Abbess Hannal emerged last. She grasped the sleeve of the nearest priestess, hissed, ‘Assemble the guards, get torches, surround them! Let none approach!’ She swallowed her panic, caught sight of the folds of the thin slip she wore. ‘And get me some damned clothes!’
That night what appeared to be a bizarre religious procession tramped through the streets of Tali. Those few citizens awake during the third hour before sunrise, these being the night watch, city bakers and their apprentices, wandering drunks, and some few others whose business brought them out at such an hour — the nature of such business precluding them from ever admitting to being abroad at that time — later swore to hearing and catching glimpses of a torchlit convoy that wound its way down out of the temple district and on towards the waterfront. The mother of a family that slept on the street near the broad arched gate to the temple district, ever hopeful for alms, swore that the coin she used to pay for a room in a tenement house came from a priestess in that very procession. It was her opinion that they were of the hidden temple of the Shattered God escorting a human sacrifice to her doom.
At the waterfront the cordon of guards and priestesses spread out surrounding Hannal, Ina and the Queen of Dreams. By this time Hannal was frantic. Did her Queen expect her to have contracted a ship? What was her intention? No one was even up — how could she negotiate for a vessel? She was considering sending runners to all the nearby ships to bash on the decks or sides when she felt at her side the presence of her goddess. She bowed.
‘Do not worry, Hannal. Transport has been arranged.’
‘Of course, my Queen. Which one?’
‘None of these. I’ve … negotiated … to borrow a very special vessel.’
Hannal could not help but cast a quick glance to the quiet harbour. ‘And it will be arriving soon?’
The goddess smiled behind her veil. ‘Very soon. I merely have to call it …’ She advanced towards a section of empty wharf and Hannal waved to clear the priestesses and guards from her path. At the timbers’ jagged ends the Queen gestured out over the water below then crossed her arms. She looked to be waiting. Hannal dared to step up next to her. She peered down. The murky darkness of the harbour waters beneath the wharf appeared unchanged. She glanced to the Seguleh woman, Ina: she was looking behind them, back across the wharf front, ignoring anything that might be happening on the water. Of course, any threat would rush them from the streets, wouldn’t it?
A flickering from under the wharf snapped her gaze down. A silvery light rippled from the water beneath the floating sticks and refuse. The rotting timbers of the wharf juddered under her feet as if kicked. The surface of the harbour waters swelled.
The escort of priestesses and guards backed away from the edge of the wharf leaving Hannal, Ina and the Queen alone.
The swelling domed like an enormous bubble. From within this bulge a vessel’s bow arose to breach the surface in a great hissing and slither of water. What appeared to be the most alien ship Hannal had ever seen emerged. As long as a war galley it was, with a series of oar ports, dark and empty, lining its side. Yet it was completely closed across its top as if sealed to all access. A tall stern rudder was the last of it to heave into sight and the bow eased down into the water with a gentle sigh. No colours or sigil marked the dark polished planks of its sides and stern.
‘Who,’ Hannal stammered in wonder, ‘whose vessel is this?’
‘Mine, temporarily. It has been lost in the Shoals since the magus who built it died — slipped in a bathhouse and cracked his skull, rather ironically. I’ve been keeping an eye on it.’
Hannal’s mouth had dried. The Shoals? Isn’t that some sort of gyre of trapped ships? Some say Mael’s own purgatory for lost sailors … She cleared her throat. ‘And who … who is the captain?’ Hood himself?
The Queen regarded her, amused. ‘No captain. No crew. You could say the ship is — enchanted.’ She headed for a wooden ladder down from the wharf to the pier that the nameless vessel rubbed against. Ina quickly stepped ahead to lead the way, which she did smoothly, landing like a cat.
Hannal gripped the rough wood of the top rung. ‘Where are you headed, my goddess?’
The Queen of Dreams raised her veiled face from the dark where she stood on the wave-splashed floating pier. ‘For a chat. A long-delayed chat with an old acquaintance.’
No gangway or opening was in evidence along the side of the vessel. Yet the Seguleh swordswoman somehow vaulted atop the planking of the flat deck. Kneeling, she extended an arm. The Queen took it, and in this rather awkward and undignified manner scrambled her way up the slick side and on to the deck.
Old acquaintance? Hannal was thinking. Who …? For the life of her, she had no idea who that might be. Something for the cult archivists and researchers to sink their teeth into … And we, of course, out of all our rivals, possess the best of these.
Her last sight of the goddess and her champion was of two small figures painted in the sickly green tinge of the Visitor standing atop the long sweep of the vessel as it made its grave and stately way out of the harbour. Driven by no means discernible to her.
* * *
… and farther along the river we did come upon numerous populated urban centres whose inhabitants were unrelenting in their hostility and antagonism to our advance … Golan rubbed his gritty eyes and adjusted the sheet of plant fibre in the light of his single candle. Unfriendly indigenes, yes. No surprise there. Why should they welcome an invading army? And why should this Bakar, a ragged survivor — a deserter no doubt — claim otherwise?
Golan scanned further down the parchment … of the manifold monstrosities that assaulted us, the man-leopard was the worst. Countless soldiers fell in the river of red that was his rabid hunger. Yet this is not to diminish the daily predations of the snake-women, or the carnivorous bird-women … Bird-women? Golan pinched his eyes. False gods! Please let there be one useful scintilla of information he could sift from this ridiculous fabrication.
Inland from the river, at a distance of some leagues, we did perceive large structures tall above the canopy of forest and we remaining few were cheered for we believed we had at last arrived at the fabled Jakal Viharn itself and would soon walk its golden pavements and claim the gossamer magics that infuse its streets, and capture its ruling deathless great Queen herself. A floating reception of some four thousands of natives met us, occupying some hundreds of war canoes. The inhabitants wore brilliant feather cloaks — or so we thought at first. Only the ferocity of Master Rust’s theurgist response allowed us to escape their attack. From the resultant great conflagration I alone did emerge …
Golan let the account fall to the table and sat back, sighing. Four thousand warriors? Hundreds of war canoes? This deserter ought to have been more modest in his invention; this strained credulity beyond reason. And Jakal Viharn as a great city in the jungle? Please! It’s jungle! Raw primitive nature could in no way support such a large population. Only agriculture is capable of that. These indigenes — if any at all — must certainly number no more than a few scattered hundreds squatting in leaf huts, digging grubs and scratching their flea-bitten bare behinds.
He sipped his wine and stared at the blank canvas wall of the tent. Already mould and damp stained its weave. Beyond, monkeys howled to the risen moon and a roar sounded from the distance, some sort of hunting cat. The truth behind this man-leopard, perhaps? And yet … earlier Masters admit that some few survivors of their first experiments did escape. And of these, some may have made their way to the jungles and there survived. This no doubt is the real truth behind these accounts of bird-headed men and snake-women, and other such monstrosities glimpsed in the night and embellished in the imagination.