*****
She jerked awake, a dream of Letet dead vivid in her mind’s eye. Slowing her breathing, she could hear the creaking of a cart and slow clop of hooves as they passed on the road outside. Voices in conversation stopped with a curse, and the cart halted. Her heart went to ice as she recognized words.
"—dead, and not long, neither."
Another voice, younger. "Ah’ll cut some fer later."
"An’ the saddle too. Quick, afore theys rider shows."
Chainmail went over her blouse, tangling and ripping at her hair, but she hardly noticed as she yanked both daggers from their sheaths and raced from her room, seeking the way through dark halls to the stables and road.
In the doorway to the stable, outlined by dirty lamplight, the stable watch-boy stood rooted in place. From the yard came a snick of sound followed by the unmistakable twunk of a crossbow bolt striking a shield. Breea shoved past the boy. Taumea’s lean, muscular form in only breeches stalked in low forward-stance toward the shadows near the road gate, shield raised, eyes low over the edge, sword out behind him.
Outside the stable wall, the younger voice asked, "Wha’ was that?"
"Crossbow!" said the elder. "Get on. Get on!" Reins snapped and the cart clattered as it rolled over something.
Taumea kept moving. The crossbow released. He ducked his head as the shield bucked. Breea stepped forward, but Taumea said, "Back!" and she retreated, pushing the boy behind her into shadow.
A third snick and Taumea dipped his shield, catching the bolt with the lower tip, then closed with the shadows in a fluid dash. Blades rang, the shield gave a deep hollow thud. Taumea stumbled back into the light. A black shape, two heads taller than Taumea, emerged with sword and dagger that reflected no light. The long, dark blade hissed, and Taumea’s silver met it with a crash. The dark weapon arced again and Taumea staggered as his shield split, trapping the sword. Locked together, both closed, the dark figure using his stuck blade to yank aside the shield, stepping in with dagger. Taumea’s closing step was shorter, and his other boot came up, catching the attacker in the groin with both their momentums even as he caught the dagger strike with his sword guard.
The dark man’s breath left him in a whine, and his long legs went unsteady. Taumea’s blade disengaged from the dagger, and flashed around in a tight arc, coming down above the dark man’s sword arm. The man’s dagger, crossing his body to parry, was too late. A meaty crack sounded as Limtir steel cut bone, and the attacker fell prone to the dirt. Taumea kneeled, dropping his sword long enough to unbuckle his broken shield. Picking up his blade, he ran over to the gate, looked out, then pulled it shut.
A floorboard creaked behind her, and Breea reached back, dropping a dagger, and caught the boy by the shirt. She yanked him around in front of her, facing the stable yard, and clamped her free hand over his mouth. She could feel him trembling, and felt sorry, but if there was any chance of not waking the whole wayhouse, it must be done. Taumea glanced at them while searching the dark body, then strode over, bloody sword in hand. The boy began to thrash in Breea’s grip, but Taumea held up a silver coin, turning it so that lamplight flashed off its surface. The boy calmed.
Taumea stepped close, and Breea could smell the powerful scent of him. In a low voice, he said, "This for your silence."
Holding the coin between thumb and finger, he raised the boy’s hand with the other three fingers, then pressed the coin into the boy’s dirty palm. Thin, callused fingers closed over the coin. The Limtir warrior raised his sword. Breea held the boy tightly as Taumea casually cut a swath of the boy’s tunic, and used it to clean the blood from of the blade.
In a voice that frightened Breea in spite of herself, Taumea said, "And this if you speak."
The boy went rigid, then nodded frantically, trying to look at both of them to let them know that he was in total, absolute agreement. Breea let him go, and he nearly collapsed. He stumbled aside, and Breea picked up her dagger.
"Help me hide the body," said Taumea.
Following him across the stable yard, Breea whispered, "Who is he?"
"The burrs in our tail cling yet."
Breea shivered.
As they were dragging the assassin toward the hay pile, the watch-boy came running, hunkered over like a frightened dog, glancing back at the as-yet still dark wayhouse.
"Sh-shit hole," he stammered.
Taumea frowned, and the boy flinched, but stood his ground, and pointed at the back of the stable, "Shit hole. Het’s own hounds not find him there."
A broad wooden plug pulled released a stench worse than anything Breea had smelled other than Lupazg. The body slid down the hole and landed with a languid splash. His crossbow, sword, and dagger followed, then the broken Limtir shield. Back at the door to the wayhouse, Taumea paused to stare at the boy, who began to wither under the cold gaze. Breea marveled at her friend, and wondered how much was theater and how much was simply Taumea in battle form.
"Bring our horses and tack," he said, and the boy dashed across the yard.
Back in the rooms, Valiena had already retrieved and packed their clean clothing from the laundry drying room. Out in the courtyard, the stable boy had one horse already saddled and, standing on a stool, was hefting Letet’s to her back. The warhorse stood patiently, looking back at the boy with what Breea knew to be tolerance and amusement. Luckily for the boy, Letet had a special fondness for stable children. Hardhoof, on the other hand, had escaped to an oat bin and sounded as if he was trying to gorge himself to death.
The boy pushed the saddle into place, then whirled when he realized the Limtirians were back.
Taumea surveyed the situation and said quietly, "Better than half bad."
He flipped another coin at the boy. The silver struck the kid in the sternum as he made no effort to catch it, but Breea could tell he’d received greater payment than coin. His spine was straight for the rest of their packing, and he resisted scrabbling in the dirt for the silver until the foreigners had quietly led their steeds through the gate.
Valiena checked the horse carcass that lay in the road. "Ghajhebl," she said. "Courier breed."
"Stolen?" asked Breea.
"Or standard issue," said Taumea. "How far would it bear a man twice my weight?"
"Ridden to ground? Twenty leagues on the plain. Sixty on good road."
Breea scanned the shadows and asked, "Are there more?"
"One man," said Taumea. "Using a string of mounts. Their only chance to match our pace. Wanted to catch us without warning."
As the day lengthened, the city walls loomed. Against the sky, white banners with a gold city wall emblazoned on them flapped on poles above the gatehouse. The road entered the wall in a tunnel wide enough for four carts abreast. Arrayed to either side were fifty poleax-wielding soldiers in blue surcoats with the gold city on their chests. The hafts of their long axes were white, and the blades polished mirror bright. Down their arms, high-quality chainmail gleamed in the midday sun. Inside was dark and loud with the clatter of hooves and ironbound wheels. Breea counted four sets of stone portals much like Limtir’s. Midway, she caught a hollow echo from the stone under Letet’s hooves. Like Limtir, the walls of Sherishin had been built during the Legend Time.
Beyond the gate lay an immense market square. Swept by the flow of people from the gate, they rode across and into canyon-like streets on the far side. Midday sun cut through air stifling with dust, animal dung, and the scents of exotic foods. Shops lined the sides, reducing maneuver room, and carts vied for the right of way, their drivers cursing one another in strange languages. Hawkers cried their wares to the slowed travelers, often walking beside them holding up food, drink, cloth, or small sheets of text.
Taumea said, "We need to find the scholar house."
Breea nodded, then flinched as a scream echoed over the noise of the street. She stood in her stirrups. The cry came again, a rough wail of agony.
"Yeaf," she said, and Letet surged ahead. Cityfolk cursed her
as they dodged Letet’s hooves. Rounding a corner, Letet shied before the massed backs of a crowd filling a square. In the center stood a platform where a thin man was suspended between poles by taught ropes tied to wrists, ankles, neck, and waist. A figure in red-trimmed black drew lines of blood down the man’s chest and abdomen with a blade, then with a wide pincer slowly pulled off a strip of skin. The torturer’s head was covered in a close-fitting cowl and face cloth that left only the eyes visible.
The fire within Breea roared, and Letet heaved forward, parting the crowd like a ship. When she was close enough, she jumped from Letet’s back to the scaffold.
The torturer turned, then stepped back and raised the bloody knife. Breea knocked it away. The squinting eyes widened as she drew a dagger and sank it to the hilt in the black-clad chest. The man shuddered, and died.
The suspended man, sobbing hoarsely, shouted in triumph. Breea cut the ropes and laid him on the scaffold floor, getting herself bloody in the process. It was then that she became aware of the unnatural quiet. She straightened. A young woman was pushing her way through the crowed. When people saw that Breea was watching her, a path was made. Weeping, the woman scrambled up the scaffold steps and fell beside the man.
City guardsmen bulled their way to the steps, and the first, brandishing a cudgel, said, "By our Mayor, Lord Scriben, you are under arrest!"
Breea kicked him in the face as he came up to her level, sending him and his fellows tumbling back to the ground.
"Dauthaz!" said a voice.
Breea felt a chill sink tiny teeth into her shoulders and neck. Without the flame, she would have quailed under the hate-filled gazes of so many. A sense of dread settled on her, but it slid off the core of power that was making her flesh hot. The end of her life shone in the eyes of hundreds around her, but she knew that most, perhaps even all, of them would die before the end. Drawing her second dagger, she scanned the crowd for any true warriors, and spied Taumea and Valiena on the outskirts, bows in hand.
This was not the time to fight. They could all die. She executed a boundary and sheathed her daggers, but wondered how long it would be before she had to draw them again. The people made no aggressive move; rather, they pushed away to create distance between them and the scaffold. The guards held the base of the stair but made no further move.
A high-pitched horn sounded fanfare from a street to the east, where a forest of poleaxes lowered at the crowd. There was a controlled panic, and the square began to empty. The line advanced, hurrying the people. Behind the guardsmen rode a man dressed in a white uniform trimmed with blue and gold. Ranks of city guard rushed up behind him, and soon Breea was surrounded by a hundred. Letet shied away from those trying to catch her bridle and ran to Valiena. The naked man at Breea’s feet was unconscious, and his woman held him protectively, looking at the guards with frantic eyes.
The white-robed officer walked his horse for a closer look at Breea, eyes lingering on her Scholar necklace. When he looked to her face, she straightened her back, letting him see all her anger and resolve. His eyes left her cold, however, for they were emotionless. Even SaKlu’s had held more.
"Our Lord Mayor desires your presence, Scholar," he said.
His empty eyes, soft voice, and the way he twisted the word "scholar" sparked a wave of revulsion in Breea. Swallowing the desire to gut him, she said, "I am honored."
The man did not deign to glance at Taumea and Valiena as they brought Letet. Breea mounted from the platform. The officer took first position in the column that formed, and led the way at a relaxed walk.
Taumea’s face was maroon with rage, refusing to look at Breea. The column wound its way deep into the city, coming to an ornate gate beyond which the roads were paved in white stone. Before passing the gate, the guard column behind turned off, marching down a side street. The guard officer led Breea and her friends past gardens and palaces the like of which Breea had only heard of in stories. One, built of pure white marble, was crowned at every corner with long city banners, its door flanked by more of the poleax guards. Breea and her friends followed their escort up wide steps into the building. Marble floors under vaulted ceilings led to an antechamber, where the officer spoke to a man dressed in plain livery of white and blue, who exited through a door paneled in wooden frescoes, closing it behind him.
The officer looked at Breea, and she sensed Taumea go still. The officer’s eyes slid to Taumea, and they stared at one another. The officer gave him a slight, mocking nod.
Taumea did not react.
The wood door swung open, and the liveried man motioned for the officer to enter. Behind a desk stacked with ordered heaps of parchment a sat a fleshy man in ornate blue and white clothing, trimmed with gold lace. He beamed at them.
"Be welcome to Sherishin, Scholar," he said in a smooth baritone voice. "As your humble mayor, our city is your city. Especially so to the noble members of your order. I trust your journey has been blessed with fair skies and uneventful nights?" He smiled at her with gracious benevolence, but she felt his eyes on her breasts as he continued. "Times being as the One deems best for us, we must live as one people within His wisdom."
Bowing, Breea said, "An honor, Mayor."
Another door opened, and an old man in billowing dark purple swept into the room. The amber amulet on his chest told Breea that he was a Third Sanis Scholar. Unable to suppress a smile of relief, she bowed deeply to him, and he to her.
He said to the mayor, "May I show our guests the city?"
"They are yours, my friend," replied the mayor, and Breea felt a significance to the words that belied their simple friendliness.
The scholar led them out of the building though back halls. He said nothing as they crossed gardens laced with streams that fed pools filled with multi-colored fish. Flowers scented the air, and somewhere a woman was singing. They came to a tall Scholarhouse ringed by Gamanthea-Dur, and Breea breathed to get as much of their scent into her lungs as possible. Inside, bookshelves occupied every wall, and the air smelled like parchment, like home. On the fifth story of the house, the old man led them into his study, called for wine, and gestured for them to sit at the table there. He began to pace.
"You must leave the city. The pontiff will be hearing of the murder now." He stopped. "Where are you going? Not here, I hope."
Breea was trying to decide if she had committed murder. Never in her life had she dreamed of killing like that. So quick, without remorse. It had been like killing a rabbit—no, less than a rabbit.
The scholar studied her then said, "By Sherishin Law you are a murderess, and by Yasharn Law, which is nearly the same thing, you are Dauthaz, and this is precisely why you are alive and free. Kill a merchant, or—knowledge forefend—a city guard, and you die that day. Kill a priest, and live. Purest irony. Oh yes, girl, the man whose heart you split was a Tholen Order priest. Oostan Aleront, the city’s favorite flayer. Always draws big crowds."
Taumea breathed a short, tight sigh.
"He deserved to die," said Breea.
The scholar’s eyes lit up. "Oh yes. Yes, he did. An abomination." The scholar rubbed his head and began pacing.
Breea said, "How can you stand to live here?"
"Live? This is the finest city in all Yash. Here the rot that infects this realm is the least felt, and if I were an immodest man, I would claim to be the author of its health, but I had help. The mayor, for one.
"I see that you do not like our mayor. Well, he is a political man, and politics begets power, and, as you know, power shows the true spirit. The people of this city set the mayor to rule beside the Temple pontiff. Half the power to the mayor and half to the pontiff, though the balance shifts with the wind. The pontiff rules by the new edict because his heart is as dry as ash, while warm blood flows in the mayor’s heart. We have built ten schools in this city. The canals and waterworks in the fields? Reconstructed from plans that Limtir preserved. The slaves wear true clothing now, and are fed twice daily. The slave market sees a tenth the v
olume, as disobedience is no longer punished by death. The mayor wants the best for Sherishin, just as he wants the best and most for himself, but he has the spirit to know an evil deed from a good one. He is the reason you are now living, and we must get you out. Where are you going?"
"The capital."
"Yash? What in knowledge for? What is your name?"
When Breea answered, the old man looked away, then poured himself a glass of wine.
After sipping, he said, "Your father was a magnificent Tetr."
Breea asked, "High Scholar, what is your name?"
"Hegen. Dispense with the title, girl, you are not in Limtir."
Breea knew, and she regretted it.
"The outer world is full of colors, my girl, and pure hues of anything are more rare than Gamanthea-Dur in the desert. Be true to your spirit, for you are the hope of all."
Hegen left. His footsteps were long gone before she thought to move, and then it was only to stare at Valiena. Were there so many who knew more about herself than she? Exhausted, she put her head in her hands.
She woke with a start. The study was empty. A sense of the familiar tickled her senses. Bolting from the room, she took the stairs three at a time, swinging at each turn by the banister. At the base, looking down the hall in the direction opposite her motion, she slammed into someone. The woman fell back, landing hard.
Breea knelt beside her. "Forgive me. Are you hurt?"
The woman looked at Breea and said, "Does the shattered window ache after the bird strikes it?"
Breea blinked at the comparison, and offered support that was waved away. Hegen strode into the hall seeking the source of noise.
Rising, the woman tested her breathing, feeling her ribs through the sea-green silk of her blouse, and asked, "This her?"
Hegen ran a hand over his pate.
The woman looked Breea up and down, paying no more attention to the daggers than anything else about her appearance. Breea had to look up to meet her gaze. The eyes were hazel, and shone out of a tanned and weathered face. Dark hair, braided down her back, looked wind frazzled.
Rubbing a shoulder, she said, "Captain Etrya Finwall. My service to you. This lecher," she said with a tilt of her head at Hegen, "tells me you want passage to Iplock."
To Breea’s surprise, Hegen blushed.
Turning for the door, Etrya said, "Come. There’s only a few places in this city where a woman can get a drink without cracking stones, and I know them all."
As they walked through the gardens, Breea found herself casting glances at Etrya. Her low-heeled boots were black leather and hugged her calves below billowing dark-blue breeches gathered at the knee. The silk blouse was cut low in the front, showing the tops of small breasts, but had the cut of a work shirt. A gold knot-work necklace set with blue gems sparkled on her chest. Her belt was of thick gold links with a buckle in the shape of a graceful sailing ship. Her five rings had stones of blues, reds and greens that winked in the evening sun as she strode along. Breea envied her walk. Sure and graceful, Breea thought Etrya walked like a river otter swam, and Breea found herself trying to imitate the smooth, swaying gait.
As they neared the edge of the gardens, Etrya asked, "Why did you kill Bloodletter?"
Halting, Breea relived the feel of her blade sinking into his chest. She did not know why she had killed him, only that it was something she knew was right. That she could slay so coldly frightened her. She tried to think of what to tell this unusual woman, knowing in the same instant that this woman would brook only the truth.
"He was wrong."
The skin around Etrya’s eyes crinkled as her eyes narrowed. She strode away. Breea ran to catch up, and they entered the noise and press of the streets through a wooden gate in a high stone wall. The sense that she was the focus of a potent gaze made Breea look over her shoulder.
A tall, dark-skinned man exited the gate behind them. A metal-tipped stave that looked twice as long as her whole body was carried as easily by him as a walking staff.
Without looking, Etrya said, "Prah is my ‘dagger in the heart’ for my enemies. I’m no warrior."
The man was at least five spans taller than Breea, dressed in loose trousers of black leather woven with bold silver designs. He wore no shirt, only a leather vest of brown-black leather with nothing but ebony skin beneath. On his feet were sandals, and around his right ankle a silver chain. Despite his size, there was an astonishing leanness to the man, his musculature like layers of taut, twisted rope. His cheekbones were prominent on his face, and a wide mouth full of white teeth smiled at her—a laughing grin. Breea had never seen his like, and her heart beat to look at him.
Etrya took Breea’s shoulders and turned her around, back down the street, and said, "He’s taken."
Breea blushed and moved into stride with Etrya, deciding that she liked this woman, though she knew nothing of her. No, that was not true. She knew that Etrya was a friend of Hegen, possibly a past lover. She liked to drink, and had a guard who was beautiful enough to stop a woman’s heart.
Passing through the streets without pausing, Breea had no time to examine things, though she saw a number of shops that interested her. As they passed a stall smothered in furs, the feeling of a familiar presence swept through her as it had at the Scholarhouse, and she recognized it. Ambard. Was it possible he was near?
Etrya guided her into a tavern filled with noise and laughter and new smells. The huge dim room held a hundred or more well-dressed people sitting at tables, playing games, talking and drinking. There seemed to be as many different forms of dress and kinds of people as there were people in the place. Breea saw a few broad Ranans, and one like Etrya’s bodyguard. Weaving their way across the room, Etrya was hailed by some. Though curious about them all, Breea scanned the room looking for one person only.
At the far end, they passed through a door and up a stair to a quieter, more elegantly furnished chamber. Tapestries hung on the walls, lit in square patterns of evening light as the setting sun shone through a tremendous multi-paned window at one end. At tables spaced widely across the room, finely dressed men and women played and gambled quietly in the warm light.
Etrya took a seat at a small table near the window where they could look out over the rooftops of the city. A young man in a spotless white tunic and jacket walked up to them and inclined his head respectfully.
"What I always have," said Etrya, and looked at Breea.
She could think of only one drink she might like, and said, "Loosh port."
One of Etrya’s eyebrows twitched. She asked Breea, "Who are you looking for?"
Breea wondered where to start, or even if to start. How had Etrya known?
Leaning back, Etrya said, "If I am to challenge the Sherishin navy for you, I must know who it is I set the sails to save."
So, she was a ship captain. Breea said, "Only me."
"Not your friends?"
"Yes, them too, and our horses."
"My ship has no hold for horse."
Breea could not imagine leaving Letet. There had to be another way. And Ambard was near. She had to find him.
The waiter returned with a goblet of orange liquid for Etrya, and a small chalice of purple port for Breea.
After tasting her orange juice, Etrya said, "You are the quietest scholar I have yet seen."
Smiling hesitantly, Breea sipped the port, closing her eyes as it slid over her tongue and warmed her throat and belly. Thoughts of Ambard tried to overtake her, but she pushed them away, clenching her teeth.
Etrya said, "A man?"
Breea nodded.
"You saw him last?"
The months separated from Ambard stretched like years behind her.
Nodding, Etrya hooked another chair with her toe, dragged it near, and set her boot on it. "When I was a span younger than you, I took passage on a ship to see my uncle in Thrond. The ship was called Halisheen, the Grass of the Sea. A more graceful vessel has never been built, nor ever shall be. The captain was a
blackheart, but he knew Halisheen, and could make her dance from crest to crest. I loved the youthful first mate, who loved the captain’s daughter, who loved herself. Mate Charlthon needed to talk with someone, and I always seemed to be around, I made sure of that, so he talked to me. In those hours I learned all you need to know of men.
"They need us. Not like they act, with their trousers tripping them in their rush, but with their souls. My father used to tell my brother, ‘Give a woman what she wants, and she will give you what you need.’ When my brother asked if Father meant gold and fur hides, Father would spit. I never understood until Charlthon how a man is incomplete until a woman accepts him. When my brother asked how to know what women want, my father laughed and said, ‘Ask them.’" Taking another sip, Etrya watched the sun disappear behind the houses of the city.
"He is a hunter," said Breea. "He is always gone."
"Knowing that we wait for their return is comfort for them. It is enough for him to know that you understand."
"I want him beside me," said Breea, with more force than she intended.
"Tell him so."
"He would not hear. He returns to the mountains."
"Why not go with him?"
"I tried."
"And now you seek him?"
Breea frowned. She shook her head. That was not her purpose.
"You think he is here? You sense him? Feel a tickle in your chest like he’s near?"
Who was this woman? Wary, Breea gave a slight nod.
"I do not think so. You are touched by God’s Breath, and so is he." She reached out and gripped Breea’s shoulder. A small flow of power warmed the flesh where Etrya touched her. The flame within roared in answer, and Etrya’s eyes widened, but she did not release her grip. Breea executed the first boundary, and Etrya let go.
Frightened and amazed, Breea asked in a whisper, "You can weave?"
Etrya’s eyes narrowed, but she gave no other reaction.
Finally, the captain said, "Weave?"
"Weaving. It is how...it is what you do with the essence."
Etrya considered Breea’s words, then asked, "When did you first discover it in you?"
Breea fought with the urge to tell Etrya everything. She remembered first learning to listen. She also remembered Lupazg, and wondered if Etrya would believe.
The captain said, "You are stronger than any I have met yet."
"There are others?" asked Breea, thinking of fireside stories of the Alach of the Legend Time.
"Not many, but you and I are not unique."
"I learned from Ajalay last summer."
"Limtir would know. There’s wind in that. All scholars learn, then?"
"Only two of us. Ajalay studied many seasons before teaching me. I do not truly know how to weave. Only listening and a few boundaries. The weaving I try does not always work as I expect."
Etrya gazed at Breea with the intensity of a hawk watching a mouse emerging from a clump of grass. Breea felt that gaze go through her even to the flame within.
Leaning in, Breea whispered, "Are you Alach?"
Equally quiet, Etrya answered, "I have asked myself that many years. And you?"
A long quiet followed. Breea did not know what she was. It was why she was on this journey.
Etrya said, "The same is in the soul of the man you seek. It is the God's Breath you feel. Your man is not here. You feel the Breath in me. I met another who could sense it, but he wouldn’t believe what it was. Called it love’s binding, and followed me for months. Your man is like you, if you know him here." Etrya touched her chest.
Breea heaved a sigh. It was comforting to be understood, but frightening, too. "I am going to the city of Yash to find the priest who gave my Calling."
Etrya’s manner hardened, and she said, "What did a priest call you?"
"Warrior."
The captain took a drink and said, "I have felt the wind since I was a little girl. In the hills where my father grew fruit, I earned Etrya, my open-name, by staring at the distant sea. Means sea-gazer. A curse among people who work the earth. I was ten before Mam let me go with Father down to town to sell the fruit. When I first saw Halisheen at the wharf, I knew that someday I would sail her."
Etrya tapped her chest. "You know here, what you are. Asking a Yasharn anything about you is asking a desert to describe the sea. The Yasharn fear women. In their capital, a woman is put into the stocks if she only touches a weapon. If she is caught again, they cut off her hand. A third, and her skin is cut from her body."
She fished for and caught Breea’s eyes, saying, "Prah thinks you are the most dangerous woman he has ever seen. You seek yourself. The source of your power. Something to place you in the world."
A chill spread through Breea like rain on a hot, dry day. Etrya understood.
They walked back to the Scholarhouse through dark streets, Prah following. At the wooden gate to the gardens, Etrya said to Breea, "Have Hegen bring you at full dark, nine bells."
When the time came, Hegen found Breea in the stable leaning on Letet, talking softly in Breowic. Breea flinched at his touch, but didn’t move. She felt his hand on her back. She planted her toes, resisting his direction. To her surprise, the gentle hand showed iron, irresistibly propelling her forward. Sliding her hand down Letet’s jaw, she fell into step with the scholar. In a carriage house beside the stable, her friends were waiting. Breea climbed into the ready coach, her friends following. Hegen reached up and held Breea’s hands through the window.
"I will have your horse sent after," he said, then told the coachman to go. She put her head out and watched him turn back into the building as the carriage house doors swung closed.
No one spoke as they clattered through moonlit streets for half an hour. Breea smelled water, and soon the wheels of the coach rumbled through a gatehouse in the city wall, then dully on wood. By pale-blue light Breea saw docks crowded with round-hulled merchants, galleys, frigates, barks, and ketches. Tall windowless buildings blocked her view at intervals, and the smell of wet wood mingled with strong fish odors and sewer stench. The coach stopped, and a bag that jingled changed hands. The coach rumbled onto a dock lined with large sailing ships. One was active with dark shapes.
Breea hopped out of the coach as soon as it slowed. The ship by moonlight was long and lean, beautiful like nothing she had ever seen. Lateen booms resting low on raked masts looked like folded wings. The lines of the hull swept up gently to a small forecastle, and more strongly aft to spacious stern cabins.
A nervous-looking man, barefoot, walked over to them, and herded them up the gangplank.
Etrya greeted them in a quiet voice, "Welcome aboard. A meal is prepared in my stateroom." She indicated a door in the center of the stern, but seeing that Breea and her companions were intent on the preparations to depart, she said, "Or watch us outrun the Sherishin galley fleet."
Men rushed to winches, and the Lateen booms began rising. Rope creaking through wooden blocks and the pad of bare feet were the loudest sounds. Crewmen were pushing against the dock with long poles. Feeling the ship move, Breea followed Etrya up a stair to the aft deck where Prah stood at the wheel. Etrya whispered orders to a woman. She ran forward, clambered up the bowsprit, and returned. Nothing seemed to be happening, then they began to move past the other ships along the dock.
Breea gripped the railing as they entered the open bay. Small waves rippled the water, sails dropped from the booms, and Breea felt the ship tilt. Prah turned the wheel.
On the windward side of the ship, a rope ladder was thrown over, and the low end of the middle-mast boom was maneuvered over the side. Crew climbed over the gunwale while others worked ropes. The boom rose, lifting a dripping longboat out of the water. The boat was flipped, set behind the middle-mast, and tied in place. The boom rose, lifting sail with it.
The city behind was dark except for a few lamps on docks and bayside wharves. Crew not attending another duty watched the water and city. Breea wondered why.
Etrya s
aid to her, "If we are caught in the bay by the patrol galley, they will try to capture us. If we run, they will sink us. Our chance lies on open water."
Chapter 8
Open Water
A Woman Warrior Born Page 17
