CHAPTER XXX: The Coming of the Corsair

"How did he topple the sand dune?"

"Who? Did what?"

"Pallando. How did he topple the sand dune?"

Greagoir grimaced. "He used magic, of course; he is a wizard, after all."

"Yes, I realize that," Tatya sighed, "but the passage is not at all descriptive."

Greagoir's face turned a choleric shade of purple. "Not…at all…descriptive?" he blurted in short gasps, the first blustering rumbles of a restive volcano prior to its violent eruption.

"Well, no, what I mean is…" Tatya backtracked with only minimal hesitation, "…given Pallando's noted reticence, he did not offer you the full scope of language necessary to color the passage in the usual manner of your splendid narrative."

Greagoir laughed in spite of himself. "You are becoming quite the diplomat, Tatya, and I am pleased that you are at least following the tale with some interest. I am always fearful that you find these dictations a bit dull."

"Dull? Why no, master, never dull."

If Greagoir could see Tatya's smirk, he would have wiped it off his apprentice's face with a none-too-tender backhand; however, the master took his pupil's remark at face value, or perhaps he merely accepted Tatya's sarcasm in stride. "But as I was saying, Pallando retreated to the far north and became a reclusive hermit, unwilling or unable to recommit himself to his original objective for quite a long while."

"Why did he not go west and warn Gandalf of Saruman's treachery?" Tatya asked in dismay. "Surely, much confusion and bloodshed could have been averted had Pallando shown a little fortitude."

Greagoir shrugged. "Who can explain the inner-workings of immortals?" he said noncommittally. "What seems reasonable and necessary to us may not apply to them, or perhaps such bitterness and disappointment is heightened in them to such a degree that they cannot regain a semblance of their former selves. I do not know."

Tatya considered that answer wholly unsatisfactory, but doubted if Greagoir would explain further (or at least not without an interminably lengthy digression). "And what of Alatar, or Morinehtar as he called himself?" Tatya continued from a different angle, becoming more and more disgusted with immortals in general and wizards specifically. "I know that you told me previously that Saruman returned to the West and was involved in the War of the Ring, but what became of his vain accomplice?"

"Alatar? From what I could ascertain, Saruman had little faith in his protégé, and abandoned him soon after their betrayal of Pallando, but not before Saruman had instilled an unquenchable thirst for power in Alatar so that he would remain forever in the East to build his tawdry castles made of sand. I learned later that, without Saruman's cunning and guidance, Alatar ran afoul of the Dark Elves and then the khans of the Gold Coast, who, jealous of their prerogatives and domains, crushed Alatar's weakly held alliances and drove him ever southward. Only rumor remains of him now, but it is said that in his insatiable but thwarted hunger for realms to conquer he sailed to the furthest south, to the dark continent of Mu. I have never managed more than a cursory expedition of Mu, journeying no further than the sweltering torrid zone that stretches across that land mass in a great swathe, but it is whispered fearfully among the tribes I encountered that in the remotest jungles and desolate plateaus that straddle the uncharted antipodal seas, he is still revered as a God of War -- a bloodthirsty and immortal Lord of the Underworld -- who sits upon a throne of the tanned leathery skin of his victims, and the very walls of his grim palace are the bones and skulls amassed through countless generations of slaughter."

Tatya shivered and quickly changed the subject. "But how did you come by the wizard's staff? It seems odd that he would surrender it to you after it was so dearly bought from the clutches of Saruman."

"Yes, that is odd, isn't it?" Greagoir answered. "I can only say that in telling his tale to me, Pallando's attitude changed, or perhaps as I related the news of the terrible onset of Urzahil's legions, the wizard was in some way moved to action. When I was well enough to travel again, he guided my horse and I back past the Towers of the Teeth (as he named the splintered mountain range that marked the boundary of his home in exile), and handed his staff to me as I was ready to take my leave.

"He waved off my protestations and stated simply, 'There is little or no magic left in the staff. To me it is but faded symbol of an Order long sundered, and I have no need for such a prop.' He shook his head sadly and gazed thoughtfully at the staff. Then his spirits rose again and he added, 'But take heart, it was lovingly turned by a master woodwright in a bygone age, shaped of precious lebethron from the Far West of the world and shod cunningly with true-silver. It shall be a support and comfort to you in the years ahead. For I see clearly that you have many miles left to tread, far and wide along many a path and strange, seeking that which was lost. Perhaps there shall come a day when one such journey leads this staff back to its home range along Ered Nimrais, the White Mountains of Gondor, and thus the tale comes full circle at last.'

"Pallando grasped my shoulder warmly and winked, then he turned briskly and began walking westward at a rapid clip that belied his great girth and unfathomable age. 'But where are you going?' I called after him.

"He turned back and cocked a dark eyebrow. 'Haven't you heard?" he said with an enigmatic smile. "There is a Dark Lord to be dealt with!'

"It was the last I ever saw of him."

Greagoir steadied himself in grumpish foresight, as he was certain that Tatya was ready to pester him with more impertinent questions, but unfortunately (and it was unfortunate, as Greagoir was quite ready to expound further) there came the sound of a team of horses and a coach rumbling up to the cottage. Tatya jumped nearly out of his skin at the sudden racket, so engrossed was he in the tale, but he did not move from his master's bedside. Greagoir, already irritated at suffering prematurely from expectant exasperation (compounded with the present insufferable interruption), barked at Tatya, "Don't just sit there like a bump on a log, dolt, go see who it is!"

Tatya crept to the door, unused as he was to visitors, and naturally wary in any case. Peering outside, he saw a great coach, more like a small house built neatly atop a wagon, with six pawing and preening horses lined neatly in pairs pulling it up the slope towards the cottage. By the sumptuous nature of the coach and the grand emblem of the Syndic Council embossed on the doors, Tatya knew it could be only one person.

As the coach stopped abruptly before the porch, the air was filled with salty curses as the lone passenger upbraided and abused the driver for his carelessness, his lack of ability, and for generally behaving in a criminal manner fit to be flogged. One footman placed a set of wooden steps below the carriage door, another opened the door, and a third offered his arm to steady the passenger, but the passenger refused the assistance with a growl and a flick of his silver-knobbed cane. This was Attar Kiryatin, the former corsair and now Privy Lord of the Syndic Council (having outlasted the rest of his peers), come on his annual progress through his vast estates as he had done without fail for years uncounted, or at least within the reckoning of Tatya. According to Greagoir, Attar's 'progresses' were made to assure that every single blade of grass was accounted for and at an acceptable height, and each single grain of sand remained in its proper place (weather and erosion were, of course, not acceptable excuses for any change whatsoever).

Attar's face had an old sour look like milk set out too long, but his bright eyes, immersed as they were in sallow flaps of pock-marked and scarred skin, still glinted with an inward evil (as Tatya was certain he possessed); yet for all his years (and he was older than Greagoir by at least a decade), he carried himself near-erect and walked with a spry step that belied his advanced age. Tatya remembered his master saying that Attar was so stingy that he refused to die, because he was too cheap to pay for his own funeral. To Tatya's eyes, it seemed that Attar was as hale as he was avaricious. His cane clicked steadily on the cobblestone path as if the man were ticking off time in a march, and his footmen huffed and puffed in his wake like squawking gulls parting for the briny prow of an ancient but still formidable ship.

Attar stopped momentarily where Tatya stood deferentially in the doorway (he had at least the sense to swallow his indignation and bow humbly), and the syndic lord looked him up and down as if he were appraising a heifer. "You are thin and pale, scribeling," Attar grumbled as he passed judgment on the apprentice, "your master should feed you better."

Tatya considered replying that there was no nutritional value in thin air, but thought better of it. Attar barged past Tatya and strode forcefully to Greagoir's bed as if he intended to strike Greagoir for his laziness. "Still lying about I see," Attar growled at the blind bard without a hint of compassion. "I had heard you were ill."

"Nay, my lord," Greagoir growled back, "I am dying; hence my inability to offer a proper welcome."

Attar sniffed as if the explanation was hardly adequate for the situation. "Well, I suppose you consider dying an excuse for loitering about, eh? but I am sure if there were some tale to be had of the Dark Elves a' way up north, you'd be trudging off, pack in hand, by this evening."

"Not this time, my lord," Greagoir said rather forlornly, but he quickly regained some impertinent vigor and said, "For I am indeed dying, or is there something in those words you fail to understand? I am at death's door, I am failing in spirit, I am giving up the ghost, buying the farm, soon to push up daisies. Dead, dead, D-E-A-D!"

Rather than upbraiding his insubordinate servant, Attar merely chuckled. "T'would seem your spirit has not deserted you as of yet, scribe. You're still 'live and kicking! So let us stop all this dying nonsense for the present, shall we?" He then brusquely barked out an order to Tatya: "Scribeling, get me ale, or whatever it is that passes for drink in this house."

Tatya shook himself from the teary daze that held him motionless for the last few moments and scuttled off to the kitchen. Greagoir said he was dying! And though Tatya had stubbornly refused to consider such a thought for the past several months, the proof was there for any fool to see. In the back of Tatya's mind he had somehow got Greagoir mixed up with the Elves and wizards and other assorted immortals that populated so many of his tales that he considered his master to be indestructible as well. As he returned to the bedroom and brought Lord Attar his drink, the scribe and corsair were still engaged in the stinging banter that was the hallmark of their explosive meetings.

"We are agreed then?" Tatya heard Greagoir saying about some deal that the apprentice had not caught. "It is the very least you could do."

"Damn yer blasted hide, brazen bard!" Attar shot back indignantly. "I shall not be dictated to by anyone, least of all such a one as yerself, who forgets his station!"

Greagoir refused to be goaded into a shouting match; rather, he replied softly but succinctly, "Speak not of stations, my lord, for it was I who put you on your lofty perch."

"Perch? Perch!" Attar was near hysterical and his hand was quivering on his cane. He threw his mug to the floor and bellowed, "Garn! I have killed men for far less! I'll cut that waggin' tongue out of yer mouth and nail it to yer bleedin' forehead! Then I'll stick yer bloody head on a pole, and I'll take that pole to the quayside and dip yer damned head into the sea and let the fishes take fleshy bits out 'o' yer hide!"

Tatya noticed Lord Kiryatin's speech became more and more guttural the angrier he got, and well he knew that under that lordly exterior lay the black heart of a thieving pirate. But he didn't bother to enter the fray, nor protect his prone master. After all, Greagoir would have been throttled years ago if Lord Kiryatin had ever made good on his threats.

"Do your worst!" Greagoir hissed and tried to rise from his pillow, but he began hacking convulsively. "My service to you has ended," he gasped, "a long-suffering servant of an ungrateful master!"

Attar's fist was clenched white on his cane. "Boy, get me a chair!" he spat at Tatya, and the apprentice dutifully complied.

The Sea Lord sat deathly still for a long time, glaring at nothing as blindly as his unseeing servant. When he at last spoke, his words were halting and restrained, but his lips were stretched tightly against his yellow teeth, "Very well…ye bold scut…I'll do as ye ask…if it makes yer passing the easier."

Greagoir, who was as equally tense in his bed, unclenched his stranglehold on his coverlet and lapsed back against his pillow. "I thank you, my lord, and beg your forgiveness for the thousand flights of fancy I took while engaged in your diplomatic service. I did try to the best of my ability…"

Lord Kiryatin had become less stiff in his chair as well, and interrupted Greagoir's contrite declamation, "Bah! 'Tis a bit late to be askin' me pardon for fifty years of loiterin' and scofflawry. I ne'er expected an apology and will not accept one now! It don't ring true, in any case."

Greagoir smiled weakly and nodded before passing into sleep.

Lord Kiryatin coughed uncomfortably and rubbed his eye in sudden irritation. Rising unsteadily from his chair, he directed a half-hearted scowl towards Tatya and said, "Look to yer master. I'll be about the grounds a bit before I take my leave." Without another word, Attar Kiryatin regained his gruffly regal demeanor and strode out of the cottage as purposefully as he had entered.