The Evacuation of Creo

Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.

The map collection was housed in a vast, dimly-lit chamber hall where every hushed footfall seemed to trigger its own booming trail of echoes. Bello, a swarthy and short young man with keen dark eyes and full and droopy black moustaches, felt uncharacteristically uneasy in this shadowy room that felt so much like a cool tomb. A lacquered and coffered ceiling arched high overhead. Six different doorways let into the chamber. Bello fretted over these possible ports of entry: far too many to be able to adequately monitor or defend. Only one guard patrolled this floor of the museum at night, an old man named Callow. Bello had made himself intimately familiar with the man's rounding schedule. This knowledge had predicated their after hours entry to the premises, secreted through a back door by confederates. But no matter how predictable one guard might be, mistakes could happen.

Bello paced lightly around the room's perimeter, past the hulking desks that they'd raided an hour earlier. It might be deathly quiet inside, but beyond the high, dark windows he heard the muted celebratory jubilation that was unfolding in the streets of Creo four storeys below.

Two weeks earlier a pair of young Ardonmen had been hired on as maintenance workers at the museum. It was they who had facilitated tonight's trespass. Clad in their staff coveralls, these two had lugged a chest into the map room. Bello had quickly stuffed it with carefully selected sheaves of maps filched from the desks, taking only those that seemed to him most important. Hoping to postpone premature discovery of the theft, he left more than half of the documents behind. It was possible these two student-employees would be intercepted before they got out of the museum with their loot, but their cover story of relocating the documents to a remote warehouse might hold up. True, their accents might arouse suspicion on such a night, and they were more than a little nervous. But any Ardonmen still in Creo would be expected to be nervous tonight. The theft just might succeed.

These are high times for passion all around, he thought. We stand on the lip of the precipice, edged up to the brink. Glory beckons to all. Glory, and the anticipation of rapid victories.

Both victories and defeats awaited in the days to come. He was not sanguine about the rapidity with which the drama would unfold.

Perambulating the chamber, a thin dirk clasped in one hand and his ears straining for any sound of approach, Bello's eyes scanned the doorways opposite, ticking them off one after another. But always his eyes darted back to where the artist worked feverishly in the muted glow of candlelight, moving seemingly at random back and forth around the huge glass-enclosed table at the center of the room. One of the candles in its glass bell had been taken down from its high sconce and rested directly atop the table, and the low, pale light imbued the man's features with a sallow, waxy cast. A third young fellow from the university, another expatriate, he was bent over at a painfully crooked angle, peering in fierce concentration at the object displayed there. He was tall and lanky with long, blondish hair and the beginnings of a coarse and prickly beard over his sharply jutting chin. The intensity of his concentration seemed breathtaking to Bello. The young artist's name was Osid, and he had been coming to the museum for three days with a fistful of colored pencils, making his copy of the great map of the southern continent that the great mariner, Nisaar, had commissioned more than two centuries before.

Earlier today Bello had been irritated to learn that Osid, whom he had never met, would fail to complete his copy of the map before the museum closed in the afternoon.

Artists!

Osid must know as well as any Ardonman what time pressures they were under, but he would not be rushed. It had been necessary for Bello to interrupt his own preparations for departure and risk meeting with the students in the decrepit apartment they kept close to the university in order to decide what was to be done.

He was glad to discover that at least all their belongings were already packed and piled up together, ready to go. Bello had come to the meeting with every intention of confiscating Osid's incomplete copy of Nisaar's map and arranging to rendezvous with the three on the waterside later in the night. But when the terse and intense young artist showed him his sketchbook, Bello's mind began to change. He lifted the pages gingerly, amazed at what he found there.

Osid's skill was obviously extraordinary, even to one like Bello, who lacked even a cursory appreciation for art. Bello had not visited the Creo Cultural Museum in months, but it was readily apparent that Osid's copy was a perfect replication of the original, or as perfect as any freehand artist could be. In truth, Bello thought, what was most remarkable was that Osid had replicated so much detail with complete fidelity to the original in so little time. He had expected to see something more on the order of an outline map scaled down to fit on a sketchpad, but what Osid was doing was replicating every last particular of the original document emblazoned on the tremendous stretched animal skin, and all in its original size. Already Osid's faithful reproduction filled seventeen pages in his sketchbook.

"How much longer would it take you to complete the copy?" Bello asked.

"I can do it in three hours," Osid said. "I still have three pages--"

"You can have ninety minutes."

"I can't--"

"Not a minute more. It's too dangerous. And these pages you've already done, they'll have to stay here when we return to the museum tonight. I won't risk losing everything should we be caught."

Osid hadn't liked the conditions Bello imposed, but he accepted them. He could not do otherwise.

Now Bello patrolled the map room, while the young artist worked so ferociously against the clock to complete his work.

Was it a mistake to come back here tonight? Bello wondered. Perhaps.

He suspected that he had been unduly influenced by sentiment. Was it strictly necessary that Ardon possess this artistic rendition of Nisaar's map of the southern continent? Probably not. Ardon's archives were already replete with a multitude of maps and various other representations of the known world. The likelihood that this copy would contribute any new geographical information, or some whit of knowledge of some little-known topographical feature, seemed remote.

But it was true that there was no telling what inaccuracies blemished those maps filed away deep in the vaults of distant Hibrest. The probability of unsuspected inaccuracy increased the farther one ventured out from home. Obviously. And inaccuracies in maps could have profound and unpredictable implications for battle planners. Still, Nisaar's map was more than two centuries old. Could it possibly contain information that might prove useful in any way in the coming conflict? Was it even conceivable that this ancient artifact might reveal the presence of some small stream or peninsula or isthmus known to no other cartographer whose surveys were even now being scrutinized in Hibrest by the finest martial minds around their council tables?

But no one knows which easily overlooked minor detail may in the end prove pivotal, Bello reminded himself. That's the kind of attention to detail that often proves critical in contests between men, whether they be competitions of coins between merchants or of battalions between kings.

Bello reflected, as he watched the intense young man scurrying about under the candles perched high above their floor brackets, that there was a kind of artistry in his own work, just as there was in Osid's. Maybe that was the overriding reason why he had elected to come to the museum tonight. It came down not to necessity, but to professional responsibility. Regardless of its utility, or lack thereof, securing this copy of Nisaar's map, this beautiful thing being so speedily copied by an unknown young artist, would some day be respected by those more appreciative of art than he could ever be, Bello thought.

Osid believes he is assisting in bringing important intelligence to his king in advance of war. He is playing at being a spy. He works out of a patriotic passion. But I, the authentic item, I believe it is Osid's artistry itself that is most valuable in this endeavor. I work out of more of a sense of human passion than he, the artist, does.

Somewhere, in the distance, he heard the creak of a heavy door swinging open.

Osid looked up instantly from his work. Their gazes locked. They both heard the approaching footsteps.

Only one person, Bello thought.

He judged which doorway the intruder would enter. Moving quickly and quietly, he took up position near the open archway, motioning Osid to kneel down behind the table. He was grateful to see that Osid immediately understood and complied.

Nothing to be done about the candles, he thought. I must strike swiftly.

He sank back against the wall, crossing his right arm up sharply across his chest so that his black cloak was wrapped full around him, the point of the dirk held high aside his left ear.

Within seconds the guard had come into the chamber hall. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the candles flickering above the map table, trying to understand the tableau laid out before him. The guard was an old man unaccustomed to encountering any unusual occurrences on his nightly rounds, and he was at a temporary loss to understand what he was seeing. But then he remembered his duties, and he was reaching for the whistle that hung about his neck when Bello came forward two quick paces and brought the pommel of his weapon down solidly just above the old man's right ear. He didn't cry out but only began to tumble, and Bello caught him and lowered him quietly to the cold stone floor.

Osid , watching under the table, saw the fall and came quickly around to where Bello knelt over the body.

"Is he dead?" Osid hissed, excited.

Bello was already feeling for a pulse. He could not find one. He swore softly in regret. He recalled the sickening crunch of thin bone under the dirk's pommel. He had crushed the old man's skull.

Perhaps it's best this way, he thought. It might distract pursuit before we've departed Creo. Still, it's a shame.

He turned the body slightly and saw a pool of blood collecting under the old man's head.

Why did he come back early? he wondered. And then: Did the others escape with the chest?

"He's dead," Bello said, beginning to pad down the fallen guard. He soon found what he sought: a wineskin hanging from his belt. Old Callow, as Bello knew very well, was fond of his wine.

"Get his feet."

Osid put his sketchbook down on the table and helped to lift the fallen guard. The body was easy to move. He weighed little.

With his hands under the old man's shoulders, Bello led the way, backing up through one of the two doorways at the end of the chamber. They crossed a gallery where numerous ancient musical instruments were on display and came to a sweep of stairs leading down to the next storey. Here Bello paused briefly, listening for footsteps from below, but he heard none. They started down the steps, scurrying sideways like crabs toting the body between them.

Half way down, the steps divided in either direction and turned back to continue in a second flight to the next floor. Bello gestured mutely to Osid, and they lowered the body down into the dark shadows so that it would appear as if poor old Callow had tumbled down the first flight. Bello knelt by the body. He uncapped the old man's sloshing wineskin, spilled its contents liberally over the old man's face and tunic, and dropped it, still open, to finish draining down the stairs. The task completed, they hurried back to the map room.

"Collect the candlesticks while I clean up the blood."

Within minutes their tasks were complete. Osid stashed his sketchbook and pencils safely into his coat pockets. The candle bells were wrapped individually in heavy cloth to prevent their clinking, the long poles were broken down, and all was stuffed into a large sack together with the heavy floor stands. Bello added a few bloodied rags to the sack. Osid hefted the supplies and Bello guided him out of the map room, his long dirk in his right hand, a carefully balanced throwing knife in his left.

Once more they had to go past the body of the fallen guard. Again Bello paused for a long moment to listen for more guards below them. He thought he heard voices speaking, but they seemed a long distance away. There should only be two more guards in the building. He was still wondering what had happened to the other Ardonmen with the chest of maps. Had they been intercepted by the other guards? Probably there had been some altercation, he thought. Something had prompted the old man to return early on his rounds of the upper floor. If Callow had suspected something, were the other two guards also suspicious?

The hour grows late, he thought, and there's still plenty to do before boarding the ship.

He glanced at Osid. The young artist's eyes shone. He looked excited and alert, but focused. He carried the sack easily over his shoulder.

He's stronger than he appears, Bello thought. His nerves are steady. A good man.

Bello nodded to him and turned, advancing down the next flight of stairs.

They encountered no one. Within minutes they had passed outside into the alley through the same doorway they'd entered less than two hours earlier. Osid deposited the sack of supplies in a pile of garbage. Bello pocketed his knife, replaced his dirk in its sheath. The night sky was very dark above them with high, misty clouds from the sea obscuring the stars. It was noticeably cooler now. Osid started to hurry forward, but Bello stopped him.

"Join your friends at your house," Bello said. "Collect your belongings and proceed to the fleet as quickly as you may. I'll join you aboard the Narwhale. But if I do not, see to it that the maps are brought to Captain Farlon in Hibrest. Can you remember that?"

"Captain Farlon in Hibrest."

He nodded.

"Very good. And Osid: you do very nice work."

For the first time Bello saw the intense young artist smile.

"So do you, Mr. Bello. So do you."

He smiled back. They shook hands quickly and parted, traveling in opposite directions.

The night air was chill, not cold, but he pulled his black cloak close about him as he emerged onto brightly illuminated Water Street. It felt like a circus to him. Strange for the city, so late at night, this carnival atmosphere. He brought out a broad-brimmed gray hat from under his cloak and donned it, pulling it down low to conceal his eyes. An hour remained before midnight, but the street writhed with revelers and celebrants. The noise was loudest in the taverns and inns, continuously spilling clients out into the wide street among tied horses. The music was loud and complexly syncopated with that foreign skipping beat that seemingly pulsed through the very veins of the people of Mitond. They had not exuded such exuberance in a long time. Wagons rattled in both directions despite the late hour. All kinds of people milled about in the streets of Creo, from sailors to tailors and fishermen, from counselors to lowborn cutthroats and fat merchants in their finery, all near delirious in their drunken merry-making. He knew them all; or, at least he knew their types, these men of Mitond, solid as bricks and equally perceptive, now aroused by new emotions. It was war, war! To a man it seemed they wore crudely fashioned swords at clumsy, unfamiliar angles on their hips. A ragtag band of belligerents if he'd ever seen one, but tonight they were all brave soldiers in this place, bravely handing over their coin for beer. They were spilling their beer in the streets, stumbling about arm in arm, singing patriotic songs with misremembered words. No matter. The whole world was changing, and soon Ardon would be theirs!

He kept to the less crowded side of the street as he hurried home.

How much they've changed in two years, he thought. Then, they were frightened to death of the threat from the south, and rightly so. Now they are drunken on a perception of power. False power! Or so it seems. But. . . .Strange turnings befall all sides in every war. False power? Dangerous power, certainly. But we must not underestimate our opponents. They are fools, but fools are no less dangerous than sages.

Did it have to come to this? For four years Ardon had secretly supplied resources to Mitond to aid the resistance, but at some point their king had capitulated. Was it true capitulation, he wondered, or was it a reaction to hostage-taking and other forms of blackmail engaged in by the greater enemy? It galled him that he suspected many things about the broader situation, but knew so few facts.

Regardless, the people of Mitond have long resented the power and resources of Ardon, and now they at last feel powerful enough to act upon their resentment. Quite possibly the Mitond king could not have stopped this war even had he desired to do so. The conflict will not be turned back.

For all their misguided jubilation, he could not help feeling a certain simpatico with these people. He'd lived and worked among them long enough to learn their customs and their principles and defects. Like any people they loved the soil of their ancestral homeland, and they longed to defend it. If he had been born here, he knew he would feel the same way they did.

And he felt remorse for what had happened in the museum.

That poor guard, Callow. He needn't have come back upstairs. He might have lived a long life. Who knows? I felt no hatred for him. He was not an enemy, but only a foolish, accidental threat. Mitond is a kingdom not of enemies, but only of well-meaning fools. I must bear that in mind in the days to come. War is like a healing action undertaken by a body that has suffered insult or injury. The injured body naturally undertakes to heal its wounds. That is all the explanation required for that poor fool's death tonight.

Human folly. We cherish our uniqueness, our individual points of view. Our sanctified minds. Souls. But the great concealed truth is not our differences, but how very similar we all are. All with the same desires and drives. All responding similarly to the changes breaking across the world. Predictably. We are all responsible in some part for the events of history although we seldom think so. I share in that responsibility. I will do what must be done for my home and my king. We must accept all possible unforeseen consequences and live our lives with according respectful caution.

Would war fever grip the imagination in the north as it had here in Creo? To the same degree, yes, he thought, but the mood tonight could not be jovial in his homeland. Tonight the people in Hibrest must be sullen, descending into this war they'd long jockeyed to avoid.

They are -- we are -- cornered, pushed back to the wall. There is no place left to go. We have no alternative but to engage in sustained and unrestrained combat.

Delirium ruled the streets of Creo because word had come this evening of the capture of the border city of Autis by Mitond troops -- supported, as the revelers universally neglected to mention, by forces from the south. The king of Mitond had previously set midnight tonight as the deadline for Ardon's ambassador to depart the city. Most Ardonmen still in Creo would have boarded the small, unarmed fleet that lay at anchor in the harbor by now. Bello himself needed to collect a few possessions and make for the docks.

He pushed his way through the disorderly revelry and noise and light, past these monolithic bricks of glaze-eyed, euphoric people who were uniformly drunk on alcohol and blood-lust, and cut down an alley to Mercy Street where his own apartments were located three blocks away. Here the sidewalks of sawn planks were more quiet and dark.

They imagine Ardon will topple quickly as they did. Mitond consolidated with the southern legions less than a year after the first catapults were let fly. Token resistance in the face of a greater, more savage enemy. Now they are embarked on the last stage, calling it glory, being pushed forward to invade their neighbor. Better to celebrate like this, to revel in glory now than to contemplate what their lives are to be after this war ends, regardless of which side shall have the final victory. For this war surely shall change both Mitond and Ardon and their peoples forever more. Our ways of life that we've known are over and done.

He came to the boarding house where he lived, a plain, unassuming building, and entered the deserted lobby. He mounted the stairs up to his room, producing his key and opening the door.

Nitsiker was there, darting about the room at his usual mad pace, ransacking bureaus and drawers, throwing articles of clothing onto a chair. His roommate glanced at him quickly from the corner of his eye but did not interrupt his frenzied packing.

"Hello there, old Bello! I'd begun to think we'd not meet again in this world."

"Going somewhere, Nitsky?"

"Aye, and you might entertain preparing a retreat yourself, and the sooner the better. Who knows when the wicked arbitrager who's cut our purses so long for these seedy rooms will arrive with a band of street ruffians to throw us into the gutter, or worse?"

"Old lady Potts? She seems harmless enough."

"Ah, but it's always the ones who seem harmless who are the most treacherous. You, of all people, ought to know that."

He smiled, glanced around the room. Nitsiker only had one small piece of luggage out, he saw. "Not much baggage," Bello noted.

"I have few needs, and I prefer to travel light."

"Foraging as you go."

"Precisely. Where'd you get the ugly hat?"

Bello ignored the comment. "Do you know where you will go?"

"Long run, or short?"

"Both. Either."

"For the long run, I have some idea. Nothing precise. General compass heading. More exact destination in the proximate future."

"Yes?"

"The Glass Slipper."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Pressing your luck?"

Nitsiker shrugged.

"Too many owe me rounds. Not that I'll ever collect on them, but the investment should pay off tonight. They'll not kill me just yet. Tomorrow, however. . . ."

"The streets were pretty wild coming home."

"You should see the docks."

"I intend to. In fact, that's why I must leave now. The hour's getting late."

"Did you just drop by to wish me well?"

"Sure, and to check on the ambassador."

"His entourage got through two hours ago. Witnessed the fiasco myself. You still intend to go down there?"

He nodded.

Nitsiker shook his head.

"It's a real mess."

"I'm sure it is."

"You might come with me. You're pretty handy when there's trouble."

"People are expecting me."

"I suppose. Someone's always waiting on the nefarious Bello."

He left Nitsiker there and went into his own room. He already had a valise packed on the bed. He picked it up and went back out.

"Well then, Nitsky. Until we meet again."

The other paused to shake his hand. "Under better circumstances."

"Be careful at the Slipper."

"Careful? The careful life's not worth living."

"You're the philosopher."

"Hardly."

Bello returned to the street outside. The scene had grown kinetic. He could feel the passion like a physical vibration in the night air. The energy was not dissipating but intensifying.

The hour is getting late, and they all know it.

He could hear the spectacle dockside well before he arrived. The nervous anxiety of Ardonmen increasingly frantic to board the departing ships was palpable. A jeering, unruly crowd of locals had assembled to harry those who were departing. They could feel that they were witnesses to history, and they wanted to make sure their insults got hurled into the mix.

Bello rounded a corner and entered the mob scene. King's guards had set up a checkpoint across the street and were quite effectively interfering with the evacuation. They appeared to be searching through personal possessions. He saw large piles of luggage next to the checkpoint. People's baggage had been broken open and pilfered. Great heaps of abandoned clothing lay about in street beyond a wall of barriers. The numerous Ardonmen he saw lined up there were both frightened and indignant. Women and frightened children were included in their numbers, and the people of the city were pressing around them, shouting at their new enemy who was being allowed to escape. Bello decided to abandon the few possessions he'd brought along. Dropping his valise at the edge of the street, he moved forward to enter the queue.

Many in the crowd were obviously very drunk, and some were growing positively hostile with their vitriolic verbal attacks. Bello found himself in the midst of a noisy, lurid muddle with people shoving and shouting. The mood had surely been souring for quite some time. By now the line did not extend far outside the checkpoint, and Mitond's worst troublemakers were beginning to crowd them from behind. Very few more exiles arrived after Bello did; he was among the last of the stragglers fleeing Creo. Looking ahead, he realized with a sinking feeling that a few paces beyond where he waited were the two students and the artist, Osid, and between them all they were lugging their various pieces of baggage and the great chest which, he knew, must contain the stolen maps. Even as he recognized them, they were shuffled forward into the inspection process.

The surrounding crowd threatened to become an unruly mob, and the crescendo of their taunting rose as the trio of students entered the inspection post. The king's guards, Bello saw through intermittent breaks in the crowd surging around him, remained detached from the rising ocean of chaos. Four or five of them were there to process the arrivals, dressed in their tan uniforms with golden shoulder braids. They were questioning them with brief, taciturn efficiency, and they commenced rifling their luggage. One of them had a pencil and paper and appeared to be taking names. It was, apparently, more of a haphazard hindrance to an orderly exit than an active search for contraband. If they forbid the maps from being taken aboard, it would more probably be a case of random fickleness than due to any genuine caution or suspicion. They got to the big chest and requested it open. Bellow saw Osid reach down to loosen the clasps.

At that point, someone from the crowd threw something into the scene. It looked like a rock, and it sailed past Osid's ear. Loud peals of laughter rang out above the din. The guards seemed not to have noticed what had happened. A guard reached his hand into the chest and removed a sheaf of loose papers.

Bello pulled off his hat and shoved it in a pocket. He jostled himself forward, pushing people rudely aside, cutting through the line. "Come on! Come on!" he cried. "We'll miss the ships!"

He kept on his charge, stirring up a miniature, local tide of panic, while a protesting onslaught of angry voices erupted from the enclosing mob, outraged by his actions. Ahead he saw the guards' heads jerking up in surprise, and three of them moved to intercept him.

Turning to the right, he broke through the barriers that were stretched across the street. Two of the guards collided with one another, but the other got through, leaping out to grab him from behind, a hand closing tightly around his left bicep.

"Hold, sir! Hold still! You must wait your turn!"

"We'll miss the ship!" he continued to cry out, whirling to twist away from the man.

The two other guards were moving toward him again, and he glimpsed those who were still with the students and saw they had turned to watch this new scramble. Behind him he could feel the rest of the line beginning to press forward, fearful of being left stranded in Creo. An angry buzzing rose from the crowd. A few more rocks began to pelt the scene.

"You must wait your turn!"

"I must board the ship. I'm from the embassy--"

At that, the anger from the crowd reached a new peak, as he'd anticipated it would. He was still pushing ahead, twisting, defying the guards. The other two arrived and grabbed him, pushing him down against a table. The noise made it difficult to hear clearly.

"What is your name?"

"Bello. Bello."

"What?"

"Bello! My name's Bello! Let me go!"

The one with the pencil had left the three students. He diligently wrote down the name.

More panicked people were breaking through the barriers now. The crowd of intoxicated Mitond patriots too was shoving violently forward. Bello felt the sting of a rock cut across his right cheek. A guard moved from him to intercept another intruder. Bello raised a hand and felt blood on the side of his face. Past the checkpoint he saw Ardonmen who had already been cleared running for the harbor.

Around him the scene was spinning into bedlam. The king's guards seemed to suddenly realize that order was falling apart. He looked forward and saw the students had been abandoned now by all the guards. They were flipping the chest closed. A heave of people, both Ardonmen and Mitond patriots, were breaking against the barriers, crying out in fear or excitement. The king's guards were fighting a losing battle to contain them all. He stumbled away and reached the students.

"Come on!" he hissed to Osid.

The four of them quickly gathered up their belongings and began jogging the last block to the docks under a rain of rocks and cursing and shouting and bullying laughter and vilification. In short order they were moving up the gangplank to the anchored Narwhale. A great host of Ardonmen who had been watching the spectacle from the decks helped them aboard the crowded ship. Among the throng Bello spotted the captain, a man he'd met before. He shouldered his way through the people and strode up to the man, swiftly saluting.

"Is the ambassador aboard, sir?" he asked.

"Aye, Mr. Bello," the captain nodded. "He's below, if you'd like to see him."

"That won't be necessary. The skiff's ready?"

"As you requested."

"Thank you."

Bello turned back to locate the students. He soon found them trying to wrestle their way through the crowd with their various bags. He hurried up to Osid.

"Put the chest down," Bello said.

Osid did. "Thanks for your assistance back there," he said.

"No time," Bello answered, waving him off. He produced a small wallet from inside his cloak. Unfolding it, he took out a small piece of paper, a pen, and a minuscule bottle of ink. He knelt down by the chest and, using it as a desktop, he quickly began scrawling, speaking as he did so.

"Do you recall where to deliver the maps?"

"Captain Farlon in Hibrest, as we discussed," Osid replied.

He nodded.

"Inform Captain Farlon of all that's taken place," he said, returning the pen and ink to his wallet, "and give him this." He handed the folded paper to Osid, who quickly pocketed it.

"You're not coming with us?"

"No. I've other business to conduct. Good night, Mr. Osid. And good luck."

"Good night, sir. And good luck to you."

Bello nodded.

Bumping and crowding through the excited throng on the ship, he crossed to the starboard, hurrying up to the bow. He looked down over the hull and saw the tiny craft floating down on the black water. He scurried over the rail and quickly monkeyed down the line to the little boat, which rocked hazardously beneath him. He threw off the line and quickly produced the oars from where they lay in the bottom. Soon the Narwhale seemed to be receding in the distance.

He rowed the little boat for a good half hour before turning back to a dark hummock of land. There was a breeze out of the southwest, but the waters of the sheltered harbor were mild. No one was to be seen on water or on land. The noise from the docks was only a distant humming din. Very soon now the last ships would be departing for Ardon.

How many years will pass, I wonder, before an ambassador returns to Creo?

Coming in to land, he hid the little boat behind a stand of brush and turned his face once more toward the city. He had one task to perform first, but within an hour he had concealed himself in the shadows outside the back of a crude brick building at the southernmost fringe of the city. He had been there less than five minutes before he heard the stumbling advance of slow footfalls coming down a cramped alley between two high taverns. The sound of approaching footsteps was accompanied by the sorry sound of a man singing some bawdry bar song considerably off-key. The shuffling gait abruptly broke off, but the offensive serenade did not. Now Bello could distinctly make out the streaming, tinkling sound of the unseen man's long moment of relieving himself. Momentarily he resumed his scuffling pace and emerged in the darkness behind the saloon, where he was sufficiently surprised at the discovery of two horses tethered side by side to mercifully forget his singing. He straightened abruptly from his fuddled stoop and approached the animals.

"What have we here?" he said, patting the bigger, darker animal on the rump. The horse stamped a back hoof. "Divine intervention?"

"Touch my horse again and you'll be wanting divine intervention," Bello said.

The man suddenly straightened and whirled, his sword rising out of nowhere to point directly in his direction. "Show yourself!" he hissed.

Bello coolly stepped from the shadows.

"It's reassuring to see you still have some of your wits about you, Nitsky. Friendly crowd in the Slipper tonight?"

The other grunted in surprise and sheathed his sword.

"The ambience isn't so convivial as in the old days," he muttered thickly. "What are you doing here, Bello? I thought people were expecting you."

"I saw them; or rather, they saw me. Duly recorded the departure of this old spy from the precincts of Creo aboard the good ship Narwhale."

"Ah."

Nitsiker turned to look back at the big black horse. "I recognize this gelding," he said. "A fine animal."

"His owner won't be needing him."

"Old Callow? That's a shame."

"We must chalk it up to the fickle mischances of war."

"It's still a shame."

"That it is. But I'll only need him for a day or two. Then ‑‑ who knows? He may find his way back home."

"Where you headed?"

"I have a general compass heading in mind."

Nitsiker chuckled. He turned and untied his horse. Bello stepped up to the dark one and untied it. They both mounted.

"South?"

"South it is."

They set out. In no time at all they were crossing the open fields outside of town.

Nitsiker hummed an unharmonious tune to himself for a while. Later he said: "It's a beautiful night tonight."

Bello looked up. There was no moon. The clouds had all cleared out, he saw. The stars blazed brightly overhead.

"It is that," Bello agreed.

They rode in silence for a while. Later, Bello said: "You ever do any drawing, Nitsky?"

"Drawing?"

"You know. Pencil and paper. Sketches."

"No."

"I met an artist today," Bello said. "If he survives this war, I think he'll go far."