The Starfollowers of Coramonde Read Free Page B

the
confinements of civilized attire.
    Reacher
cleared his throat self-consciously. “We in Freegate also feel encroachments of
Salamá,” he stated softly. “Horsemen from the distant Southwastelands harry and
pillage, a virtual war. I am convinced they are instigated by the Masters, in
the City of Sorcery.”
    “Why does
everyone equate Bey with Salamá?” Van Duyn interposed. “Surely he fell from
grace with the Masters?”
    “He was the
supreme operative of the Five,” Andre answered. “Their best and shrewdest
lieutenant. It is barely conceivable, but he could have won their amnesty.”
    Reacher
shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. “I, too, think our woes stem
from Salamá,” he finished, and sat down immediately.
    The door
opened again, and Gabrielle deCourteney entered. As famous for her beauty as
her sorcery, she bore scant resemblance to her younger brother. Her white skin
was flawless, her hair amazingly red, thick and heavy. She met their glances
with eyes green as emeralds, her brows high-swept like gull’s wings, her age
unguessable.
    She wore a
gown of brown Glyffan satin, of becoming folds and gatherings, belted with a
cord of woven copper. She settled herself next to the Ku-Mor-Mai. His
eyes stayed with her for a moment; he marveled, that this woman was his
paramour.
    The others
were waiting. Springbuck reassembled his stream of thought. “There are other
reports gathered here,” he concluded, “which you may examine. Coramonde’s
troubles, too, smack of outside influence. There is a final point.”
    He motioned
to his aide, Captain Brodur, who rose and left. “An envoy from the Mariners
came to me. I invited him to set it forth to you all.”
    Brodur
re-entered with a tall, thickset man whose hair and beard hung in black,
gleaming ringlets. His cloak was flowing, wine-red velvet, stylishly cut and
vented. His beaded slippers were of finest Teebran leather, but a broad,
businesslike cutlass hung at his sash.
    Brodur
announced, “I present Gale-Baiter, Captain of Mariners.” The man made a minute
bow. Face composed, he delivered his message, careful to keep emotion from it.
    “Not long
past, the Mariners declined to partake of your war on Yardiff Bey. Our Prince
did not deem it wise, intruding in affairs of Landsmen.
    “Now, war has
sought us out. One of our two great Citadels is Citadel no more. It was laid
waste to, its sea wall crushed, people massacred, homes destroyed. Fair vessels
and sailormen lie at the bottom. Our maritime nation is cut by a fourth part,
our safe berthings by half. We sifted the ashes, and know our enemies are the
Southwastelanders, who serve Shardishku-Salamá.
    “So we have
put aside trade, fishnets and tally sheets, to take up the cutlass and the
torch. What help we may render you against the Masters, you shall have. We mean
to see all enemies swept from the sea, nothing less.”
    The Ku-Mor-Mai thanked Gale-Baiter. Brodur escorted him out. Conversations around the table
were subdued, more lip movement than sound. Van Duyn, who’d expected
reinforcements for the Highlands Province, saw that things would not go that
way.
    When Brodur
came back, Lord Hightower was with him. Gil happened to be looking their way,
noticing that the aide held himself stiffly, without expression.
    Hightower
lowered himself into the chair reserved for him. He was of heroic frame,
deep-chested, thick-armed. His dense beard and long mustachios and hair were
white with age, hanging like snow on a mountain against his black hauberk. At
his side was his great-sword, bigger than any other man would presume to carry,
but they’d seen him ply it like a rapier. Past his eightieth year, he was the
last pureblood of a gifted line. Like his ancestors, he’d been permitted to go into
his age with undiminished vitality. He inclined his head to the Ku-Mor-Mai.
    Springbuck
welcomed him formally, then ticked off salient points of the meeting on his
fingers. “The Druids and their wildmen