The Thirteenth Magician Page 3

  Not all commerce, however. Full-grown warbacks might be impervious, but infant and young warbacks were not. Newborn warbacks were considered a delicacy by nobles throughout the coastal kingdoms. During the hatchling stage, hundreds of boys and girls (and old men and women) would wade the surf, scooping them up by the net full.

  The Guild fishermen of Myniah never participated in this sport despite its profitability. Their interest in the warback was much more practical—and personal. Each warback was born with a heartstone, remains of the eggsack, which attached itself to its tongue. When a Guild member sired a son, he would go to the spawning grounds and capture one warback. The hatchling would be raised in freshwater pens until several kines long, large enough to defend itself. The heartstone was then carefully removed, with half of the stone being fed to the warback, the other half retained. Only then was the warback taken out to sea and released.

  The remaining half of the stone would be given to the son, who would consider it his most valuable possession until the time of the Great Sail. For there was a mystical link between the heartstone and the warback. A warback which had only half a heartstone could never become a mature adult. And a fisherman who slew the warback and captured that prize would be considered by other warbacks as one of their own and forever safe in their seas.

  During the Great Sail, each apprentice sailor took a one-man skiff and braved the giant sea, seeking the warback, which in turn was seeking him. The sailor who survived would become a full master and member of the Guild. Not everyone did.

  Daasek's father had been lucky. He had only lost an arm in the great battle. Others had returned with far greater wounds, or not returned at all. Yet for someone who had dreamt his entire life of plying his nets in the giant freshwater ocean, the Great Sail was paramount above any other consideration.

  Even Borof, with all his father's riches, could never buy his way into the Guild. Almost none of the Guilds of Horea—the Timbermen, the Merchants, the Captains, the Usurers, the Philosophers or the Fishermen—allowed that practice (The Mercenaries alone welcomed everyone, but even with them it was the rare individual who could rise in power if not born into it). Each craft was jealously guarded and gripped tightly by families and brotherhoods. To be born into a Guild family meant one's life work was virtually assured ... if one passed his or her apprenticeship. But at least that person would have the opportunity. The son of a farmer, say, or a tanner would normally never have the opportunity to apprentice with the Fishermen, Timbermen, Usurers or Captains. Only through the kindness of a seaman who had lost his own son in infancy and therefore could offer sponsorship was Borof able to participate in the Great Sail. Daasek knew the merchant's son planned to make the most of it. And Daasek wished him well.

  By reflex Daasek fingered the small white stone he wore around his neck. Once he was in the waters and nearing his prey, the stone would begin to glow, then to burn. As unerring as a compass and far more accurate. And what would occur once he and “his” warback confronted each other?

  He had heard tales of creatures 25 kines in length exploding suddenly out of still waters, rising into the air like a living whirlpool before crashing down on man and mast. Of eyes red with fire and intelligence staring down at these pesky little men, and mouths almost laughing as gaping jaws and razor teeth struck and tore and destroyed. Of monsters suddenly surfacing beneath boats, their spines piercing the bottoms and impaling men like pigs on a spit.

  Of course there were the other stories. How a strong arm and well-aimed harpoon or arrow, poisoned with the Love of Karmela, could guarantee a fast kill. How, with the grand assistance of the Lady of Chance, a man armed only with a knife could master the great beasts. Some of Daasek's friends had crafted fantastic histories of their upcoming battles with their warbacks. After hearing his father's tale, Daasek prayed only for a short skirmish and successful sail home. But dreaming of, or fearing for, what lay ahead mattered little. His destiny, and that of a warback he had never seen, were bound by the heartstone he had worn since his birth. He was glad the Great Sail was arriving. He was tired of waiting.

  “Festival tonight, Daasek?”

  Daasek looked up, startled. He hadn't realized his reverie had been so intense. The jug of wine was empty, and both Borof and Fygre were ready to make their unsteady ways to the harbor below.

  “Is there any better way to spend the evening? It could be our last,” he finished only half in jest.

  “In that case I plan to spend it between the thighs of a beautiful young woman.” Borof pondered briefly. “Perhaps several.”

  “Just don't turn Myniah into your personal spawning ground.” Daasek smiled. “Else you will find the awaiting elders a much more vengeful foe than the warback.” Fygre laughed. “Tonight, then?”

  “Perhaps. If I don't show, have a drink and a dip on me.”

  Borof and Fygre made for the town and the taverns which would soon be bursting with well-wishers. Daasek headed towards the harbor where he would for the hundredth time check out his small craft in preparation for the Great Sail. If he returned, his celebration then would be a thousand times more glorious than any he could enjoy that evening.

  * * * *

  Daasek lay on the bottom of his boat and looked up at the five-starred Face of Threnn. Across the quiet bay, he could hear occasional outbursts of laughter as the celebration continued long into the evening. He smiled briefly, not begrudging his comrades their last evening ashore ... perhaps forever. Here, on his boat, on the sea, he truly felt at ease with himself and his world. On shore, even with his friends, he felt like a guest, always welcome yet still a guest. And at some point a guest has to leave.

  This malady was not a result of the Great Sail. On the contrary, he had always felt that way. Because of his father's injury, Daasek had never enjoyed a life of a normal apprentice—or a normal boy. His father was an excellent fisherman. But with his warback-created handicap, he could never hope to net the numbers his brethren brought to port.

  In the typical Guild family, it was a point of pride among the fisher-folk that fishing was all they did. During the spawning or brief winter freeze, the Guild members were content to remain in port and frequent the taverns.

  Daasek's family enjoyed no such holiday. In the summer, Daasek caught warback hatchlings with the young and infirm, or dove for mollusks in the great Myniah bay. In the winter, he trekked to the forests and felled trees, which were then dragged across frozen rivers to townsfolk willing to risk the wrath of the Timbermen in order to save themselves a few crous. He trapped for food and fur. He helped the farmers with their crops, and unloaded the ships of others as well as his father's. He had even laboriously copied by hand the nearly unintelligible tomes of the local Philosopher, who had repaid him by regaling him with his convoluted theories and, more usefully, teaching him how to read and write.

  In his youth, other young fisher-folk had teased him unmercifully about his height (he was shorter than most men), his stocky, muscular build (more a result of his non-fishing activities), even his flaming red hair. Then there would be the inevitable fight, which he almost always won, and the taunting would stop for a day or two. Eventually, when he had proven his ability with the net and his fists, the taunting had ceased altogether.

  Still he had never felt completely accepted by the others. This is why he chose to spend this evening alone with his craft and his thoughts. With much of the latter devoted to the warback, which he had never seen but awaited him. Somewhere. Do you think about me? He asked the sky. Do you know I am coming for you? There was a fierce intelligence behind those great jaws and armored body. All the fishermen knew that. Do you dream of killing me, of reclaiming what was once totally yours?

  There were many songs and sagas about the Great Sail, but few solely about the warbacks. They shared the Horean Sea only grudgingly with the fishing and merchant fleets. Is it tolerance, or respect, or do you merely consider us irrelevant? Daasek suddenly laughed. “Musings of the grape,” he said aloud and
wrapped the warback hide that served as his blanket tightly around him. Maybe he would find the answers. But not tonight.

  * * * *

  When Daasek awoke, the sun was just beginning to clear the mist above the waters. He had slept in his boat that evening not out of exhaustion or drunkenness but simply because he could have never slept at home. His parents had given their farewell three days earlier. He recalled the tears he had seen in his father's eyes when they had clasped for the final time. “I want this returned,” he had tried to laugh as he handed Daasek his Guild blade made from the spine of a warback, the same warback that had taken his arm. Then he had said no more. Instead, he had turned and limped back to the arms of his wife. Daasek's mother, like a good fisherman's mate, had said nothing at all. Daasek had immediately walked away without one farewell look. He did not need his father's empty sleeve to serve anymore as a reminder of the hazards of the Great Sail.

  The Great Sail was, in truth, harder on the fishermen than their apprentice sons. Their sons had the anticipation of the hunt, the passing of their apprenticeship, to look forward to. The fathers had no such outlet. Guild members did not fear the warbacks, but the beasts fed upon and chased away all possible catch, so fishing was impossible. The men instead would congregate at the waterside taverns, drinking hearty glasses of mulled wine and smoking and gambling and trying to avoid any conversation about the Great Sail itself. There would be occasional bets on who would be earliest returning, who would be longest on his journey. There were never wagers on who would die.

  Daasek looked toward shore and saw lanterns bobbing uncertainly down the steep path towards the dockage. A good fisherman went out at sunbreak, and even during the Great Sail, this tradition was maintained. He could hear muffled voices, some dulled with sleep and the aftermath of drink, others bright and laughing with false bravado. He shook himself, removed his blanket of warback skin, stood and stretched. The mist felt refreshing and even the morning chill was welcome. Out in the water, in the burning sun, he would remember this morning fondly.

  A few of his friends greeted him as they approached their own boats. He only waved. What had to be said had been over the past few weeks. Prayers and best wishes were useless now. All that mattered was the warback that waited for him and the heartstone they shared.

  By twos and threes, the small skiffs entered the bay. A few had already hoisted sails, apparently competing for a wager they had made the previous evening. Daasek took a more pedestrian course. The warbacks would be there. The spawners had long since left for the deeper seas, but the unmated or immature would linger along the coast for another month, remaining a constant worry to seamen who lacked the protection of the heartstone or the presence of a Guild fisherman who had decided to sell his services to the Merchants and Captains rather than plying his normal trade. Instead Daasek rowed easily, delighting in the sight of the cliffs painted orange by the rising sun, the smells of baking bread and frying fish drifting out from shore. To him the cliffs were the most beautiful sight in the world and they could only be seen and appreciated from deep in the harbor. If he was one of the unfortunates, if he gave up his stone to the warback rather than the reverse, then he surely wanted to enjoy this vista one more time.

  His drifting reverie was broken by a shout. He turned and saw a boat nearing his. It was Borof, and the latter definitely had lost his battle with the night before. “Daasek,” he yelled. “Do you have any wineshead?”

  Wineshead was an herb used to cure ailing digestions. And hangovers. That was a remedy for the land, not sea, and Daasek knew he had none in his pharmacology. “Steam some kelp. Down it with a few fresh raw clams.”

  Borof shuddered. “Do you want me to befoul the harbor?”

  “Not while you're this close and upwind. You could wait a few hours. The Great Sail may begin today, but you don't have to start with the sun.”

  Borof shook his head even as he held it. “I bet Fygre I would be first. I won't give him any more lead than I already have.”

  “Then good luck to you. And calm seas.”

  Borof belched in reply, then steered away. Daasek rested at his oars a moment, then continued his easy, steady pace.

  * * * *

  Daasek bent over his compact fisherman's stove, adding just a small amount of wine to the mollusks in his pot. The only stores Daasek had brought were several jugs of wine and kelp biscuits. A true fisherman was expected to feed himself during the Great Sail, not depend on the larder of the land. Kelp, grickle and fanfish—plus an occasional seamocker—would be his normal bill of fare, but as long as he was still in shallow waters, he decided to harvest and feast on clams.

  Most fishermen shunned shellfish, considering their capture beneath their dignity. They just sit there, they would argue. There is no challenge in catching a creature that merely waits for you. Daasek knew different. He enjoyed the challenge of digging them out from their rocky hideaways in the shallows and inland lakes as much as he enjoyed their succulence. He had won more than one bar bet by holding his breath longer than his challenger. No one ever imagined he had honed this talent by diving for mollusks.

  Daasek opened the shellfish expertly with a flick of his father's warback knife, then swallowed the morsel whole. The knife was by far the prized possession of the fisherman. The blade was a single spine from a conquered warback, much stronger and sharper than any man-made weapon. Only during the Great Sail was any man save a Guild member allowed to possess one. Only when and if, Daasek conquered his own warback would he be allowed to own his own.

  Daasek admired the design on the leather-and-wood haft. It was a spiral that evolved into the body of a warback. It was his father's signature. No other warback blade carried a similar pattern; no two warback blades were alike. Daasek had spent joyful hours toying with his own design, but as yet had not decided on one. He was confident some event during the Great Sail would provide final inspiration.

  That evening, Daasek was serenaded by the laughter of the high-flying seamockers and the far-off calls of sounding warbacks. Occasionally he joined in, piercing Phann's cloak with notes on his bonepipe, another gift from the conquered warback. He saw, far away, flickering lanterns from others in the Great Sail. No other reason could account for this many ships being in these waters this season.

  It was tempting to approach his comrades. It was also not allowed. For the profession of a fisherman was one of solitude, and the Great Sail was often the first time apprentices were entrusted asea alone. They were expected to remain that way, for the Great Sail, and the battle with the warback, was an individual affair. He would enjoy his loneliness until his hunt was over. That night he dreamt of his meeting with his warback. It would be the first of many such dreams.

  * * * *

  Phann's daughter Iofhee had now joined him in the sky. Six weeks had gone by and Daasek had yet to feel the heat of his heartstone. Several times young warbacks had surfaced nearby, studying his craft like a woman scanning scones in a bakery. A mature warback would not have hesitated. They, however, had already returned to deeper, richer hunting grounds. The presence of his heartstone confused the smaller beasts. They were uncertain if he was family to them or food. One had lingered for several hours, circling, considering, finally bellowing with rage and frustration and sounding with a contemptuous flick of its tail.

  By now Daasek was feeling frustration himself. There was always the chance his warback had not survived its own infancy. But the legends claimed that the heartstone of a warback turned red upon its death, and his was as milky white as when he had first clutched it. He could not slay another warback. The heartstone bound him and his selected prey as firmly as the vows of Iofhee bound a husband and wife. So he merely waved as the occasional spikes of the warbacks broke the surface. Find my brother, he told them wordlessly. Tell him I am here. Tell him one of us must soon die.

  And perhaps his words had some effect. That night he felt a flash of fire at his chest, which passed immediately. But it was enough. His warba
ck was alive. For the first time in many eves he fell asleep with a smile.

  * * * *

  “If it's that funny, why don't you share the joke?”

  The seamocker looked down from its perch on the short mast and cawed its raucous laugh. Then it shook itself and turned its attention once more to the sea.

  Daasek chewed a hunk of kelp bread. His free hand inched across the bottom to where his knife lay. The seamockers were far-flying predators, but they were also considered a delicacy. It would make a welcome break in his diet. “You must be tired,” he said soothingly as his fingers closed around the blade. “Just stay there and rest. Perhaps you'd like to share my meal? Perhaps you'd like to be mine?”

  The bird cocked one eye in his direction but said nothing.

  Daasek brought his arm back slowly. Seamockers were an alert breed. “Yes, look into the sea. There must be plenty of grickle nearby waiting to feed a fine-looking beast like you. Just as you are going to feed me.”

  The bird cawed reproachfully as the blade flashed by, missing it by inches. Insulted, it spread its wings and, giving one more laugh, launched itself.

  Daasek cursed. He never should have missed the bird. He had always been good with a dagger, but the long trip had played havoc on practice. He vowed that he wouldn't let these long idle hours go to waste again.

  It only took a quick swim to retrieve his knife. In the haft was one of the air sacs from a warback. The warbacks were air-breathers and their backs contained dozens of small bladders, which they filled when they planned to dive deep into the Horean Sea. A fisherman's knife would never be lost to the ocean.

  Daasek crawled aboard and looked for the seamocker. He expected it to be far and high away by now. Instead, he saw it only a hundred kine distance. At first he thought it was swimming, a talent unknown for the bird. Then he realized it was standing on a piece of something, feeding.