The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  “I have no interest in your wheel-that-is-new,” the Morlithian was saying, their fingers flickering like dancing raindrops as they spoke. “We had an arrangement, hee? Morning, Damau dear. It matters not to me that you have incurred additional expense; why is my normal cargo not here?”

  “Morning, Abbaz,” Damau replied in the momentary gap before the carter replied. That was the way with Morlithians: they conducted several conversations at once and just assumed everyone else could keep up with what was being said to whom.

  “I had to buy a new wheel,” the carter said, in the long-suffering tones of someone who thought this explained everything. “Means I had less money, so I couldn’t buy all your normal cargo. It’s not complicated.”

  “Not complicated? Not acceptable, that’s what it is,” Abbaz sniffed. Their face was heavily wrinkled and their cheeks and chin flecked with grey hairs, but their eyes were sharp. “Who’s your friend? Should I find someone new to bring my cargo from the sea docks, then?”

  “This is Jeya,” Damau said. Abbaz’s gaze flickered sideways and Jeya got the feeling shé’d been scrutinised, measured, weighed and assessed in the time it took hér heart to beat once.

  “That…” The glance the carter cast at Damau held some irritation; apparently they were being thrown by the parallel conversations. “That won’t be necessary. It’s not going to happen again.”

  “You have another wheel,” Abbaz replied, casting a meaningful look at the two-wheeled handcart on the docks beside the carter. “An old wheel, a wheel presumably a similar age to the wheel-that-was-broken, hee?”

  The carter’s cheek twitched. “Look, do you want this stuff or not?”

  Abbaz pursed their lips thoughtfully. “Eight silver.”

  “Eight?!” The carter folded their arms beneath their breasts. “Normal price is fifteen. There’s well over half your normal cargo here.”

  “Eight is over half of fifteen.”

  The carter jutted out their jaw. “Eleven. That’s fair.”

  “Eleven is not eight.”

  “You’re damned right it’s not.”

  Abbaz sighed. “I am old, as you can see. I now have to hire help to move my craft.” They waved one slender-fingered hand at Damau and Jeya. “I cannot afford that with the damage to my reputation that will occur when I cannot provide my customers with what they expect from me. Not at eleven silver.”

  “You haven’t hired them. You didn’t know who they were,” the carter argued, pointing accusingly at Jeya. “You had to ask.”

  “They’re here to help with my craft, or Damau would not have brought them here at this time,” Abbaz replied smoothly. “It is only polite to enquire their name.”

  The carter’s nostrils flared, but they just about kept a hold on their temper. “Ten. That’s as low as I’ll go.”

  “A pity.” Abbaz folded their fingers over their stomach and shook their head slowly. “I wish you luck in selling my cargo yourself. I must spend the day finding someone more reliable.”

  For a moment Jeya was convinced the carter was actually going to turn and wheel their cart away, or possibly push Abbaz into the river. However, after a strained silence the carter silently held their hand out, face thunderous. Abbaz counted out eight silvers and the carter unceremoniously unloaded half a dozen wooden crates onto the docks, then stormed off with their cart bouncing behind them.

  “How did you know they wouldn’t just walk away?” Damau asked curiously.

  “Money, my dear,” Abbaz replied with a smile. “They do not know my customers, so would not know where best to sell my goods. To do so would also take time, and I suspect they have many other jobs they need to do today, lest another employer should grow equally dissatisfied with them.” They clapped their hands together. “But speaking of time, we are wasting it! Come, load my cargo, and let us be off.”

  Damau nudged Jeya and bent to pick up one of the crates, but as shé moved to imitate them Abbaz stepped forward and took hold of hér upper arm.

  “A moment, please.” Abbaz squeezed, not hard, but hard enough. “Hmph. Not the strongest, I’d wager, if wagering were not a sin in the eyes of God. But strength is not as important as skill. Have you used a pole before?”

  There was no point lying. Jeya shook hér head. Abbaz’s eyebrows raised. “Damau? You have brought me someone unskilled?”

  “I wanted to show Jeya the rich houses on the Second Level,” Damau replied. “They’re so pretty!”

  Jeya narrowed hér eyes at Damau, standing with a crate in their arms and smiling happily at Abbaz. It sounded an awful lot like Damau was playing up the impression they sometimes gave of being naïve, and a little simple. Shé schooled hér face as Abbaz turned back to hér.

  “Damau is a good soul,” Abbaz said, “and uses the pole well, but I will have no weight on my boat that is of no use. If you will ride, you must pay a fare.”

  That would never do. Jeya had little enough money, and knew shé looked like it. Being willing to pay just to look at rich houses would instantly draw suspicion, if Abbaz was half as sharp as Jeya thought they were.

  “What if I pole for you?” shé suggested. “If Damau has learned, I can.”

  “You say this as though it were a favour that you do me,” Abbaz sighed. “Teaching someone to pole is more work than doing it yourself! I would be giving you a skill you could use to earn money for the rest of your life, and would you be paying me anything for it?”

  Jeya sighed as well. This had clearly been a foolish idea all along. Shé was about to turn and walk away when shé saw Damau waving one hand from behind Abbaz’s back in a way that was probably meant to indicate ‘wait’, so shé held hér ground.

  “And yet,” Abbaz continued, when shé didn’t move, “my bones are getting older, that is true. Perhaps a day of shouting at a child will be preferable to straining on a pole. I thank God for my long life, but I do sometimes question how Shē can leave me at the mercy of my body. Fine, child. Load the crates and take a pole. I shall watch you, and correct all the mistakes you make.”

  Jeya raised hér eyebrows at Damau, who shrugged.

  “If you fall into the water, hold onto the pole,” Abbaz said as Jeya reached for a crate. “At least, if you wish me to pull you out again. A good punting pole is worth several coppers. And if you damage my boat, or cause it harm through your failure, I shall push you in myself.”

  EVRAM

  THE SHORT MOON had set, although the smaller, brilliant disc of the long moon still lurked in the sky, and the fires in the main square had dwindled and died, much like the mood in the town. The air of cautious celebration sparked by young Lord Blackcreek’s opening of the stores had been quenched by the death of the Raider’s champion, and the sea demons had filed off sullenly to the empty houses while one of their number in a blue robe had busied herself around the body. Evram hadn’t taken any particular joy in the man’s death, but he was satisfied justice had finally been done. Lord Daimon had shown he wasn’t the coward some had whispered he was, when he’d allowed the Raiders to enter the town unopposed.

  Of course, Evram thought as he fed another stick to his fire, it would remain to be seen whether the Raiders could truly act like a civilised people, or if their savage instincts would triumph. He was almost grateful for his poverty. At least he had very little worth being killed for.

  There was a sharp knock at his door, and his hand went instinctively to his belt knife. It was past the time most folk would be in bed, but the day had been an odd one, and he doubted he’d be the only one watching a fire and musing. However, it was late to be abroad, and he knew of no one who’d come to his door at this hour.

  He drew the small blade silently, and stood. “Who’s there?”

  “Keep your voice down, man!” the person on the other side hissed. Evram frowned: the voice wasn’t one he knew.

  “Who’s there?” he repeated. “Answer, or s’man will start shouting.”

  His visitor made a wordless, strangled
sound of frustration. “It’s Shefal. Will you let this man in, or do you intend to keep him out here all night?”

  Evram frowned in surprise. Shefal? Now he’d spoken again Evram did recognise his voice, but couldn’t fathom why the freeman would be calling on him. Still, it would not do to keep such a visitor outside, even if it was late. He drew back the rough iron bolt and pulled his door open.

  “Please, enter.”

  “Thank you.” Shefal had a leather satchel slung over his shoulder and was wearing a hooded cloak, which was understandable given the bite in the night air, but something in the way he kept the hood up until Evram had closed the door suggested he had another reason for choosing that garment. Evram bowed, as was appropriate: Shefal had no claim over him, but had a freehold, while Evram had only a small plot allotted to him to grow vegetables for himself, and he owed the thane of Blackcreek many days of labour in the field every year.

  “You showed great courage today,” Shefal said. “Speaking up to name that brute as the killer of your brother, may Nari have mercy on him.”

  “It… It was merely the truth,” Evram managed. Shefal was young, and good-looking, and had never before concerned himself with the deeds of the lowborn so far as Evram could remember. His father, Sar Reul, had been much the same, at least until he’d been banished by Lord Asrel for cowardice in the aftermath of the same attack that had claimed Tan’s life.

  “The truth is not always easy to speak,” Shefal said seriously. “You must have realised, Evram, that what you said was potentially disastrous for you. Had Daimon not taken up your cause…”

  “But he did,” Evram said firmly, although he couldn’t deny feeling a shameful spurt of terror in the moments after he’d blurted out his accusation. “Lord Daimon didn’t let the killer harm s’man.”

  “He didn’t,” Shefal nodded, “and we can all give thanks to Nari for his bravery and skill. But can he protect all of us, all the time?”

  Evram frowned, searching his visitor’s handsome face. “What’s your meaning?”

  “This man’s meaning is that our new lord’s protection is based on the sufferance of this barbarian chief,” Shefal said urgently. “She allowed that combat. She could have ordered them to kill us all instead. Perhaps she felt it was an acceptable sacrifice, but who’s to say she’ll feel that way tomorrow if one of her savages cuts one of us down in the street, or takes what’s ours by force? You can’t tell me they’ll know to follow our laws, Evram.”

  “S’man had been wondering the same thing,” Evram admitted, chewing his lip.

  “Then you see our problem,” Shefal nodded. “They won’t stand for Daimon killing one after another of them in single combat. Sooner or later they’ll kill him instead, and if they’ll kill him, then why not us too?”

  Evram grimaced. Shefal made a compelling point. “But won’t they fear what the Marshal will do, if they did that?”

  “They should!” Shefal hissed. “Why shouldn’t they? Oh, this man doesn’t doubt they’re savage fighters, but the Southern Army could sweep them back into the sea without a thought! It’s never numbers that make the Raiders dangerous, Evram, it’s the fact they always strike where we’re weakest, and move on before our forces can catch them.” He smacked his right fist into his left palm. “But here they are, staying in one place! We need to capitalise. We must get word to the other thanes and the Southern Marshal, so they can wipe these vermin out once and for all!”

  “But Lord Daimon said they’d probably kill us too, for not fighting,” Evram pointed out. The lords of Narida had a tendency to expect the lowborn to follow their code of honour, even though it seemed easier when you’d learned it since you were a child, and were a trained warrior.

  “Evram, word will get out about what’s happened here soon enough,” Shefal said. “There’ll be pedlars on the roads soon, we might get a merchant ship calling here, perhaps the miners will come down from Ironhead earlier than expected. We can’t just hold those people here forever. Word will get out. We can’t be seen to be trying to hide the Raiders’ presence here, or that truly will be the end of us. No, we need to send for help.”

  Evram rubbed his chin uneasily. “But Lord Daimon—”

  “Lord Daimon is a clever man,” Shefal cut him off, “and knows what he needs to say to keep the Raiders content. He couldn’t just stand there and tell us someone should go and get help, could he?”

  That made sense, and Evram found himself nodding.

  “He’s bought us some time, and we need to use it as he’d wish us to,” Shefal said seriously. “Someone needs to go to Darkspur, explain the situation to Thane Odem, and tell him we need aid against these savages.”

  “But who?” Evram asked.

  Shefal sighed. “Evram. Why do you think this man came to you?”

  The crackling fire suddenly didn’t seem to be giving off any heat at all. Evram bit down on his lip so hard it hurt. “This man? But—”

  “You’re brave, Evram,” said Shefal, interrupting him. “You showed that today. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, too, or you wouldn’t see how necessary this is. This man would go, but he’d be missed. With the greatest of respect to you, you live alone. Will your neighbours notice your absence? Perhaps in normal times, but these aren’t normal times. There are strangers amongst us, and they’ll be foremost in everyone’s thoughts.” The freeman leaned closer. “This man knows you can do it, or he’d never have come to you.”

  “But this man’s never been to Darkspur!” Evram protested desperately. “He wouldn’t know—”

  “Evram, the north road takes you straight there,” Shefal said gently. He pulled a small purse out of his satchel and pressed it into Evram’s hand. “Here. It’s not much, but it’s all this man can spare. If it costs this to get rid of this filth once and for all then he’ll consider it a better bargain than any trade he’s ever made.”

  Evram felt the purse. Even if the contents were all coppers, it would still be a sizeable sum for a man like him.

  “And you’ll need food,” Shefal added, proffering his satchel. “There’s bread, some cheese, dried meat, sweetsap cake, and the last of the autumn’s apples. There’s a waterskin in there too: you’ll find plenty of streams on the way.”

  “But they’ll miss this man in the fields,” Evram managed, still looking at the purse. “Someone will—”

  “The barbarian woman said her people will help in the fields,” Shefal countered. “This man promises you, Evram, there’ll be so much confusion over who’s working where that you won’t be missed. This man will see to it himself.”

  Evram said nothing. He felt frozen, as though he was carved of ice and a movement one way or the other would snap him irreparably.

  “This is your chance to make a difference, Evram,” Shefal said softly. “Not all the heroes in the old songs and tales are sars and thanes. A lowborn man in the right place, with the right heart, can change the course of an entire country.”

  Evram looked up at Shefal from the corners of his eyes. It felt like if he raised his head and met the man’s gaze head-on, he’d be committed.

  “You’re sure they won’t miss s’man? And you’re sure this is the only way?”

  “This man is sure,” Shefal said, his eyes clear and steady. “You’ll be saving us all.”

  Evram nodded again, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Very well. When do you think s’man should leave?”

  “Now.”

  “Now?” He glanced reflexively towards the door. “But it’s still night!”

  “You won’t make it far in the morning!” Shefal almost snapped at him. “Nari’s teeth man, think! There are enough holes in the walls for you to sneak out and make for the road without being seen. It’s a clear night, and even the long moon will give you enough light. Once you get to the cover of the forest you can lie up until morning, then travel by day and find a safe place to sleep when darkness falls. You’ll just need to leave the road if you hear someone
coming up behind you.”

  “There’s dragons in the forest,” Evram said uncertainly. He’d rarely been under its boughs other than when cutting back the trunks for a new field, and he didn’t regret that fact.

  “And you know they’re there,” Shefal pointed out. “The dangerous ones won’t be this far south yet, but the old traveller’s trick is to sleep in a tree. Besides, you know the pedlars that come here every summer. One of them must have seen seventy winters! If he can survive the road from Darkspur, you assuredly can.”

  Evram snorted in momentary amusement. He did indeed know the man Shefal spoke of, and there was something to what the freeman said. He nodded again, and straightened.

  “Very well. S’man will do it.”

  PART TWO

  IT IS, IN truth, difficult to verify the authenticity of the works ascribed to Tolkar, popularly known among the lowborn as the Last Sorcerer. Some evidence suggests the originals of many of his writings were destroyed in the years after the death of the Divine Nari’s mortal form. This may have happened at the instruction of Gemar Far Garadh, the God-King’s greatest general, since surviving contemporary texts imply differences of opinion, rivalry, or even outright enmity between the two men. Perhaps this was restrained whilst Divine Nari still wore flesh, but broke out upon his departure.

  Of the writings believed to be penned by Tolkar, we mainly know only copies, or copies of copies, while General Garadh’s works on military organisation and the orderings of Naridan nobility (which he viewed as not dissimilar) survive to this day in their original (and largely legible) forms. Some of Tolkar’s alleged writings can be dismissed out of hand as later forgeries intended to further another’s agenda—such as the heretical “Torgallen Letters”, which dispute Nari’s divinity. Other texts are so mundane there appears little point in ascribing them to such a historical figure were it not the case—a selection of recipes being one of the stranger examples. It is notable that Tolkar never recounts how to perform the sorcery for which he was renowned, leading scholars to argue whether it was a capacity innate to him, or he simply feared to record his methods lest they fall into the wrong hands.