“The ivories are not simply treasure,” said Hereward, as he went to the door and unbarred it, using only his left hand, the dagger ready in his right. “At least the fourteen we seek. Did you make the gate guards sleep as well as those in the western court?”
“No,” said Tira. She retrieved her thrown knives and went to stand by the knight, Mister Fitz bringing up the rear, his sorcerous needle still hidden in his gauntleted hand.
“You would think they would enter,” said Sir Hereward, “given the noise within. Moklek and basilisk, and all your rummaging about. Ready?”
“They are not valiant, nor young,” said Tira, readying her knives to throw. “Go!”
Sir Hereward pulled the door back. Tira stood with knives poised, then slowly lowered them. Sir Hereward moved past her, and looked down at the two desiccated bodies that lay on the steps. They were more vaguely human-shaped parcels of dust wrapped in mail than bodies, their swords lying next to withered hand-and-arm bones that would have not disgraced some revenant a thousand years dead.
“It needed life to stabilize its presence,” said Mister Fitz, bending down to sniff again at the bodies of the guards. “They were convenient.”
“Do you know which one it is?” asked Sir Hereward. There were fourteen ivories, and fourteen godlets, but of that number, one was far more to be feared than any of the rest.
“No,” answered Mister Fitz. “It has left no obvious signs or declarations, and we cannot spare the time to take a sample of whatever essence it may have excreted.”
“I like not this talk,” said Tira. “If I had not seen these two, I might think you sought to scare me from my rightful theft.”
“You need not come with us, lady,” said Sir Hereward over his shoulder as he ran to the gate, ignoring the small night postern they had planned to use, for it would not be broad enough to permit the moklek’s passage. Mister Fitz ran after him but jumped to one of the torch brackets above, and peered through an arrow slit, taking care not to draw too close to another ensorcelled band of gold set there to slay any child, monkey, or ensorcelled rat that might otherwise be able to creep inside.
Behind them, the pygmy moklek gingerly investigated the wizened bodies with its trunk, gave a snort of disgust, and trotted after the knight, thief, and puppet.
“I am no lady,” said Tira, as she helped Sir Hereward lift the bar of the gate. “I am a Thief of the Sixth Circle of the Guild of Thieves in Kwakrosh, Lesemb, and Navilanaganishom!”
“I thought you said the Seventh Circle,” said Sir Hereward.
“When I return with the ivories,” said Tira. “I merely anticipated my elevation. In truth, I did not expect any complications with godlets.”
Mister Fitz dropped down as they opened the postern.
“There is some commotion by the harborside,” he said. “It will be the godlet. Quickly!”
Montaul’s house lay on a low hill directly above the harbor, so that he could watch the arrival and departure of his ships, the foundation of his riches. A cobbled road ran down to the long, semicircular quay where four ships were tied up at the jetties that thrust out from the quay like fingers from a hand. A few other vessels were some distance away, bulky trading cogs lying at anchor under the shelter of the mole, a long breakwater of great stones that protected the harbor from wind and wave, with a hexagonal fort at its seaward end, built to protect the port against pirates and naval foes. The fort could fire forge-heated red-hot shot from the cannons on its walls, and explosive bombs the size of a puncheon from the great mortar that squatted in the center of the fort like a fat spider in a hole. Except that, as with many other civic buildings in Kwakrosh, it was somewhat neglected, and only fully manned in time of obvious threat, the good worthies of the town council not wanting to recognize that by that point it would be too late.
Sir Hereward, Mister Fitz, Tira, and the pygmy moklek ran down the harbor road, fleet shadows in the night. The moon lit the street in stark relief, casting silver shadows and reflecting off the puddles left by the earlier rainstorm, illuminating the drunks asleep in the doorways of the warehouses closer to the quay—drunks who upon inspection in the morning would be found to be no more than husks within their layers of rags.
“It must be after a ship,” called out Sir Hereward. “But the wind is against the mole and the tide on the flood, no ship can leave harbor tonight.”
“Not under sail,” answered Mister Fitz. He pointed ahead to the most distant jetty, where there was the sound of screaming, suddenly cut short, and a yellow lantern winked out. Behind it, the dim outline of a long but relatively low ship with only a single stubby mast could be seen.
“The hexareme?” asked Sir Hereward, sidestepping a particularly deep-looking puddle in an area of missing cobbles. He referred to the state ship of Kwakrosh, a relic of the past, that was rowed out once a year for the Grand Mayor to perform the ritual throwing of the flotsam, a floating basket of spices, wine, cloth, smoked herring, and a very small amount of silver currency. This was then fought over by all the bum-boaters, fisherfolk, and semiaquatic layabouts of the harbor in joyous anarchy, a mark of respect for the ancient days when the town had been no more than a village of wreckers.
“But it has no rowers, no crew,” said Tira, who ran easily at Sir Hereward’s side.
“If the godlet is strong enough, it will bend the oars by energistic means,” said Mister Fitz. “I am heartened by this.”
“You are heartened?” asked Sir Hereward. “If it is strong enough to row a hexareme of sixty benches against this wind and tide, it is too strong by my measure!”
“It indicates a certain stupidity, a singleness of purpose,” said Mister Fitz. “It wants to return to Asantra-Lurre, not knowing or caring that the kingdom is no more, and a thousand leagues distant besides.”
“What is it?” asked Tira. “Do you mean Montaul?”
“Montaul lives no more, save as a vessel for the godlet,” said Mister Fitz.
They reached the quay as he spoke, cobbles giving way to the smooth planks of the boardwalk. Two watchmen in the livery of the town guard stared at them nervously, their lantern-adorned halberds held high over the starched and dehydrated body of one of their companions, her arms frozen in the act of trying to fend off some horror that had come upon her.
“Who … who goes there?” stuttered one of them.
“Friends,” called out Sir Hereward easily as he ran past, momentarily forgetting he was covered from head to toe in soot, was barefoot, had a dagger bare in his hand, and was accompanied by a sorcerous puppet, an obvious thief, and an albino pygmy moklek.
“Oh good,” said the watchman nervously to their backs. He raised his voice to add, “Uh, pass, friends.”
Up ahead, there was a great squeal of long-unused timber moving against bronze, and the splash of water as the hexareme’s starboard oars all came out at once, the port side being up against the jetty.
“We must board before it shoves off,” said Sir Hereward, increasing his pace, bare feet pounding across quayside to jetty. The hexareme’s oars were tumbled together for the moment, but were already lifting and shifting, energistic tendrils of bright violet visible through the oar ports as the godlet sought to properly organize the rowing benches, like a team of octopi sorting toothpicks.
“Do we want to be on board with whatever is doing that?” asked Tira.
“The godlet’s mind and power is bent upon moving the ship,” said Mister Fitz, who had jumped to Sir Hereward’s shoulder as the sprint became too fast for his short legs. “While it is focused upon that task, we have a better chance of dispatching it to whence it came.”
“Almost there!” panted Sir Hereward. He jumped to the gangway and ran up it even as the starboard oars dug deep and the hexareme groaned and moved diagonally away from the jetty, mooring ropes at stern and bow singing as they stretched taut. There was a great crash as the gangway fell, the pygmy moklek jumping the last few feet, the deck resounding like an enormous drum as it landed.