A Home in the Hills

by Robert J. Crane

  Sure enough, when the current speaker finished, and the other opened his mouth to jump in—Kosi leapt in. The ‘mediator’ did not intervene, initially. When the rejected speaker tried to speak more loudly, the mediator shouted at him, making a cutting motion with his hand. The rejected speaker was cowed into quiet. He seethed, eyes burning.

  “Did he threaten him?” Jasen whispered.

  Huanatha shook her head. “He might as well have, though. Hamisi’s reputation keeps the others in check.”

  “Reputation?” Alixa asked.

  Huanatha nodded. “All is not perfect brotherhood on the Lady Vizola.”

  Alixa asked quietly, “What sort of reputation?”

  “He is a brute,” said Huanatha. “Quick to use his fists.”

  Jasen bit his lip. What wonderful timing, learning of Hamisi’s penchant for brutality now, when they were all stranded together.

  He glanced at Burund. The shipmaster was not shouted down. If he was threatened by the possibility of removal from his post, whether by vote or by force, he did not show it. He appeared the same as ever, his quiet confidence intact.

  Still, Jasen could not help but wonder—if Burund ceased acting as shipmaster, and someone like Hamisi took over with this stranded party, where did that leave him and Alixa? They were, after all, the “unpaying strangers.” Burund had led the crew of the Lady Vizola into this mess—but he had done it for Jasen.

  Jasen blocked out the thoughts of what might happen to him and Alixa. Too many possibilities, and all of them unpleasant.

  Alixa turned to Jasen. “Who is—?”

  “Ssh,” Huanatha hissed.

  Burund was talking. Huanatha listened.

  Jasen alternated looks between the shipmaster and Huanatha.

  “What’s he saying?” Jasen finally asked.

  Huanatha’s face twitched with irritation. She’d probably missed something, even if Jasen whispered. Nevertheless, she said, “He is reminding them that whatever might happen in the future, he remains shipmaster. A challenge to that will be handled accordingly but not in the middle of the night. Everyone should rest for now.” Her lips drew back in her familiar sneer, teeth bared. “Foolhardy man, showing his dissidents such loyalty. He ought to cast them out into the waters tonight and let it run them ragged against the rocks.”

  “Shipmaster Burund wouldn’t do that,” said Alixa. “He’s a good man.”

  “Too good.” Huanatha snorted. “This Hamisi, he will accept Burund’s edict—for now. How gracious of him.” Acid dripped from her words.

  Sure enough, Hamisi appeared to have conceded, at least for the moment. He parted from Burund, the small group of instigators following him through the small cavern, between people lying or sitting on the hard ground. Hamisi’s gaze passed over Jasen as he strode by. His expression was sour, his mouth twisted into almost as deep a sneer as Huanatha’s. But then his eyes fell upon the warrior, poised at Jasen and Alixa’s sides, and he was past them.

  Huanatha cursed under her breath, a particularly unpleasant insult. It referred to one’s mother as having lain with a sort of Coricuanthian dog. Perhaps even a pack of them; Jasen did not wish to ask.

  Alixa’s mouth fell open.

  “Don’t look so affronted,” Huanatha said. “You know I am not wrong.”

  Alixa spluttered, “Well, literally I think—”

  Huanatha held up her hands. Then, rising, she said, “Get some sleep. We have long, unpleasant days ahead.” She, too, stalked away.

  Jasen watched Burund, who remained in place and was making quiet conversation with Kuura and Medleigh. Both of them looked troubled, the former more so considering his usual wide grin.

  Were they genuinely concerned that Hamisi could remove Burund from his post?

  Jasen wished he knew their native tongue so that he might have caught more of the nuances to the argument that had just passed.

  Then again, he would also know what Hamisi had actually said about him and Alixa and he might wish he hadn’t swum out to save the wretch … But that was not a line of thought he wanted to follow at the moment. He was too weary, and he wished to save his hatred for Baraghosa.

  A spark of fire kindled in Jasen’s chest. Murderous sorcerer.

  That was better—something worth hating. True evil, not just name-calling and a lack of gratitude.

  Nevertheless, Baraghosa was not an issue at present. The growing tension within the Lady Vizola’s crew, however …

  That was liable to explode in a way that would not be possible to escape—and perhaps very, very soon.

  4

  The day dawned grey.

  Two nights had come and gone since the Lady Vizola’s cataclysmic end. Salvage was still ongoing, although the majority of what could be reclaimed had already been fished out of the water. A small team, winnowed down to just a skeleton now as their job neared its end, continued to dive into the shattered frame of the ship, or swim far out into the ocean for a barrel or crate bobbing on a crest of soft foam. Jasen volunteered his help for this, but Burund would not permit it.

  “Rest,” he said, every time he was asked. “Save your strength.”

  Anxious to be helpful, Jasen busied himself instead where he could around the camp. Although the rain had finally died off during the early hours of the morning before, they needed walls—to protect against the elements and to retain the heat from their fires.

  So a wall of the salvaged crates was erected, far enough from the flames to keep them from catching should the wind howl through, but close enough to keep the heat in.

  Then there was the matter of extending the canvas roof, so that the sailors were not practically lying end to end all night. New fires were lit and kept fueled at all hours. A watch was set and kept, just the same as had been on ship.

  Somehow, a tattered net had been found, clinging to one of the jagged rocks that had contributed to the Lady Vizola’s undoing, and they flung it out into the sea.

  Twice, it was dredged up empty. The third time, it snared some seaweed and a dead thing Jasen couldn’t identify—much of it was missing, chewed off. Kuura cursed at it and tossed it back out into the water. Things were not yet that dire.

  But they would be. The food stores were small, a fraction of what the Lady Vizola had carried. Two crates full of hardtack had been affected by leaks. One was much worse than the other, and the seawater had turned the bland, crunchy crackers into a slurry. The other crate was less affected. The hardtack closer to the leak had turned to mush, but once those portions were scraped away, the rest was found to be edible, if somewhat soft. It was spread out on canvas to dry in the sunlight.

  There was not much sunlight, though. Grey clouds hung overhead at all hours of day and lay thick over the sorcerer’s island at night, obscuring the moon and stars. As though the mood were not dark enough without the aid of their environs making it so, literally.

  So the food situation was grim. And it seemed it would only get grimmer, for a party that scouted the circumference of the island found barely any foliage. The scrubby plants that did cling to life weren’t fit for eating—mostly twigs, few leaves. It made Jasen wonder what exactly Baraghosa ate while here. Perhaps he didn’t need to eat at all. His own heavy sense of self-satisfaction hardly seemed filling enough.

  The next problem to present itself was water. A good deal of it, all in barrels, had been fished out of the sea. But it wouldn’t last forever. So far, three barrels had been opened to sate the crew. The second had to be set aside as a piece of the wall only, a glorified brick, because the first taste test was overpoweringly salty. It would only dehydrate them, Kuura said.

  Eight barrels of water left—eight and a half, counting the open one. Rationing wasn’t in effect yet—but already, at the dawn of their second day, Jasen heard the mutterings. Huanatha relayed it to him and Alixa, in regular updates; Kuura was too busy, and Burund was overseeing operations. He might be worried, but he had a cool head about him. Had to, Jasen supposed, after Hami
si’s threat of mutiny. Panicking like a chicken with its head lopped off would only seal his deposition.

  That morning, when Jasen woke, the shipmaster was not to be found.

  Nor was Longwell.

  Hamisi, though, was griping in his own language. Sitting by one of the fires, he scowled as he ran a blade over the end of a long, thin wooden beam. It wasn’t yet a sharp spike, but it would be before too long.

  Alixa was already up. She sat cross-legged at Jasen’s side, staring into the distance.

  “Morning,” she said flatly when she spied Jasen’s motion had changed, from the shifting of a boy asleep to someone rousing.

  He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. No spots in them this morning, which was good. “How long have you been awake?”

  Alixa shrugged. “A while.”

  A particularly sharp blast of wind from the ocean came, whistling through the gaps in their makeshift walls. Though Jasen had become immune to the smell of saltwater, having been surrounded by it so long—much the same as he rarely noticed Scourgey’s deathly smell anymore—the blast of wind seemed to bring it back with force. His nose crinkled.

  Hamisi grumbled. Kosi, at his side, added something—agreeing with him, going by the subtle incline of his head. Complaining about the weather, most likely.

  “How long has he been sharpening that?” Jasen asked in a low voice. Hamisi couldn’t speak his language, just the same as Jasen did not share Hamisi’s, but still—it paid to be careful.

  “Since before I woke,” Alixa murmured. She glanced at the stave briefly, then looked away, as though staring at it too long might challenge Hamisi to test its sharpness out on her.

  Jasen frowned. Hamisi wouldn’t be preparing his spear for combat purposes, would he? To strike Burund down? Surely it was to fish. Kuura had said that they did that, back home in Coricuanthi, striding out into the river with poles and stabbing at fish as they passed. The most adept could catch twenty in ten minutes easily, slinging them over to women on the shore, who gutted and cleaned them.

  That must be it. He was preparing to fish. Nothing more.

  Still, it was disconcerting. Jasen stared, fascinated by every sliver of curled wood that Hamisi whittled away, and his apprehension grew.

  Stop watching, he told himself.

  He could not.

  “I’m going to stretch my legs,” he said, rising. “Want to come?”

  Alixa shook her head distantly. “No, thank you.”

  “See you, then.” He patted Scourgey on the head—old faithful, lying at Alixa’s side with her head on Alixa’s knee—and then wended his way out of the little encampment. A wide route, giving Hamisi maximum berth.

  It was a cruel wind indeed that came from the sea this morning. The moment Jasen was out in it properly, he reconsidered having left the overhang and its walls and crackling fires. The wind came ceaselessly, gusting harder and harder. The mists had been dislodged by it, or at least thinned; Jasen could see much farther this morning.

  He stooped around the shoreline made of mottled, blackened rock, heading for the Lady Vizola’s wreck. Perhaps there he’d find Burund.

  He did. And Longwell, too. The shipmaster and dragoon were talking, their backs to Jasen as they looked out at sea and upon the ruined carapace of the ship Burund had once commanded.

  They huddled together. At first, Jasen thought it was because the wind from the sea brought with it a chill.

  As he came closer, though, their words were carried upon the wind to him.

  “… situation is very dire, Longwell.”

  Jasen hung back, low, listened.

  “I’m aware of—”

  “Then you know I have more pressing matters to attend to,” Burund said, cutting over the dragoon.

  Longwell did not evince Jasen’s shock at the shipmaster’s brusqueness, at least from the back, though his helm partially obscured his face. Nor was there any surprise in his voice as he whispered, “The sorcerer is the most pressing of matters before us. You must see that—”

  “The most pressing matter before me is the survival of my crew,” said Burund. “We have food and water for a week, no more. Nor do we possess a vessel fit to sail off this island. Why I need to impress upon you the seriousness of this situation we find ourselves in, I do not know.”

  “I, too, have been wrecked at sea, Shipmaster.”

  “And fortunately for you, we happened upon you. We will not have the same luck. Not here, in the middle of a cursed fog, on a cursed isle.”

  “The fog is lifting.”

  “And do you see any vessel out there which might save us?”

  “There is time yet.”

  Burund shook his head dismissively. “These are the things I have to deal with. Others, too.”

  Longwell stood with his spear jutting high above his head; it was easily taller than him. “You refer, I assume, to the mutiny that’s brewing among your men?”

  “Aye. So, as to Baraghosa—he is not on my list of priorities at this moment in time. Nor is he likely to be again, after … this.” He waved a hand at the lingering wreck of the Lady Vizola.

  Someone called from behind, startling Jasen almost out of his skin.

  Medleigh approached. He either had not seen Jasen, or did not acknowledge him; instead, he called again to Burund, and the shipmaster turned.

  Burund’s eyes flicked over Jasen.

  Heat bloomed in Jasen’s cheeks. Burund’s face was often difficult to read—but Jasen was certain the shipmaster knew that he had been listening.

  “This is my last word on the matter,” Burund said to Longwell, and off he strode, to meet Medleigh and deal with whatever it was he wanted.

  Longwell dawdled at the shoreline, looking pensively out to the wreck and beyond.

  When Burund and Medleigh had turned to return to the camp, Jasen meandered out to join Longwell’s side, pushing against the wind blowing in off the ocean. He took up position beside him, watching out to the sea just as thoughtfully as the dragoon.

  Little debris was left now. Jasen spied a crate that had been eased back toward the shore by the waves. It lolled at an awkward angle, a corner pointed straight up like a mountain rendered in a miniature wooden diamond. In the distance, one of the sailors strode over to pull it out. Hopefully it would be food.

  Even the scraps of wood, the boards that had splintered and come apart, were mostly gone now. Enough had washed ashore and been scavenged for firewood that the Lady Vizola’s crew would perish from thirst well before they perished from cold. Still, it was hardly a fraction of the material that had made up the ship and its contents. If they’d collected even ten percent of the boards, Jasen would be amazed. So it was incredible to think of how quickly the sea had dispersed the wreck’s pieces and carried them away.

  He felt small just thinking of it.

  Eventually, Longwell sighed. “How are you keeping?” he asked.

  “Fine,” said Jasen. As well as could be expected, anyway.

  Longwell nodded. “Of course.” He ran a hand across the stubble on his chin, metal plates of his armor softly clinking. “Did you overhear …?”

  If another person had been asking, Jasen would have been ashamed to admit it, but he had the feeling that Longwell would understand for some reason, so he said, “I heard some of your conversation. Not all of it.”

  “If you heard the end, you can surmise the start.”

  Longwell did not say any more. And Jasen could not bring himself to ask. So, again, it was quiet, except for the blustering of the wind, which buffeted hard all of a sudden for long seconds, then died off again in a momentary respite. The tang of salt crinkled Jasen’s nose again.

  There seemed to be something off in the air too. Very faint, it wasn’t exactly the rotten, deathly smell of Scourgey … but something unpleasant drifted on the wind. Maybe this part of the sea smelled different, part of the curse that kept boats out of these waters.

  The dragoon interrupted his thoughts. “Except for H
uanatha, no others among us are as determined to stop Baraghosa as we. And look at us now—stranded and stalled, the sorcerer escaped. You’re thinking about it, aren’t you, in spite of our circumstances? Thinking, still, on how to catch him, how to beat him. Thinking about our own defeat.”

  Jasen hesitated. Again, if another person were asking him this, he would surely dodge the question to hide a truth that Alixa would surely chide him for, Kuura too, perhaps even Burund, after this turn of events.

  With Longwell, though, he could answer truthfully. And so, after that moment’s consideration, he nodded.

  Longwell nodded too. He rubbed a fist across his chin again, fingers raking stubble. “Aye. Our minds, they’re more similar than you know. That desire for vengeance … it’s bred in.” Turning out to the sea again, he said, “This is not the end for us, Jasen. We will find a way off this island. And the sweet satisfaction of revenge will yet be ours.”

  As he spoke, a fire sparked, then burned in his eyes. His jaw, which was already sharp-edged and strong, became steelier still, clenching, the muscles taut. Fiery determination flowed through his veins—Jasen could practically feel the heat of it radiating from him.

  But—“How?” It was a question that had lingered in the back of his mind these past two days. He kept himself as busy as he could, but in those moments of quiet, when he got time to think, the word pulsed in his mind over and over.

  How, how, how?

  Longwell shook his head, lips pursing. “That I don’t know yet. The Lady Vizola …”

  “Ignoring the boat,” Jasen said, “I still don’t see how. Baraghosa beat us. He threw us aside like we were dolls, mopped the floor with our bodies—and then, when it was over, he didn’t even bother to kill us. We outnumbered him, we’ve come after him twice now, brought our best fight every time. We should be a threat—and still, he didn’t even try to kill us. He just … left. Like we’re nothing to him.”

  Longwell was quiet, for perhaps ten long seconds, and the air between them was filled instead with the sound of the wind whistling around the rocks strewn about the island’s edge and howling through a cranny in the Lady Vizola’s wreck.