Ellen Under The Stairs (16 page)

All background for yet another
afternoon strategy session in the war room, John continuing to hope
for an inspiration on how to break the Malachite blockade. (Even
the American South in the Civil War -- an incredibly advanced
culture compared to medieval Stil-de-grain -- had failed to break
the Union strangle hold on Southern harbors. In desperation, had
tried to build submarines (though with disastrous results), the
very concept of a submarine beyond this world's
comprehension.

This afternoon, John had called a
meeting of second tier people -- what passed in this world for
economists and other bean counters -- the problem of the day: how
much food was on the island and, of more importance, how long would
it last before Xanthin City was starved into submission.

The food problems rehashed, it was
time for John to make sense out of it all.

"So, what you're telling me is that,
if we eat every messenger bird and cart pony, we can hold out for
another four months."

Blank stares all around.

"That is, for 120 more
up-lights."

Terms like "months" and "years" had no
meaning here. Nor did this world have "seasons," no change in
weather possible in this "hot house" world. (At least not in a
single Band; the inner Bands somewhat warmer than the outer
ones.)

"That is an estimate, only, great
Mage," said Papia, Head tax collector.

Did all tax men have to look like
ghouls -- shrunken, skull-like heads; yellow, protruding teeth?
Still, if you wanted an accurate count of the population, there was
no one better for the job.

"Two meager meals a day might stretch
the time another 30 up-lights." This, from Udrz, Head economist.
"Add to that ten days before starvation ravaged the old and the
young ...."

And must all economists be as
pessimistic as Malthus?

At the moment, John's only hope was
that the Malachite sailors beyond the harbor would starve at the
same rate as the people of Xanthin, an outcome that had happened to
armies besieging medieval castles, the attackers ....

A robust knock on the door interrupted
John's thought process. Had to be someone of importance, to get
past the double-guards in the hall.

"Enter," John called, every head at
the table swiveling toward the door.

To see Coluth slam in, John rarely
finding the Admiral so upset.

"John-Lyon. I have news!"

So agitated was Coluth
that he'd reverted to the time they'd first become friends, John
taking passage as a common sailor aboard the
Roamer.

"Come forward," John said, hoping the
others didn't detect the familiarity with which Coluth had
addressed him. A bulwark of a Mage's power was maintained, not only
by owning a Mage-Gem and by giving crisp commands, but also by
keeping a certain distance between himself and the people he
"served."

With the rolling gate of the beached
sailor, Coluth flanked the table, arriving at John's end, pausing
to find out if he should give his information only to John, or so
all in the room might hear.

Taking a chance, John indicated the
others. "We are all in this together."

Motioning Coluth to an empty chair
three places down on John's right, Coluth perched -- a difficult
thing for a big man to do, "perching" another sign of the Admiral's
unrest.

"Speak."

"John -- great Mage," Coluth corrected
himself, remembering his place, "I have come from the harbor. And
something amazing has happened!"

"Go on."

"A ship, one of ours, has just been
rowed out of the harbor."

"What!? Someone's going to ram the
enemy, all by himself?" Until now, the "shiny new" concept of
suicide bombing had failed to penetrate this "backwater" world.
While the Band of Azare was reputed to have berserker troops
....

"It is not what you think," Coluth
countered, waving off that idea. "The Malachite ships let our ship
out of the harbor. Pulled back so it could get through."

Though this didn't make sense to John,
it must to someone -- John feeling it was important to find out why
the ship had been allowed to "escape."

Spies.

Could it be there were Malachite spies
in Xanthin, after all. That they'd seized a Stil-de-grain ship,
captains of the Malachite cruisers knowing this would happen,
letting the captured ship out to become a prize of war?

"Any talk of someone at the harbor who
shouldn't have been there?"

"No. The harbor has been under strict
watch since the Malachites declared war on us."

"No one could penetrate our
security?"

"Unlikely. I would even say
impossible. Certainly not after you put everyone on
alert."

Meaning ... what? That enemy sailors
had boarded the captured ship before Malachite declared
war?

"Did anyone report which direction the
ship took after getting through the blockade?"

"The wharf lookout said it steered
right."

"But to go to Malachite, the ship
should have turned left."

"So I would think."

Right. Away from Malachite. A
direction that put it on a course to the band of Realgar. To the
claws.

The destination of the ship could
still be Malachite, of course, the ship first having to be rowed
all the way around Xanthin island -- a considerable detour. The
boat would still have to travel through sea Minor, after that,
navigate Sea throat on its way to Malachite's harbor at
Bice.

The only reason John could think of
for such a maneuver was to throw off a Stil-de-grain pursuit.
Complete nonsense with Stil-de-grain ships trapped in the
harbor.

A mystery. One John didn't like, John
never a fan of the saying: "What you don't know won't hurt
you."

John was surprised to find he'd gotten
up and was pacing, the others following him with their
eyes.

Since only a single ship had been
stolen -- to be sure under unusual circumstances -- why was he so
upset? Was it because the "unexplainable" reminded him of Zwicia's
screams, her shrieks often a prelude to calamity?

One ship lost. Far from a catastrophe
when you came right down to it. What was scary was that this
strange happening might be only the first in a row of disastrous
"dominoes" on their way to going down.

Nothing he could do about it at the
moment. He'd have Coluth talk to the sailors at the dock to see
what they knew. See if something turned up.

John sat down. Took a deep breath to
calm himself.

"I know this news is disturbing, but
we still have work to do. For instance, has the food, soon to be
harvested on the island, been counted?"

"Estimated."

"Can we sent a messenger bird to the
king of Realgar? What's his name, again?"

"Tauro, great Mage." This from the
Head of foreign policy, Khil.

"Can we send a messenger bird to King
Tauro; ask him to ship food to us from the back side of the
island?"

"No ship ...."

"I know. Its too shallow there for a
naval landing. That's why we have only harbor defense to worry
about. But, if shallow draft boats -- rafts, even -- could be built
to float in food, we'd be glad to pay extra for it. Surely neutrals
are allowed to sell food to combatants." At least that was the case
in John's world, neutral nations with the right to sell
non-military items to both sides. Honored more in law than in
practice.

"We'd need an orange Messenger bird, I
suppose," John muttered, Realgar the "orange band," its messenger
birds no doubt orange, as well. "I'll have a talk with Gagar
...."

Again, a knock on the door! More
frantic that Coluth's.

"Enter," John said. Shouted, actually,
his nerves about shot. Strange goings on -- to say nothing of the
claustrophobic feeling of being trapped on the island -- would do
that to you.

The door opened, Golden striding
in.

"Golden. Approach," John said, the
young man doing that even before John's command, stopping at John's
chair, standing there at full attention.

"I bring bad news," Golden said, his
face white.

"It's the right day for it," John
growled, thinking that a touch of cynicism was in order.

"Some ... soldiers ... have been
killed."

Less of a surprise than hearing that a
ship had been taken.

"Explain."

"A runner. From the city. Too
exhausted and fearful to address the Mage personally." Golden
bowed. "I bring his message."

"Go on."

"Soldiers ... underneath."

"What does that mean?"

"Soldiers, but wearing civilian
clothing."

"Could they be Malachites in
disguise?"

This might be the explanation for how
a ship had been stolen. A fight at the harbor, a few Malachites
killed but the rest able to overwhelm the harbor's
defenders.

"The man said, all
Stil-de-grain."

A look at Golden told John that the
youth was holding something back.

"Out with it!"

"It is the way ... they were
killed."

"How?"

"Withered by Mage-Magic, great
Lord."

"How is that possible?"

"How?"

"That's what I said, how?"

"Then, you, yourself did not ... cause
their death?"

"That's crazy, Golden. Why would I do
that?"

"I thought that, since this is the
first time in so long that you have had the use of your ...."
Remembering that others were in the room, Golden
stopped.

"Take my word for it. This is the
first I've heard of it."

Mage-Magic? Surely Golden was
mistaken.

To check, John slipped a hand down the
side of his robe to make sure the Mage-Disk was tucked within his
pocket.

Finding that it was!

Anyway, no one could use the Crystal's
magic but him.

Like a dark shade drawn across his
mind, came the fearful remembrance that there were other Mage-Disks
in the world. One of them belonging to ... Pfnaravin!

"Coluth! Golden! I want to know
everything anyone can tell me about that ship and those soldiers.
Even people only slightly related to the events to be interviewed.
Talk to sailors at the dock, civilians. All who might have seen
anything!"

He turned to the others, still seated
in stunned silence. "As for the rest of you, spread the word that
all people belonging to the palace are to be recalled. The gates
locked. No stranger to enter!

Shocked, they just sat
there.

"Now!"

Direct orders producing action in this
world, there was a frantic scrape of chairs and a scrambling for
the exit -- Coluth and Golden also rushing out to do John's bidding
-- the room soon as empty as an echo.

For the rest of the afternoon, John
sat alone in the war room, receiving the latest information. A shop
keeper was brought in to tell of hearing unusual noises in an
alley. A peasant, newly arrived in Xanthin to buy seed, said that
an unseen force had blocked his progress toward the harbor. A
butcher, saying that what he'd assumed to be animal parts behind
his shop turned out to be human remains. Two sailors, recalling
that they had thought something was "not right" about the crew of a
ship. That the sailors seemed ... wooden ... failing to respond to
a joke thrown their way. A cargo crane worker reported seeing a
woman smuggled onto a ship -- far from unusual as randy as sailors
were -- only remarkable because the woman looked ... strange.
Lost.

Hour after hour of this until John was
confident he'd gained every bit of truth there was to be gotten,
John piecing the information together as it came in.

What he now considered "gospel" was
the report of an old man standing in the prow of the stolen ship as
it cleared the end of the mole, a woman, stiffly upright beside the
man.

There could also be no doubt that
Malachite ships had let the missing ship escape. And several
sailors had said that, after clearing the harbor, the escaping ship
had appeared to set out for Realgar.

John had also learned that the dead
soldiers had, indeed, been blasted with Crystal Magic, blown to
bits, their shattered flesh charred -- Stil-de-grain soldiers in
civilian garb.

And the most disturbing news of all --
that Ellen and the soldiers guarding her, were nowhere to be
found!

Terrifying, what these bits and pieces
came down to! At the same time, simplicity itself.

Pfnaravin had been in Xanthin. Somehow
discovering who Ellen was, had killed her guards with the lethal
force of his Crystal. The object of his attack? Kidnapping
Ellen.

At the harbor, he'd commandeered a
ship. Probably before harbor security had been tightened, Malachite
sympathizers rowing it. Either that, or Pfnaravin's magic had
turned Still-de-grain sailors into robots, forced to obey his
commands.