The Seal of Falaurin

                                                    Chapter One: The Taint of Chattismar

                                                                              2

Two long hours passed before Maviance was in the presence of the Adjudicator.

          They held audience within one of the highest levels of the Ganglion. Almost a castle, the building offered a panoramic view of the vast cityscape, dark and twinkling with lights as if to mimic the stars. The winding streets were laid out in a jumble; houses, warehouses, shops and markets crowded together for miles until they collided with the massive grey wall that enclosed the city.

          Further north beyond the wall was the trader’s square and the port, enveloped in its own smaller wall that concealed the countless rowdy sailor’s bars and customs checkpoints. An army of white sails stood out against the dark waters of the bay. Beyond that there lay only a vague impression of the distant shoreline and the lowlands it bordered, hidden beneath nights’ veil.

          Shadows crowded the sitting room, save where an unstable circle of light illuminated the two men. The torchlight flickered back and forth, dancing shadows across their faces, at one moment carving out rigid and sinister lines, the next painting them as benevolent sages. The effect was wasted on both of them.

          The Adjudicator procured a long cigar from within the folds of his robes without offering one to Maviance. He struck a sulphur match alight, but before he could ignite the cigar it flared and started smouldering on its own. He looked at Maviance disapprovingly, but the paragon feigned innocence.

          “I hardly find your sense of humour amusing,” he said, extinguishing the match with a brusque flick.

          “Such is the misfortune of your subjects,” Maviance smiled.

          The Adjudicator sighed then drew deeply from the cigar. He breathed a fine ring of smoke into the air and watched it fade.

          “You say that you escorted the woman—Jyslan—from the city to spare her from the torture of quarantine with a quick death. Captain Gattore is adamant that you are lying.” The Adjudicator stared at Maviance through a haze of smoke that looked like a bloody mist in the torch’s light.

          Maviance’s humorous mien melted from his face. He leaned back in his chair and folded one leg across the other.

          “You know me for a cunning man. Perhaps you know me for a ruthless one. But dishonest? We have been acquaintances, if not friends, since long before you attained your office. Has there ever been any hint that I am at all mendacious?”

          The Adjudicator tapped a shower of ash into a glass tray on the table beside him. He inhaled from the cigar again while he considered the remark.

          “No,” he admitted. “But men might change their colours for… certain causes.”

          Maviance arched his eyebrows as if to suggest the idea was ludicrous. He waved it away with a flamboyant gesture.

          “I am an old man—older perhaps than you know. A man my age sticks to his principles.” Or so I would have thought before this morning.

          The Adjudicator’s bottom lip curled and he nodded in agreement. He too was of an age—outwardly—with Maviance. Two smoke rings drifted from his lips this time, and he watched them dwindle into oblivion. With them went his cause for doubt.

          “Very well, very well. However, the means to your end was somewhat… unorthodox, and as such there may be several legal matters to address before we can put this incident behind us.”

          “I had expected as much,” Maviance acquiesced.

          The Adjudicator flashed his teeth in a silver-toothed smile, and combined with his convex nose and dark, deep-set eyes, it gave him an unintentionally predatory look. With the matter neatly settled, however, he allowed himself to sag back in his chair with a long breath. All the tension eased from his face, making him look older.

          “Age seems to have taken its toll on you, Elyur,” Maviance observed.

          “We cannot all reverse the hard passage of time,” Elyur frowned, although he appeared to relish a brief escape from being the Adjudicator.

          “Tell me what’s at the heart of this quarantine,” Maviance said.

           “Somehow the children have been infected with something that transforms them—demonises them,” Elyur said casually and puffed another ring of smoke. Maviance was glad to see the chains binding his tongue had fallen away when the Adjudicator’s mask had been removed.

          “But why is it necessary? People are hardly going to let such offspring live.”

          “Ah,” Elyur said, gesturing out at the world beyond the windows. “Because things like this simply do not happen. Someone or something out there has intended this, and I would rather they did not enjoy the fruits of their labour.”

          Maviance nodded gravely, tweaking the tip of his moustache. It was as he had expected—but Maviance rarely asked a question unless he already suspected the answer.

          “And do you know who or what that might be?” he asked.

          “Unfortunately not,” Elyur sighed, exhaling a great plume of hazy smoke. Maviance waved it away with a grimace. He had also expected that answer.

          He followed Elyur’s stare out the window. Even his own impressive store of knowledge had little to contribute. This evil was beyond any known power of shaping. Maviance had always been content in knowing that he was knowledgeable in the arcane. But this went beyond anything he could imagine.

          The thought sent chills creeping down his spine.

Jyslan was making a solid pace down the highway. Three hours had passed since her parting with Maviance, and already the sun was edging its way above the eastern horizon behind her. The last traces of night had been banished.

          Her unaccustomed feet were sore and the sleep she had missed from the night was beginning to catch up to her. Still, she pressed on, forcing one step to follow the next, and the next. Fear drove her like a whip. Was she being chased? Every time the thought surfaced she fought the urge to look over her shoulder, a battle that was ultimately lost each and every time.

          A dozen people had passed her throughout the early morning already, most of them destined for Chattismar. The best part of that number had been farmers or merchants, eager to avoid the usual surge of travellers that began to pour in an hour or two after dawn. None of them had paid her much attention, and for that she was thankful.

          Gulls were crying at one another along the nearby river. The sky was clear, save for a few patches of white cloud in the south, and the air was crisp and fresh. The leaves of the trees were turning brown and occasionally fluttering away on the wind, a sign that winter was close. Soon a fine blanket of snow would layer the ground and the skeletal trees that the leaves left behind. Overall it was a pleasant day for late autumn. It was becoming hard for her to imagine that the events of the morning had happened at all.

          Ironically, the doubt begot another surge of paranoia. She whirled around and studied the road.

          A carriage with an escort of half a dozen horses were now visible a league or more down the road. She doubted that Gattore would bring a carriage if her were chasing her, but worry was gnawing at her heart and the only way to appease it was to find cover. She hurried off the road and waited amongst the nearest cluster of trees.

          Minutes passed. Gradually, the low rumble of the carriage drifted into hearing. Soon after it was joined by a cacophony of hooves, and then they emerged into view; a large red carriage drawn by four brown and white horses, surrounded by armed riders on black mounts. The driver was a flame-haired woman, equipped to match the riders.

          They had almost passed when one of the riders cried out and the whole caravan ground to a halt. Jyslan reclined deeper into the shadows, her face white.

          “It was here,” came a deep voice.

           “You’re sure?” asked another, a woman’s.

          “Yes. I’ll be back in a moment.” There was a thud as one of the riders dismounted. He walked over to the edge of the copse and inspected the gloom.

          “Come out,” he commanded. His voice held no flaw of uncertainty. Jyslan did not hesitate. She leapt from where she stood and bounded through the trees as fast as she could manage. She heard a grunt behind her, then broke out into the open, and turned her head--

          The rider in the white tunic was right behind her. Effortlessly, he snaked his arm around her and pulled her off the ground. She struggled in vain but did not resort to striking him. He carried her like a sack of grain back to the carriage, and set her down more carefully than she had expected.

          Jyslan pulled herself away from him indignantly and stared around at the group as if willing to fight them off.

          The redheaded driver examined her. “Why did you hide?”

          “She’s pregnant,” said the rider who had returned her.

           Understanding dawned on the woman’s face. She pushed her thick hair behind her head. “Still, it was unnecessary.”

          Jyslan faltered under the woman's demanding stare. “I didn't think you would see me.”

          “The young are naïve, aren’t they Xartyl?” said the woman to the tall rider, who was climbing back into the saddle. He nodded with a grunt. “We have sharp eyes, and it was easy to spot you ahead on the road before you ran away.”

          Jyslan paused. What did they want? At last she said:

          “Do you want to take me back to Chattismar?”

          “Why would we do that?” asked the redhead. “We are not inclined to mistreat women, especially those with child. Anyway, we are from Asivaad, we all know that the Adjudicator of Chattismar couldn’t find wisdom in a barrel full of sages.” The other riders chuckled at the old quip. Jyslan smiled weakly.

          “The… incident is largely the reason why we left,” continued the redhead, this time her jocularity gone. Her face was hard and fierce. “After we reach Attevo we’re crossing the mountains back to Asivaad.”

          “I’m headed there,” Jyslan said. The driver nodded to indicate she had surmised as much.

          “If you would like,” said the driver, and the men groaned, “I think we could give you a ride.”

          “Thank you,” Jyslan said. The redhead dropped down from the bench. Jyslan noticed they were about the same height. She opened the door of the carriage—unmarked crates and bags were sitting inside. Jyslan thrust her pack amidst them and climbed up beside her. The woman cracked the reigns and the horses started off into a slow trot. Behind the carriage, the male riders converged and talked amongst themselves.

          The carriage creaked and groaned as it trundled along. Occasionally, a heavy thump or clatter would issue from within as something fell against something else or toppled over. The driver seemed not to notice. Jyslan studied her sidelong. Her flame-red hair was voluminous and wavy, her face composed of high cheekbones and a curved jaw, a straight nose and bright, intense blue eyes.

          Despite her attempt at secrecy the woman noticed her staring. Jyslan looked embarrassed but the woman only laughed.

          “My name is Elexandelle,” she said. And pre-empting the reply: “You are Jyslan, yes?” Jyslan’s eyes widened.

          Elexandelle laughed. “We were stopped at the gate, and one of the guards checked my papers against a list. Curious woman that I am, I felt the need to look—even though he needed some persuading.” She nodded to the sword at her hip. “I saw a circled name and something about escape, and then we found you here. I just put two and two together.”

          “Oh,” Jyslan said, staring at the ornate scabbard, from which a leather-bound hilt handle extended. Elexandelle noticed her gaze and brandished the sword, then thrust it handle-first into her hand. Jyslan fumbled and almost dropped it, but quickly took a liking to the weapon. It felt powerful in her hands. She turned it in the sunlight, watching the sunlight paint bright gleams across its surface.

          “I’ve never a met a woman sword fighter,” Jyslan said. “What’s it like?”

          Elexandelle grinned. “I’ll show you at Attevo.”

*