untended at anchor, their rigging ragged and their main
yards lying rotten on their decks.
“Strange,” said Lady Ilys. “Everything looks
abandoned. I thought this would be a teeming port.”
“Not a soul in sight,” agreed Mistress Carin.
That changed when a light ketch skimmed out to meet
the SEA RAVEN. A Kernaffi stood in the boat and called to
the galley in his native tongue. Radiz replied at length.
“What do they say?” asked Sturm.
“Merely the greetings of our great lord to his returning
ship,” said Artavash. The man in the boat did not look so
very pleased to Sturm.
SEA RAVEN dropped anchors fore and aft. The oars
were run in. The pilot ketch put about and tacked back to a
long stone pier. Radiz shouted orders, and all hands except
slaves assembled on the main deck.
A squat barge rowed out to the galley’s bow. Sturm, his
mother, and Carin followed Artavash to a ramp that led
down to the bobbing barge. Sturm stopped short of the
ramp’s end.
“What about Sergeant Soren?” he said.
“He will come ashore with the other rowers,” said
Radiz.
Sturm appealed to Artavash. “He must come with us,”
he said. She seemed willing to accommodate the boy’s
wishes, so she sent for the sergeant. Soren was half-carried
from the hold and dumped on the ramp by Kernaffi sailors.
“You see, my lady, how four days with an oar tames
the boldest warrior,” Radiz said. Artavash laughed all the
way down to the barge.
Sturm helped his friend stand. “Are you well, Soren?”
he said.
“Well enough, my lord.” His quilted tunic was in tat ters,
and red welts streaked his back. The rowing master had not
spared Soren the whip. The guardsman’s hands were also
raw from gripping the heavy oar.
The barge glided in to the pier. An honor guard awaited
them. Brass horns blared as Artavash led the group up some
steps to the street. A parade formed:
the warrior woman leading Sturm by the hand, followed
by a grim Lady Ilys and Carin. Soren, Radiz, and the
Kernaffi guard brought up the rear. Fifes shrilled and drums
rumbled as they began to march.
The streets of the city were as empty as the harbor. A
few people peered out their windows, and some curious
loafers filled open doorways. As soon as they caught sight
of Artavash, doors closed and shutters shut.
“Passing strange,” Sturm said. “Harbors without ships,
streets without people.”
“The natives seldom venture out this time of day,”
Artavash replied. “They think it’s too hot.”
The parade turned a comer. Ahead rose an imposing
facade, a palace of some sort. Before the palace was a high
wooden platform covered with a golden canopy. Artavash
halted Sturm ten paces from the foot of the platform. The
guards ran ahead, forming a double line from Artavash to
the bottom of the steps. Javelins clanked on shoulders in
salute, and the music stopped.
“Hail, Lord of the Sea!” Artavash cried.
“KAI! NAM KAMAY DURAT!” echoed the guards.
Sturm shaded his eyes. How warm it was here! The
afternoon sun glared over him, making sweat break out on
his face. Maybe the natives had the right idea!
Something stirred on the platform. A thin shape, black
against the dazzling light, came to the front of the platform.
Two hands rose, spread in greeting.
“Welcome, beloved Artavash. Who have you brought to
me?” said a high, reedy voice.
“Noble guests, my lord.” She introduced Lady Ilys,
Carin, and Soren. Then she pushed Sturm forward. “And
this, Master, is Sturm, Angriff’s son, of the house of
Brightblade.”
A thin, gurgling sound emanated from the platform.
“So? Come closer, young fellow, that I may see you better.”
Sturm cast a glance back at his mother for guidance.
Artavash didn’t wait; she put a hand to his back and steered
him up the wooden steps. When the shade of the gilded
canopy fell across his face, he saw the man known as the
Lord of the Sea.
He was tall, and so thin his back bowed under the
weight of his large head. The black robe he wore hung
loosely from his shoulders. Long, smooth fingers were