Master of the Cauldron by David Drake

mother?” Cashel said. He turned his head and looked down. The shore below was the same jumble of ships and bustling men that it’d been a moment ago. He wasn’t dreaming, then. “Lady, I don’t have—”
    He broke off before he finished what would’ve been as silly a thing as he’d ever said in his life. Everybody had a mother, whether or not they’d met her.
    â€œLady,” Cashel said. He swallowed. “I don’t understand.”
    Memet was looking from Cashel to the woman, his mouth slightly open. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, so he must’ve been wondering about being awake or dreaming too.
    â€œThere’s very little to understand,” Mab said in a thin tone. “You’ll come with me now, before the portal closes, or you’ll leave your mother toher fate. If you choose the latter, you won’t be man enough to help her in this crisis anyway.”
    Cashel laughed. “I said I didn’t understand, not that I was afraid,” he said gently. “I still don’t understand, but I’m used to that. When will we leave?”
    â€œWe’ll leave immediately, from this place,” Mab said. “The shrine will make it easier. Are you ready?”
    â€œYes,” said Cashel. He smiled at the soldier, and said, “I guess you’ll have to take care of the ewe yourself, Memet. But before you do, please tell Sharina that I’ve gone—”
    He wasn’t sure what to say next. “Well, tell her what you heard here,” he said, “because that’s as much as I know. That’s Princess Sharina of Haft I mean.”
    â€œCome now, or you won’t be able to come,” the woman said crisply. She stepped around to the side of the boulder where the carving was. Her bright nails traced a pattern in the air. “Here, stand facing the shrine.”
    Cashel grimaced and obeyed. He’d rather a lot of things, but he knew there were times you had to act without worrying about the details. Mab didn’t seem any more the sort to exaggerate than Ilna was, or Cashel himself.
    She was standing behind him, murmuring words of power. Her hands moved above Cashel’s head, then to both sides of him. He felt the tingle of energies building.
    The air danced in a cocoon of red and blue wizardlight. The solid rock gaped into a doorway.
    â€œTell Sharina I love her!” Cashel said. He strode into the opening with his quarterstaff before him.
    Â 
    Sharina sat as primly as she could with the other specialists ready to advise Prince Garric. The servants had fixed her a throne of sorts: a wide-mouthed storage jar, upended and covered with a swatch of aquamarine silk brocade. Though backless, the result was attractive enough to pass muster in a real palace.
    Unfortunately, the potter’d left a central lump when he cut his work off the wheel. Normally that’d just mean the jar rocked if it were set on a hard surface instead of being part-buried in sand. It was a real problem during the jar’s present use, however. Sharina had quickly learned to checkwith her hand the next time before sitting down to listen to hours of negotiation.
    One of Lord Waldron’s aides was speaking to Liane. She’d turned her head sideways but continued to take notes in the tablet in front of her. Liane’s expression showed mild interest, but her stylus scored quick, brutal marks in the wax.
    Lord Waldron was still missing. He’d gone off with the courier, his head bobbing in angry argument. He’d given no explanation, just snarled over his shoulder that his staff should remain under the marquee. Sharina’d seen Waldron in circumstances where he reasonably expected to die in a short time, but his expression had never before been so bleakly miserable.
    â€œI’m sorry, Marshal Renold,” Garric said in the same calmly reasonable voice he’d have used on a merchant who was sure he