Francis Lebaron

Mercadian Masques

Chapter 1

Years later, Atalla could remember every moment of the night he saw the ship that flew.

It was early, at least two hours before morningsinging. The sky still held the pale yellow of dawn, though darker streaks showed where the deeper orange of full daylight was beginning to break through. Atalla had risen before sunrise because Father had promised he might ride his first jhovall, and the ten-year-old boy had been far too excited to sleep. All through the dark hours, he lay on his pallet, staring into the blackness, listening to the soft breathing of Mother and Father asleep in the adjoining bed. In the stillness of the country night, he could hear the mournful cries of mating qomallen to the south, and when the hour was latest he heard the distant booming vibrations of nightsinging from the city.

As the walls of the cottage slowly lightened, Atalla rose. Carefully, to avoid waking his parents, he slipped out the door.

Before him the plains of the west stretched to a horizon that was still only a dim line between sky and earth. Atalla stood still, drinking in the rich, heady smells of the air; the faint odor of human habitation mixed with the scents of farm animals and the wild creatures of the plains. Breezes tousled his black hair and riffled through his nightshirt. His heart thumped in his chest, and he felt deeply, warmly alive.

He passed along the side of the house to the Jhovall stable. The six-legged tiger-creatures patiently purred in their stalls. Father had said Atalla might ride the smallest one, Skotcha. The boy stood by her head, gently stroking her wet nose for several minutes. Even a small Jhovall could tear across the plain like a dust devil, could kill a red wolf, could carry a farm boy on plenty of adventures. Atalla fondly patted her shaggy gray flank and left the stables.

The air felt dry, even for this early in the day. It would be at least two more turnings of the moon before the rains came, filling the riverbed and pond with water. Now, as the boy watched, distant eddies and clouds of brown dust moved across the endless plain under the brightening sky. The air to the south seemed to shimmer. Predawn light bent and played about the boy, caressing him.

Atalla felt a sudden pressure in the air. Something invisible violently struck his chest. The world before him exploded in a silent sound.

Atalla staggered backward, tripped, and fell. He rolled to his feet in time to see the air divide and slip away from the sides of a ship, which burst across the screaming sky. A flying ship? Atalla had seen oceangoing galleys last year in Rishada, but a flying ship? It hurtled through the air as if shot from one of the great cannons that guarded the city. A flying warship-more than that, a comet, a sign from the heavens…

What was that old myth Father spoke of? The Uniter?

A sudden gale threw Atalla down. Rocks dug into his knees. The grass thrashed like flames. The barn's thatch was ripped free. Jhovalls shrieked in their stalls. Every window in the house shattered. The ship screamed so low overhead that lines trailing from its side slapped the roof. For one frozen moment, a bull's head stared at him over the rail. With a great whoosh, the ship disappeared behind the house.

There was a heart-stopping crash. Wood rent and splintered. Screams came with the sound. Earth flew outward in a pelting hail. The ground shook. There was a loud crack, a thud of some heavy body, and then silence.

The ship had crashed in the plowed field to the north of Atalla's home.

He sprinted around the cottage, meeting his mother and father. A confused babble of voices rose ahead. Charging out to the brow of the low rise, they gazed down. Atalla's jaw dropped as the scene opened before him.

Two deep furrows had been dug right through the heart of the simsass plants. Broken stalks drooped forlornly, sap oozing from their sides. At the end of the furrows was the strange ship. One sail-were they sails? Atalla wondered- had caught against the tartoo tree, the only tree for miles around, and had snapped clean off. So had the top of the tree. The ship lay below, near the dry riverbed.

In unison, Mother and Father muttered, "I'll be damned."

Gerrard Capashen wiped a trickle of blood from his closecropped beard. The once-healed cut on his left cheek had opened again, but if that was his worst injury, he was lucky. Ribs ached beneath his red waistcoat. He would have fallen if not for the helm, but it had paid him back with a blow that drove the air from his lungs. Clutching the wheel in strong hands, he managed a shuddering sigh.

"I shouldn't have taken the wheel from Hanna." Gerrard released the helm and staggered across the bridge of Weatherlight. "Hanna!" he gasped out, approaching the navigator. She slumped across the cartographer's desk. Gerrard tenderly embraced her. "Are you all right?"

Hanna lifted her head, breathing in short, panting gasps. She raked blonde hair back from her face and said breathlessly, "Yes… but what of the ship?"

"Ship be damned. What of the crew?" Gerrard said gravely.

The only other crew member on the bridge had been the cabin boy. The goblin had been hurled against the wall and was now a mere bundle of whimpering limbs.

"Are you hurt, Squee?" Gerrard asked, moving toward him.

The green-skinned creature struggled to his feet. There was no sign of serious injury. "Squee's head got cutted off!"

Gerrard smiled. "Not cut off, but I'm not sure it's on straight." As Squee cracked his neck and every other joint, Gerrard strode to the bridge window.

Beyond, the minotaur first mate helped injured crew members. Strong and surehoofed, Tahngarth himself had escaped the crash relatively unscathed.

Hanna was already heading out onto the upper deck. She gave a faint yelp of dismay and ran aft along the slanting planks to view the damage done to the ship's sails.

Gerrard joined the minotaur. "How bad is he?" he asked, gesturing at a young sailor who gingerly cradled his arm.

Tahngarth's eyes blazed yellow beneath twisted horns. There was blood in the minotaur's flaring nostrils. "This one's not bad. Some broken bones, cuts, bruises. Orim's sickbay will be overflowing." He motioned to two crewmen, who helped the injured sailor to his feet and conducted him toward a hatch.

Gerrard nodded gravely. "At least we got out of Rath-" "Most of us," Tahngarth said. Gerrard had only recently gained the minotaur's trust, and now there was unspoken accusation in his eyes. "There are at least two dead-thrown from the prow. They can't be alive, twisted like that. And, of course, there's Mirri, and Crovax, and Ertai-"

"Ertai?" Gerrard asked, scanning the deck with anxious eyes.

"Not here. He must not have made it." Gerrard slapped a hand against the railing. "You're saying he's still in Rath? Damn it, how could he not have made it onto the ship? All he had to do was jump as Weatherlight passed under him."

"He did manage to close the portal behind us." The minotaur pointed behind Gerrard to the empty sky. "The opening is gone."

Taking in the news, Gerrard said solemnly, "Even if it weren't, we'd have to fix the spar before we could fly back to get him."

"It's worse than that," came a new voice, rumbling behind them. The two turned to see a massive man of silver haul himself up from the engine room hatch. Smoke wreathed the metal golem and coiled into the early morning sky. Karn was a living part of Weatherlight's engine, and no one but Hanna knew the ship better than he. "Systems throughout the ship are burned out. Hull integrity in the bow is compromised. The left landing spine is jammed. A split has opened in the subreactor manifold. And, of course, the Thran Crystal is still damaged. Everything else will have to be fixed before we can fly, and the Thran Crystal before we can planeshift-"