Firebrand

Asking around at the harbour the next day made their options clear, or the lack thereof. The route between Aquila and the Western Isles was nearly exclusively sailed by ships belonging to the Island Trading Consortium, whose headquarters in Aster naturally lay by the harbour. The building itself was ostentatious; while looking like any Asterian structure built to contain offices, it had an entrance flanked by statues of animals unknown to Martel, and engravings ran along the length of the doors.

So taken aback by the stone creatures, Martel stopped walking to inspect them. They had the size of a bull with long tusks protruding, similar to a boar’s, except they pointed much more forward. Their ears were big and flappy with a nose as long as the tusks, curling upward.

“What kind of monster is this?” he exclaimed.

“Those are elephants, Martel,” Eleanor remarked casually as she walked past him to enter the building.

“Oh, like that’s a normal thing to know!”

“No, I have never seen one in person. But I have seen plenty of drawings of them,” Eleanor explained as they sat on soft chairs in a waiting room; a clerk had already scurried up the stairs to announce them.

“Well, we didn’t all grow up with three tutors and a library.”

“Four tutors, but that is irrelevant. You stayed at my house for a month, did you not? You never thought to open the bestiaries? You would have learned so much.”

“I didn’t realise I’d get examined on it,” Martel mumbled, crossing his arms. “The magister will see you now,” the clerk announced, having returned to interrupt their argument. He swept a hand toward the stairs. “Second door on the left.”

The mages got up and went in that direction, noticing a backroom filled with desks, each manned by a clerk; business seemed to be going well.

Continuing, they reached the study of the magister, highest ranking official of the Consortium in Aster. Like everyone else in the building, he was an islander with black hair and eyes, his skin bronze in hue, though he was dressed in the trousers and doublet of an Asterian patrician. He rose from his desk and walked around to greet them. “Sir Martel, Lady Fontaine. A pleasure. You may call me Master Edward,” he declared in fluent Asterian.

Formality always made Martel feel stiff and awkward, and given his only previous encounter with islanders had resulted in their attempt to kill him, he felt uncomfortable, so he simply nodded.

“A pleasure, Master Edward. You take Asterian names?” Eleanor asked as their host gestured toward soft chairs where they could all sit.

“It eases business,” the islander shrugged as they all took a seat. “I understand you are interested in securing passage on a ship to our western home?”

“Correct,” Eleanor replied; as usual, in matters of etiquette and negotiation, Martel was happy to let her take the reins. “I am surprised that the magister himself would deal with us. It cannot be a rare occurrence.”

“We get passengers from time to time, undoubtedly, but everything is different when mages are involved,” the islander explained with a knowing smile. “Especially two so illustrious.”

“Our reputation proceeds us.”

Edward bowed his head to her. “I can’t think of the last time the entire Empire knew the names of two wizards. I dare say they’ve even heard of you on the Isles.”

“And does this fame make matters simpler or more complicated?”

“The former,” the magister told them. “I don’t suppose the good elemental mage knows to work the weather?” he asked with a sudden look at Martel.

“Not like a seamage,” came the admission; Martel figured he wanted to know if the battlemage could shorten the journey.

“I thought as much. No matter. We have our own water-workers. You are both exceedingly skilled in combat, by all accounts.” Edward looked at them, awaiting confirmation.

“You can rest assured we are,” Eleanor told him.

“In that case, I am happy to offer you passage at no cost. In but a few days, we have a ship departing for Port Verde with our own wizard above, making for a short journey.”

Both the Asterians frowned. “In exchange for what?” she asked.

“The ship is ladened with silver bullion. Another pair of wizards aboard to see it safely to harbour will ease my mind,” the magister explained.

Martel was unfamiliar with one word in that sentence, but he knew the meaning of silver. Given how he had dispatched a Khivan galley once armed with cannons, he had no concerns about defending any ship he travelled on, and if pledging protection gave them passage on a vessel fuelled by magic, he was happy to make that trade. Seasickness was a much greater threat in his mind, so anything to shorten the journey. Still, he had one reservation. “This ship, it’s not a galley, is it?”

Now the magister frowned. “No, it isn’t. We build our ships much differently, and they don’t depend on oars. Why do you ask, if I may know?”

“Usually, galleys mean galley slaves. I don’t like the idea of that,” Martel admitted. For origınal chapters go to NoveI~Fire.net

Edward smiled. “Nothing to be concerned with, master mage. Slavery of any kind is forbidden on the Isles, and nothing drives our ships forward except wind and magic.”

Perhaps Martel had been too hasty judging these islanders by one bad encounter. “In that case,” he spoke, looking at Eleanor for confirmation, “I think we accept.”

“Indeed,” she added.

“Excellent! I shall let the captain know. Departure is in three days. Let me write down the necessary details for you,” the magister suggested, hurrying to his desk.

“Bullion is the metal used for minting coins,” Eleanor explained as they stepped outside the building.

“I can always rely on you.” Martel stretched his shoulders, trying to sound casual as he brought up another topic. “Do you think the roadhouse has paper and ink?”

“Doubtful, but a city this size will have scribes everywhere. What do you want to write?” she asked as they set into motion, strolling down the street.

“Figured I’d write a letter home before we set sail. Been a while since we left Engby, and we’ll probably be gone months once we’re underway.”

“We should get something to eat,” Eleanor suggested, “and we can keep our eyes open for a scribe. Or ask for one whenever we find a taverna that suits us.”

“Sounds good.” Martel cleared his throat. “You could write a letter home too, if you want. Since we’ll be there anyway.”

“I doubt anyone would read it.” Her pace increased.

“Your mother would.”

“And where did you come by such keen insight into my mother’s state of mind?” As always in these situations, Eleanor looked stiffly ahead.

“She told me.”

Finally, she stopped to look at him. “When?”

“The winter we had leave. She took me aside.” Martel swallowed, feeling uncomfortable under Eleanor’s gaze. “Your mother told me she didn’t care about rank or position. Only that you were safe. I believe her.”

“Martel, there is a steep difference between being a mageknight in the legions, however lowly, to being reviled as a traitor and disowned,” she declared with a cold voice. “There is a scribe over there.” She nodded at a shop across the street, hanging the sign of a quill and inkpot. “You should handle your errand. I will wait outside meanwhile.”

Nothing further to be gained, Martel did as suggested.