by Mike Brooks
“The Brown Eagles have flown the nest,” Olja remarked dryly, looking around at the abandoned village. She clearly didn’t share Rikkut’s sense of appropriate timing, because Tyaszhin whirled around and punched her in the nose. She sprawled on the ground, clutching her face and scrabbling backwards to avoid the kick the old bastard aimed at her ribs.
“Do you know what this means?” Tyaszhin growled over her as Olja picked herself up, wiping at her involuntarily streaming eyes. The first few flakes of the next storm’s snow were whirling down out of the iron-grey sky: Long Night was over for another year, Father Krayk had released the sun and the quickening was approaching, but the islands of Tjakorsha would taste snow for another two short moons. “It means they’re gone. The Brown Eagle clan are gone!” He shouted the last sentence, and as his cheeks wobbled and his spittle flew, Rikkut realised that Red Smile’s captain wasn’t just angry.
He was scared.
The Brown Eagles hadn’t been the largest clan, or the best sailors or warriors. Rikkut had never heard of them taking any torcs at Clanmoot, when the clans of Tjakorsha came together to test their skills against each other. But of course, there hadn’t been a Clanmoot for two years now, and the being responsible for that had ordered Tyaszhin and his warband here, to the westernmost island in the archipelago.
“So they’re gone,” Olja said, wiping her eyes and glaring at Tyaszhin. “That’s what it wanted, right? Just saves us the trouble of cutting their throats and dumping them in the shallows like the Stone Ghosts.”
“It doesn’t want them gone, fool,” Rikkut said, weighing his blackstone axe in his hand. “It wants them swearing fealty, and it wants their chief’s belt. We scuttled the Stone Ghosts because they were too fucking proud to save their own necks.” He looked at Tyaszhin. “The question is, where have they gone? Inland?”
Tyaszhin looked north-east towards where Kainkoruuk rose. It was one of Tjakorsha’s mighty Five Peaks, thrust above the waves by Father Krayk during the Creation. It was hidden from view at the moment by the lie of the ground and the tall, dark pines, but Rikkut had seen the smoking summit crowned with snow as their ships had pulled through the straits. There were meadows of rich grass farther up the mountain, where flocks of hardy Tjakorshi sheep would graze in the long days of summer, but only a fool would forsake their longhouse’s shelter for a night under the stars up there, so early in the year.
“Nah,” Tyaszhin said, and spat. “Not all of them. And where are the tracks? That many people would leave tracks.” He gestured at the ground between the longhouses, worn bare from footfalls. “The only place they wouldn’t leave a tell is on the shore.”
“You think they’ve gone around the coast?” Olja asked, squinting back down towards the stretch of shingle where their ships were beached. Beyond them, the water was wild and rough. They’d all taken a soaking getting ashore, and they’d had neither a fight nor the Brown Eagles’ cookfires to warm them afterwards. “Through the stones, to avoid leaving tracks?”
“No,” Tyaszhin growled, turning on his heel. “Let’s check their ships.”
For a moment, Rikkut didn’t see the point. Then he looked more closely at the handful of small boats hauled far up the beach to keep them safe when the southern storms screamed in, and he understood.
“There aren’t enough,” he said, uncertainty stirring in his gut. “Not nearly enough. And nothing larger than a fishing tsek. Where are the taughs, the yolgus?”
“They can’t all be out fishing?” Olja asked dubiously. And she was right, although Rikkut was struggling to believe it.
“They’ve gone,” he said, turning to scan the beach just in case he’d somehow missed the huge, fifty-ell vessels. He hadn’t, of course. “They’ve taken everything, and sailed. The whole clan.”
“They wouldn’t have enough ships!” Olja protested. “No clan has enough yolgus to carry everyone, not with all their animals!”
“Check the forest,” Tyaszhin said grimly. Some of his warband were still wandering aimlessly through Koszal, as though expecting to find the entire Brown Eagle clan hidden behind a tree, or somehow missed in a longhouse. “I reckon we’ll find a bunch of cut trunks. That bitch Sattistutar must’ve planned this over the winter, and built some more.” He kicked at the beach, sending up a clattering spray of shingle. “Fuck! I said we should have come before Long Night!”
Rikkut and Olja exchanged glances. That had sounded uncomfortably close to a criticism of their master, which wasn’t something you did if you wanted to keep your blood in your veins. A draug walked Tjakorsha now, something that could see the thoughts of men and women in the flames of its fires, and which wore the skin of a man but could not be killed. Rikkut had seen scars from old wounds that should have slain it; he’d seen the draug pull the noose from which it had been hung for half a day from around its own neck and stand back up again, and that was enough to make anyone nervous, even a battle-tested warrior like Rikkut Fireheart. Rikkut would sooner face down Amalk Tyaszhin’s blackstone axe while naked and armed with nothing except foul language than cross their master, and he felt no shame in that. Some things were beyond the ken of mortals.
“Let’s head around the coast,” Rikkut suggested. “There’s still the Seal Rock clan on the north shore. Perhaps they know where the Brown Eagles went. Even if not, we still need their chief’s belt, and their fealty.”
“We’d best hope for all our sakes they do know,” Tyaszhin said. “It wanted two belts and two chiefs, and the Dark Father help us all if that’s not what it gets.”
JEYA
IT WAS JUST hér luck to be grabbed by some over-enthusiastic bystander, but the gods had not totally abandoned Jeya: the arm the tall stranger had seized was the one holding the money pouch, leaving hér other hand free. Shé didn’t bother trying to talk hér way clear. Only direct action would help now, so shé reached up and clawed at their eyes.
They reared back automatically, and their fingers loosened on hér arm enough for hér to twist hér rain-slicked skin out of their grip. Then shé was away, the money pouch in hér pocket, pushing through the crowd and screaming for help. A thief was quiet, and tried not to attract attention; everyone knew this on some instinctive level. Had shé fled silently, the crowd might have assumed hér guilt. By drawing attention to hérself shé would in turn draw attention to hér assailant, and perhaps some well-meaning fool who hadn’t seen hér theft would step forward to defend hér from this aggressive, larger person. Shé only needed a small head start and then shé’d be away, no matter how long hér pursuer’s legs were, unless they knew the byways of East Harbour as well as shé did…
Strong arms wrapped around hér waist and snatched hér off hér feet before shé’d even reached the edge of the crowd. Shé kicked and yelled, wondering how in the gods’ names the Adranian had caught up with hér, then as shé was wrenched around shé realised the Adranian was stalking towards hér with thunder in their face. Shé’d been seized by someone else! Since when had the Festival of the Crossing brought out so much public spirit?
“Where is the purse, thief?!” the Adranian demanded.
“What purse?” Jeya retorted, kicking furiously but fruitlessly against whoever held hér. “Let go of me!”
“What purse?” the Adranian repeated with a disdainful snort. “Pfah! Hold their arms!”
One of the arms gripping Jeya abruptly shifted position, releasing hér waist and wrapping around hér chest, pinning hér arms. Thus secured, shé could do little but snarl as the Adranian reached into first one and then the other of hér pockets, before smugly withdrawing the money pouch.
“That’s mine!” Jeya declared stubbornly. Shé had no recourse now, other than to play this out.
“Indeed?” the Adranian replied with a raised eyebrow. They loosened the drawstring and upended the purse onto their palm in front of the crowd, seemingly all of whom had decided that this was far more interesting than puppet shows. Jeya expected the fat jangle of copper that emerged, bu
t not the flash and silky tinkle of silver and even—was that a gold coin?! Hér soul sank and her guts turned watery. Shé’d misjudged hér mark, very badly. That was enough money to get hér hanged.
“Hardly the purse of such a ragged thief!” the Adranian declared to the crowd, who muttered agreement. Jeya could feel their eyes, weighing and judging. They might not rush to bear hér to the magistrate, but shé’d certainly receive no help from that quarter now hér crime was laid bare. The Adranian had judged the situation well.
“Màster?” the Adranian said, looking over their shoulder. “What should we do with them?”
The youth emerged from the crowd, and Jeya felt like shé’d been punched in the same guts hér soul had just sunken into. The Adranian, and whoever still had hold of hér from behind, were hér mark’s guards! Shé’d tried to rob someone with guards! Not even the most merciful of deities would forgive such foolishness.
The other reason hér stomach twisted was because hè was beautiful.
Hè was a true Child of the Islands, as was the poetic way to refer to Alabans of mixed parentage, but now shé saw hìm head-on there was definitely something Naridan about hìs skin tone, hìs cheeks, and hìs eyes. That would explain why hìs guard had so casually gendered hìm in public, if hè held to the crude ways of that people… Oh, but those eyes! So deep and dark they drank in what light filtered down from the occluded sky, under the wide brim of hìs straw rain hat, and between the curtains of hìs long, dark hair. Shé studied hìs face, searching for a flaw, but could find nothing. Even the slight scar on hìs chin, presumably some childhood injury, merely subtly emphasised the clean line of hìs jaw.
Jeya had never felt so cheated. Shé’d always thought that if shé were to be sent to the magistrate, and the gallows, it would be by some spiteful, ugly elder who resented hér very existence. To be condemned to death—and condemned shé surely would be, when accused by someone of hìs apparent standing—by such a beautiful creature left hér not just despairing, but hollow and conflicted. Shé at least wanted to be able to hate hìm, not feel this confusing whirl of fear, lust, and envy…
“Bring them,” the youth said after a moment, tilting hìs head. Jeya felt hér captor’s arms loosen for a moment, but before shé could make a break for it a strong hand twisted itself through hér sodden hair, trapping hér as securely as any chain would have. Shé found hérself marched forwards, head held down so shé stared at hér own sandalled feet as shé was propelled along. Out of the corner of hér eye shé saw the Adranian shooing the crowd away, back towards the puppet show.
Shé was forced onto one of the smaller side streets. What shé’d give for Nabanda to be nearby! But even hê wouldn’t intervene in this, good friend though hê was. Hê’d get hîmself sent to the gallows too, if hê laid a hand on this yòuth or hìs guards.
“Look at mè,” the yòuth said, and the hand in Jeya’s hair pulled back, forcing hér face upwards. Shé grunted at the sharp pain in hér scalp, and blinked when the rain fell into hér eyes as hér head was tilted too far. Shé reached up to wipe them clear, then found the rain had stopped.
Or rather, the yòuth was now holding hìs rain hat over both their faces. Which, given the hat wasn’t that big, meant hìs face was now mere inches away. Jeya swallowed, hér mouth dry.
“Why did you try to steal from mè?” the yòuth asked. Hìs voice was smooth, barely deeper than hér own, and made hér think of the sticky honey glaze on sweetcakes… Stop that, yóu little fool! Be ready to run if yóu can!
“I’m hungry,” shé said simply. It was true; praying to Jakahama had given hér quite the appetite. Shé tried to stare at hìm defiantly, but hér heart was pounding for a variety of reasons, and shé doubted shé looked particularly impressive.
“What will happen if Ì send you to the magistrate?” hè asked softly.
Jeya swallowed again. “They’ll hang me.” Shé didn’t use a gendered intonation because neither hè nor hìs guards needed to know. At least hè hadn’t presumed; but then, even Alabans with Naridan ancestry knew better than to do that for others, no matter how brazenly they might announce themselves.
Hè pursed hìs lips, plump and full—Stop that!—and shook hìs head a little. “That will never do. Not for someone whose only crime was hunger.”
Jeya’s soul leapt into her throat. Did hè mean…?
“Give mè your hand. Please.”
Stunned, Jeya obeyed. Hè placed hìs hat back on hìs head and took hér fingers in hìs, which sent tingles dancing across the back of hér hand. Then hè wrapped her fingers around the cold, hard shapes of several coins, and stepped back.
“Please do not try to rob mè again.” Hè raised hìs eyes slightly to look past hér. “Let them go.”
“Màster…” the guard behind Jeya said, the word as close to a protest as they probably thought they could get away with.
“Let them go,” the yòuth said, hìs brows lowering. Jeya felt more than heard the guard’s frustrated huff, but the fingers in hér hair relaxed and withdrew; a little clumsily, because the curls shé’d inherited from hér fàther had a mind of their own sometimes, as well as soaking up the rain until hér head felt twice as heavy as usual.
Shé snatched one last look at the yòuth’s face, hastily stammered hér thanks, then turned and ran before hè could change his mind. Shé was three streets away before shé stopped to look in hér hand, and shé was glad shé’d run as fast and far as shé had. Hè’d given hér three coppers and, by Jakahama’s paddle, a silver!
Jeya instinctively looked around, then tucked the coins safely away. The silver was a tidefall shé could put towards buying hér way into the Shore Birds. Nabanda hadn’t liked hér plan of joining a thief crew, but Jeya was sick of scraping by. Shé wasn’t big, like Nabanda, and couldn’t rely on hîm always being around to stand up for hér. A place in a crew would mean more danger in some respects, but at least shé wouldn’t have to worry about having hér food snatched off hér, or being kicked out of a sleeping spot because someone bigger had come along. Besides, the Shore Birds were rumoured to be decent sorts, and not too closely affiliated with any of the Sharks. Working for a Shark was a good way to get rich, but it was also a good way to get dead if something went wrong, and Jeya’s dreams of wealth weren’t as important to hér as keeping breathing. There was a reason why “swim with the Sharks, and you end up as bait” was a saying in East Harbour.
That was the plan for the silver. The coppers, however, would do nicely to sate the hunger still gnawing at her belly…
NGAIYU’S PLACE WAS a squat structure of sun-bleached wood on low stilts, a few streets back from the waterfront. No one Jeya had ever spoken to knew how Ngaiyu had come by it, but its history was nowhere near as important as its function: a relatively safe place to get your head down at night. The walls might be cracked and their paint might be peeling, but the roof was sound and the floor usually dry, and there would be a steaming pot of something over the fire. Ngaiyu charged for shelter and food, but not so much the street kids couldn’t afford it, unless the day had been very bad indeed. Ngaiyu never asked where the money came from, either, although that didn’t mean thëy didn’t know. Ngaiyu knew most things thëy needed to.
Jeya had bedded down in hér favourite corner and hér eyes were starting to close against the dull light of the cookfire when shé became aware of someone settling down beside hér. Shé pushed hérself up onto one elbow and gripped the knife on hér belt that Nabanda had given hér years ago; it was a small thing, but capable of parting flesh if needed. Most people knew better than to inconvenience another of Ngaiyu’s guests, but there would sometimes be someone new, or foolish.
“Jeya?” the new arrival whispered.
The voice seemed familiar, but shé couldn’t place it. “Who’s that?” shé replied, keeping hér voice low. No one wanted to attract Ngaiyu’s wrath for disturbing the room.
“Damau.”
Jeya relaxed a little. Damau was harmless; a year or so y
ounger, and smart in every way except those involving dealing with people. They trusted easily and unwisely, and Jeya had intervened more than once to stop bullying from becoming something more serious. Ngaiyu had told Jeya shé wasn’t helping, but Jeya hadn’t been able to stand aside and just let it happen.
All the same, shé was trying to sleep. Knowing Damau, they wanted someone to talk to and assumed Jeya would want to talk as well. It was how they tended to think.
“Damau, it’s late.”
“I saw what happened in the market.”
Jeya tensed again. Had Damau seen the money? Had they followed hér and watched hér stash the silver? But why would they let on?
“So?”
“I followed them back to their house.”
“You did what?” Jeya very nearly forgot to keep hér voice down, and the last word came out as a strangled squeak. “Why, in all the gods’ names?’
“I saw them give you money, so I thought they must have quite a lot, and maybe they’d have more at their house.”
Jeya swallowed hard. “Damau, tell me you weren’t seen. Tell me you didn’t go into hìs house!”
“Of course not! I’m not stupid, Jeya. But—”
Footsteps, across the wooden floor. A sudden patch of darker darkness that swept in front of the fire and plunged them into even deeper shadow. Jeya held hér breath, too startled to make a noise. By the Hundred, Damau had been seen, and now someone had followed them back here…
“Who’s that, next to Jeya?”
Jeya breathed again. It was only Ngaiyu.
“Damau.” Their voice was suddenly small—not just quiet, but actually small. Jeya had noticed Damau had a different voice for talking to people who scared them, and Ngaiyu was one of those people.
There was a rustle of cloth as Ngaiyu crouched. Jeya caught a whiff of the earthy hair oil thëy used, which brought back memories. Jeya’s môther had kept Jeya’s hair short when shé’d been young, since Jeya had inherited hér fàther’s hair and hè’d not been around to tell either of them how best to look after it, given the ship hè’d sailed with shortly after Jeya’s birth had never returned. It hadn’t been until hér môther died and Jeya found her way to Ngaiyu’s place that she’d learned about bone combs and hair oil.
