the other to provide
seasoned wood for the necessary changes, part of the wood from the
scrapped hull used to build an outrigger device to stabilize the
(too narrow) one-hulled replacement ship -- an "innovation" to make
any Hawaiian proud. The rest of the surplus lumber had gone into
oars and oar locks for motive power and to rig a heavy, aft rudder
for steerage.

The final result was a modified version of
the kind of seagoing vessel this world's sailors understood, one to
be rowed-steered from the edge of one circular current in the sea,
to the rim of the next counter-rotating spiral.

Upon John's return to the Azare coast, Coluth
had released their last messenger bird to report on John's
condition and say their return home would be delayed.

Some time later, a messenger bird had arrived
from Malachite, saying that, with the defeat of the evil Mage, the
Malachites had given up the war against Stil-de-grain. They'd only
been fighting because Auro had demanded it of them, the men of
Malachite more terrified of Auro's power than of
Stil-de-grain's.

The bottom line was that, at one stroke, John
had defeated evil and stopped the war. Twin kills which, if John
could have remembered more about his contribution to morality and
world peace, might have impressed him. As it was, all that he could
think about was going home.

"Yes, John-Lyon?" Golden, dressed in a
simple, exercise tunic, had arrived at the prow.

Now that Golden was there, what did John say
to him? That John knew that the traitor who had stabbed him was on
this boat and that Golden made the best suspect?

Since John had brought the fuse sack on board
himself, there could be no denying that somebody on the boat had
substituted a plain rope for the powder-impregnated fuse.

Someone. But who?

One of the common seamen? Coluth's men:
Philelph, Petrac, Shiagint? Orig, the steersman?

Not possible. These men had been following
Coluth's orders so long they would move only on their captain's
command.

Coluth himself?

It made more sense that John had done the
deed while sleepwalking, than to finger loyal, sensible Coluth.

Nor did Platinia figure to have made the
switch. As long as John had known her, she'd never had an
independent thought. Every order, every suggestion he'd given her
had been instantly obeyed. If anything, she gave him too much help,
Platinia seeming to be able to strengthen him spiritually by some
means he didn't understand. When Platinia was at his side, he was a
lion! Without Platinia beside him .... Enough said.

Zwicia?

For starters, the Weird couldn't get up and
down the steps to the cramped hold, unaided. To say nothing of
being rational enough to plan anything -- certainly not something
as clever as substituting a plain rope for the bomb fuse. Anyway,
the old girl could have no reason for wanting John dead. Nor --
reasoning that the same individual had committed both crimes
against John's person -- could she have been the one who stabbed
him in the first assassination attempt. Too old. Too slow. Too
weak.

No. Zwicia did not make a credible
suspect.

Leaving Golden.

Golden the gymnast.

Golden, thrower of knives.

Rope walker.

Singer.

Illusionist.

Pretender to the throne of Malachite.

Golden, the multitalented. Someone worth
watching -- in every sense of the word.

What John was considering was, that at this
late date, did it really matter? After all, the first thing John
was going to do upon landing on Xanthin Island was to make tracks
for the mainland, for Hero Castle, and for home. Once back in the
good old U. S., it wouldn't matter whether or not Golden wished
John ill. All John really needed was to find a way to keep Golden
off his back until John could "get out of town."

Thinking along these lines, John had an idea.
"Golden, I know I've been keeping you busy. And that you didn't
want to come with me on this trip."

Golden nodded. Saying yes, but at the same
time revealing nothing about what he was thinking -- feeling.
Golden-like.

"I also realize that you feel its your duty
to hunt for the lost Mage-crystal of Malachite. Possibly hidden in
the palace by King Yarro before his death," John said -- for
emphasis pointing up the city's hill at the palace fort, its
pennant-bedecked heights just visible behind the terraced, wood and
plaster city.

"Yes, John-Lyon."

"That if you find the green Mage-crystal,
you'll be able to parlay that into becoming the King of
Malachite.

"Parlay ...?"

"Strengthen your hand in resuming your
rightful place as king of Malachite. Replace your uncle, Lithoid.
The usurper."

"Yes, John-Lyon."

"I assume you think you can do that without
starting up the war between Malachite and Stil-de-grain?"

"Yes, John-Lyon. My being King of Malachite
would be the best guarantee that the two bands would live in
peace."

Was there an implied threat somewhere in
Golden's response? Support my rise to power or else? If so, John
decided to let it pass.

"Then that's just what you will do. Take time
off to search for the green crystal.

"Really!?"

"I have said it. As much time as you
need."

"Oh, thank you, great Mage!"

John was convinced he was hearing genuine
elation from Golden. Was even more persuaded because Golden was so
taciturn. John had been right. Giving Golden the run of the palace
was the best way to neutralize any "Golden threat."

Beside him, John was aware that Golden was
... kneeling. On the splintered deck.

Actually kneeling before John.

Embarrassing ... but an affirmation of the
wisdom of John's new "Golden" policy.

Though Golden was an accomplished actor, John
couldn't believe the young man was faking gratitude.

Assassination problem solved!

Beside him at the rail, Golden had gotten to
his feet again, the two of them a little chagrined by Golden's
kneeling, both men turning away to watch the boat's final approach
to the wharf.

It now struck John as strange that there
didn't seem to be much of a reception committee awaiting him at
dockside.

Just soldiers in green uniforms -- maybe a
hundred of them. Too large a force to be keeping order on the
quays, but not enough men to be a proper welcoming committee. Led
by ... Forsk? ...... Trying to make out the squad heads behind the
Head Second, John thought they looked familiar.

"Not much of a reception," John commented,
nodding in the direction of the green-tuniced soldiers who'd been
ordered to form a double line at the ship's disembarkation point.
"Probably so little fuss because no one knew when we were due in
port." John thought a moment, then continued. "Though I did think
the merchantman we hailed yesterday would have spread the word that
we were right behind them."