Ellen Under The Stairs (15 page)

"Some were left who believed in me.
But too few. For no sooner than I had declared myself king than I
was ... hunted, with only enough loyal men to capture a ship in
Bice harbor. Even then, I had to escape after
down-light."

Again the shiver, the drawing inward,
John knowing the desperation of Golden and his crew to risk being
eaten by the "night activated" sea monsters.

When Golden looked up, John nodded to
show he understood.

"I thought that all I had to do was to
proclaim that I was Cleadon's son and many would rally around me.
The tales of Lithoid's brutality ...."

John could have comforted Golden with
the story of the U.S. fiasco at the Bay of Pigs, but didn't think
it would help.

Instead said: "There'll be another
time."

A change of subject was in order. "As
for Pfnaravin, he's disappeared. Too much to hope that he's fallen
off a cliff. But for the moment, at least, he's out of the picture.
I'm 'back in the saddle again' as cowboys used to sing in the old
days of B-westerns."

"Cowboys?"

"Never mind. Anyway, for now, you're
safe here with me."

It was Golden's turn to nod, then to
reach into a fold in his robe, locals carrying coins and the like
in robe-folds, the young man taking out something to trail on the
table.

"Your Crystal, great Mage. Though it
did not impress people when in my hands, it will do your
bidding."

And there it was again. The golden
Crystal of Stil-de-grain, a gleaming, two-inch-in-diameter Disk,
its golden bezel threaded on the neck chain. As for the Crystal's
power, Golden was right. Once John put on the Mage-Gem, its power
was his to command.

Even now that he knew better, it was a
temptation to reach for the Crystal, the Gem calling to him,
seeming to thrum with force -- too much power prompting insanity in
the potentates of both worlds.

"Thank you, Golden," John said,
stalling.

A door knock.

A bad time for John to be interrupted,
John still deciding what to do about the Crystal.

The way he'd handled the Mage-Gem
before, was to carry it in a pocket of his robe, the Crystal less
apt to seduce him there than when around his neck. In those days,
he'd also felt Platinia had somehow helped him avoid the Crystal's
seduction, believing this so strongly he had the girl by his side,
day and night.

For the first time, John was glad he'd
brought Platinia along.

Now, though, there was that
knock.

"Golden, will you see who that
is?"

Bowing again, the young man got up
gracefully, turning to glide along the table to do as John
asked.

With no other choice at the moment,
careful to avoid touching the Gem itself, John fingered up the
Crystal by its chain, trailing the Gem into one of the deep pockets
he'd had added to the standard Mage robe.

Checking his emotions, it was as he'd
feared: John feeling the Crystal's pull. A force he could control
as long as he wasn't actually wearing the Gem, but ....

"It is Gagar," Golden called from the
door.

Gagar. Now, what? "Have him come
in."

Golden backing away from the door, the
bird-man entered, another parrot on his arm, this one like the
last, but larger.

"Come," John said beckoning, Golden
flowing, Gagar mincing forward, Golden standing back so Gagar could
approach John directly. "Another message?"

"Yes, great Mage," Gagar
shrilled.

"Make it talk."

"Its message is for you, alone," Gagar
warned, meaning Golden.

"It's alright if Golden hears. I have
no secrets from him." Few secrets, at any rate, one of them the
reservations John had about Golden the first time they'd met in
Yarro-the-first's dungeon. Later, John had come to believe that if
Golden thought John was in the way of Golden becoming king of
Malachite, no telling what the ambitious young man might
do.

With the return of the Crystal, John's
additional worry was that, should he have a fatal "accident," the
next person to pick up the golden Crystal would be Mage of
Stil-de-grain, the Crystal making John more, rather than less,
vulnerable. He'd do well to watch his back when near anyone who
might wish to possess the Gem's power.

Back to the moment.

Gagar given permission, he made the
motion that set loose the bird's talk.

"Lithoid . to . Pfnaravin . master .
of . Stil-de-grain . surrender . the . traitor . or . we . will .
be . at . war . furthermore . you . are . commanded . to . return .
to . Malachite."

A lot of information for such a short
message. First, that Lithoid, king of Malachite -- Golden would say
usurper -- thought Pfnaravin still controlled Stil-de-grain. (So
much for the fear that Malachite spies were among them.) Second,
that Lithoid had already learned that Golden was in Stil-de-grain
-- still wanted Golden enough to threaten a war to get him.
Additionally, that Lithoid had ordered Pfnaravin back to Malachite,
putting Pfnaravin's Mage power at the command of the
king.

"How," John said, "did Lithoid find
out so soon that Golden was here?"

"Messenger birds are quick on the
wing, great Mage. Even I do not know how fast they can fly, given
the proper incentive. There is, perhaps, magic in them." Gagar
shrugged.

"Or is it possible that King Lithoid
is with his navy at Sea Throat?"

"The bird was taught by Dato," Gagar
shrilled. "I can tell because ...."

"Dato," John said, cutting the bird
man short. "And where is he located?"

"Malachite. Though more than that, I
cannot tell. He would travel to put himself in the best position to
relay information."

"Then he could also be in Sea Throat
with the Malachite navy?" It was quite a ways from that narrowing
of the sea to Xanthin island. At least, by ship (boats in this land
making their way by circumnavigation of the sea's vast currents.)
Considerably shorter as the "parrot" flies.

"That is possible."

A speculation to consider. If Lithoid
was with his navy, it meant he had taken personal command of the
military -- another indication of how badly the king wanted to
capture Golden. Perhaps Cleadon-the-younger had come closer to
overthrowing his uncle than Golden thought.

John looked at Golden. Saw what he'd
never seen in the young man's face, Golden looking ... stricken.
Clearly, the youth thought it possible that John might turn him
over to prevent a war that the odds said Malachite would
win.

And as leader of "his" people, John
had to contemplate surrendering Golden, John knowing of instances
where giving in to political pressure had preserved the peace. ...
But not often.

A personal reason for "repatriating"
young Cleadon, of course, was to have Golden locked up in Malachite
where the talented -- another term for slippery -- young man would
be far away from John and John's Crystal.

At the same time, John knew he
couldn't turn Golden over.

"Don't worry, Golden. You're safe here
with me."

"Thank you, Lord," Golden said,
obviously relieved, John at least confident of the young man's
sincerity on this occasion.

"Gagar. My response is that Cleadon,
son of Cleadon has found sanctuary with me. Also warn Lithoid that
Stil-de-grain, under my leadership is, again,
invincible."

"Yes, Lord."

"How soon can this be
done?"

"A short message for the bird to
learn. It can fly at tomorrow's up-light."

"Will it go to the Malachite capital
or to the pretend-king," a nod in Golden's direction, "wherever he
may be?"

"I should think to the impostor's
handler," Gagar said, picking up on the sudden change in foreign
policy, John referring to Lithoid as pretender to the throne,
Gagar's political savvy continuing to surprise John. "If the
handler is with the usurper, then the message will arrive late
tomorrow."

"Good enough. Gentlemen, that will do
it for now."

* * * * *

Two days. Another messenger bird. The
Gagar wave.

"Malachite . navy . advances . on .
Stil-de-grain."

Short and ... sour.

And the war was on, soon to be a
confrontation of siege and starvation. (So much for the impact of
John's lie about the renewed strength of Stil-de-grain.) While it
was customary for each combatant to blame the other for starting
any war, the side with overwhelming force was generally the guilty
party.

Viewed that way, Lithoid's
first-strike move against Stil-de-grain was a nightmare of things
to come!

* * * * *

Worn down. That was John's excuse. Too
much to do. As a consequence, finding himself giving in to people's
desires in order to save time for what must be done: plan the
defense of Stil-de-grain.

Yes, he loved the new Mage-robe, he
assured Uccia, Head seamstress. Was particularly thankful for the
pockets he'd ordered to be put in.

The weasel pie he'd had for supper
last night? Delicious -- Deninia, the Head cook hiding behind a
column in the dining hall to watch him eat every disgusting bite.
(He'd managed, but just barely, to stop himself from asking how to
get the fur out of his teeth.)

No, he didn't need something warm --
like hot milk -- to help him get to sleep at night, Benza, bed
chamber Head, clearly offering her services in quite a different
capacity.

A better example of addressing other
people's needs to save time, was giving his permission for Ellen to
leave the castle, the lady determined to tour Xanthin before going
home. When did an artist have the opportunity to poke through a
functioning medieval city? A question leaving John cold, but with
great meaning for persuasive Ellen Hamilton.

What had swung him around -- besides
Ellen's charm -- was the messenger bird revealing that the
Malachite king hadn't learned that Pfnaravin had vanished.
Something Lithoid would have known if there'd been Malachite spies
on the island.

No Malachites; no threat to Ellen's
safety, other than the usual: accidents, criminals, and
perverts.

What had finally gotten him to agree
to her demands was Ellen promising to allow him to use any means he
felt necessary to affect her safety.

His terms? First, that she go to
Xanthin city in disguise, perhaps as a noble lady on a shopping
spree. She'd agreed to that.

Second, that she be surrounded by
soldiers, a condition she hadn't liked. What she wanted, she'd
maintained, was to be a "mouse in the corner" so she could observe
city life undisturbed by her presence. How was she going to take
the pulse of the town with soldiers around, a show of force
changing everyone behavior?

The compromise was that she would be
disguised as an upper class lady, her soldier-guards tricked out as
her servants, trailing behind to carry the many purchases she would
make while browsing through the city's shops.

Since money was no problem for the
Mage of Stil-de-grain, John was able to provide Ellen with enough
funds for her to shop through the entire town, her many purchases
adding to the illusion she was there, not to observe, but to take
home whatever her heart desired -- impulse buying reserved for the
rich in both worlds.

A worry of a minor sort was Zwicia.
While content to stay in her room, Crystal gazing, John received
disturbing reports of agonized screams emanating from her room. The
most likely explanation for these Zwicia-yells? That what the old
lady was seeing in her larger version of a Mage-Gem was upsetting
her.

What was upsetting John, was the
knowledge that Zwicia's crystal could be made to show the future,
the elderly Weird coming up with fore-knowledge of events that had
come to pass later. Not that her mumbled warnings had done any
good. For, like the prophecies of Nostradamus, the old lady's
"visions" were so vague they could only be recognized as
predictions after the prophesied events had happened. What good was
precognition if its foretellings were too garbled to warn you away
from danger? (Truth to tell, John didn't need Zwicia's screams of
anguish to remind him he lived in dangerous times.)

The major problem John faced had no
easy solution: the Malachite ships that, every day, were rowed from
their tie-up stations on the mainland to block the mouth of Xanthin
harbor. And to make a bad situation worse, the imbalance of power
was greater than a Malachite advantage in numbers. For according to
Admiral Coluth, the Malachites had crafted a new class of warship
by adding a second tier of rowers, thereby increasing the new naval
vessels' "horse power," the improved ships faster than anything
afloat. As yet, Coluth had noticed only one or two of the advanced
models beyond the harbor's mouth. But when built in sufficient
numbers, this new ship class -- like Dreadnought development before
WWI -- would make other navies obsolete.