The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  Daimon wanted to reply that she’d already said she wasn’t a warrior. You can’t just say you’re something you’re not, he thought, even if that’s what you want be. That’s… wrong. Except, he had to remind himself, her mother went around calling herself “this man”, so perhaps she shouldn’t be expected to understand civilized language.

  “You want to learn the longblade?” he finally managed, his voice edged with disbelief.

  Zhanna spread her arms. “No hunt. No fish. No dig. No cook. What to do when dragon hungry not? Must hit tree.”

  Daimon sucked his teeth thoughtfully, stopped himself out of habit before his father slapped him for doing something so common, then reflected he could suck his teeth all he wanted at the moment. To teach the longblade to a Raider… Well, it was unheard of. And probably against the Code of Honour. But he’d broken the Code of Honour so many ways now that once more wasn’t going to make much difference.

  “If this lord were to teach you the longblade,” he said slowly, “he would need something from you in exchange.”

  Zhanna’s eyebrows raised. “‘Something’?”

  Daimon wasn’t completely sure what she’d thought he’d meant, but it was enough to send his emerging train of thought headfirst into a tree. He grappled for a moment with how to explain the complicated and very specific passages from the Code of Honour about the correct treatment of hostages to someone who not only had no concept of the Code but had only basic Naridan. Then he stumbled mentally over the fact that since he’d broken the Code so many times, even if she did know it she’d have no reason to believe he’d hold to that part of it anyway, and finally gave up.

  “This lord meant,” he said carefully after a couple of moments, “that if he teaches you the longblade, he wishes you to teach him your clan’s language.”

  “Hnh.” The grunt seemed to be a noise of consideration, as Zhanna followed it with a nod and another toothy grin. “Yes.”

  TILA

  “WE DON’T GET many Naridans like you here,” Kurumaya commented, swigging from a small leather skin. Tila detected the sharp scent of qang. The shorefront labourers in Idramar knew it as “island water”, because it was clear and came from the City of Islands, or “fool’s water”, because of how ill you got if you assumed that because it was clear, it wasn’t potent.

  “Women?” Tila asked. She used the Naridan word, since there was no Alaban equivalent: merely “person”, with the appropriate inflection for one of the two female genders, and she refused to define herself as such. Everyone could just address her formally.

  Kurumaya mouth-shrugged, the Alaban grimace that indicated indifference. “As you say. You wanted to speak to me, foreigner. What is your reason?”

  They’d stepped into one of the corners of the warehouse, where dusty canvases covered some of the few goods the building currently held. Barach was a discreet distance away, as were three large local toughs.

  Tila mustered her best Alaban. “I need someone to die.”

  She’d expected evasion or mockery, at least at first. Possibly to be interrogated about why she thought Kurumaya could assist her, or what she thought Kurumaya’s identity was; the standard power games of someone who wanted to emphasise their dominance. Instead, Kurumaya nodded as though this was a request they received regularly. Perhaps it was.

  “Who, and why?”

  “This family.” Tila produced a piece of parchment, which she unfolded to show a family crest in the Naridan style, a copy of the one Skhetul had sent her in his most recent letter. The crest was a very complicated affair, which, had it been genuine, would have showed how minor the family was. Tila had an extensive knowledge of Naridan crests, however, and was almost certain the entire thing was a fiction, camouflage from Alaban eyes that wouldn’t know what they were seeing. “I believe they live up the hill. Not high.” She tried not to show how frustrated she was by her limited Alaban.

  “The whole family?” Kurumaya asked, studying the parchment.

  “Yes.”

  “Servants and slaves as well?”

  “No need,” Tila shook her head. “Only blood.”

  Kurumaya nodded in apparent satisfaction. Slavery was not universally approved of in the City of Islands, Tila knew, but it was approved of by those in power: at least, by those in official seats of power. Kurumaya’s sympathies might lie elsewhere, and besides, Tila had no quarrel with slaves.

  “And the reason?” Kurumaya asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Since I am asking, you may assume it matters,” Kurumaya said, and bared their teeth in what may have politely been called a grin.

  Tila nodded in turn, as though there’d been no edge in the words. “A personal insult, from this family to mine.” It was true enough, yet vague enough, assuming Kurumaya didn’t demand specifics and proof.

  “An insult that requires children to die?” Kurumaya asked. “I assume there are children.”

  “I wish this to end it,” Tila said simply, watching Kurumaya’s face. Did the Alaban know who this family really were? Would they guess at the reason for Tila’s insistence that everyone who shared the same blood died?

  Kurumaya mouth-shrugged again. “I don’t recognise this design, so this family are not important to me. Let us discuss price.” They snapped their fingers, and a tough approached to hand Kurumaya a small leather pouch, which they in turn passed to Tila. It was empty.

  “Fill that with gold coin,” Kurumaya instructed casually. “Return when you’re ready.”

  Tila felt her eyebrows raise. She could get a man killed for a couple of silvers in Idramar. “Is life so expensive in Alaba?”

  “Life is cheap everywhere,” Kurumaya smiled. “You’re buying the consent of a Shark for knives to be bloodied on your behalf in their waters, and the certainty your money won’t be wasted.” Their eyes narrowed a little, and the smile sharpened slightly. “What streets do you walk, Naridan, that you speak so casually of death? Have you many such enemies? Or is this one just more personal than most?”

  “I will answer with gold,” Tila replied sweetly, which was an Alaban phrase for requesting someone else to mind their own business so long as you paid them. It occurred to her as she spoke that it was more commonly used towards an over-curious inferior, but Kurumaya’s snort of laughter suggested they’d been amused rather than offended by her use of an Alaban colloquialism. Nonetheless, she wasted no time in beckoning Barach to her and sorting through her winnings to fill the pouch appropriately.

  “You’ve had good fortune this evening?” Kurumaya asked from behind her.

  “Good judgement, also,” Tila replied. She passed the pouch back, now a lot heavier and clinking richly. Kurumaya weighed it in their hand, then smiled again.

  “Good judgement indeed.” Kurumaya passed pouch and parchment to the same tough, then flicked their fingers to shoo them away. They turned back to Tila, and made a passable bow. “Fare you well, Naridan.”

  “Fare you well,” Tila replied, with her own bow. That was it, then. She had to hope Kurumaya was all they claimed to be, and trustworthy to boot, but it seemed a fair wager. Tila had never called Kurumaya a Shark, yet that was how the Alaban had named themselves, and it was not a title to claim lightly. As for trustworthy, reputation would be as important here as it was in the backstreets and smoke parlours of Idramar. If you took money to end lives, but didn’t follow through, you quickly made enemies. What was more, those enemies would now assume you posed no threat to them.

  Nothing keeps a man genuine like the threat of death. Those were the words of Yakov, her predecessor, that he used to utter in a voice so dry it sounded like sticks crackling in a fire. He’d never smiled when he’d said it, because he hadn’t been joking. Tila didn’t know if Kurumaya considered themselves a man, even by Alaban standards, but the sentiment held true.

  She wasn’t sure why she’d thought of Yakov just then. Perhaps it was the sensation of once more stepping into the murky waters of an unfamiliar cr
iminal underworld. Looking back, she couldn’t quite believe she’d ever been reckless enough to do it in Idramar, let alone here.

  Still, she’d achieved what she’d come to do. Short of taking a knife to the Splinter King and his family herself—and she’d considered it, briefly—she’d was as sure as she could be that the imposters would die. Then, perhaps, she could turn her attention to Natan’s surprisingly sensible idea of adoption.

  “Time to go,” she told Barach, and turned towards the doors.

  “Wait,” he said, taking her shoulder.

  No one laid their hands on Princess Tila Narida without her express permission. No one did it more than once with Livnya the Knife. She froze, because Barach must have very, very good reason.

  “Listen,” the young man said. Tila could only hear the babble of chatter inside the warehouse. Then Barach’s advice became somewhat redundant, as the doors crashed inwards and the two guards stationed there scrambled inside, hotly pursued by a press of the East Harbour Watch.

  “Oh, Nari’s teeth!” Tila swore. “Run!”

  “To where?” Barach asked, as Tila hauled on his arm.

  “There!” she shouted, pointing at the retreating figure of Kurumaya and their thugs. “Follow them!” If anyone had a way out, surely it would be the person running the show? She lifted her dress and hurried after the Shark.

  Kurumaya did indeed have an escape route: a hatch set in the floor behind more bales of what were probably cloth. It was being pulled shut just as Tila came into view of it, and by the time she’d reached it and wrenched at the iron ring set into it someone had clearly shot a bolt on the other side, because it didn’t budge.

  “Let your man try,” Barach offered desperately, but even his substantially greater strength was no use, and he could only rattle it in frustration.

  “Kurumaya!” Tila shouted, stamping on the hatch. “Go eat your mother’s entrails, you fish-fucking snake! And you’d better kill that family!” she added, her stock of Alaban sailor’s insults briefly exhausted.

  “Oh, Tolkar’s arse!”

  This curse was in Naridan, and Tila spun around to find Marin of Idramar and his husband clattering to a halt behind her.

  “Kurumaya’s bolted it?” Marin asked in panic.

  “Yes!” Tila snapped, pushing past him to shoot a look at what was going on in the rest of the warehouse. It was a large building, and the Watch were struggling with punters and fighters unwilling to come quietly, but it wouldn’t be long before the four of them were spotted skulking in the shadows.

  “S’man doesn’t want to see the inside of an East Harbour cell again!” Marin whined, clutching at his husband’s arm.

  Again? It wasn’t the time to enquire how Marin had run afoul of the Watch before, so Tila held her tongue. “The other door?” she asked, knowing it must be a foolish question.

  “See for yourself,” Sar Blacksword said grimly as the labourer’s door in the far wall burst inwards to admit more torch-bearing Watch. The warehouse occupants who’d fled to it backed off in a panic, and for a moment, total confusion reigned.

  “Big man,” Sar Blacksword said, looking at Barach. “Can you use that cutter?”

  “Well enough,” Barach replied, laying a hand on his long-bladed knife.

  “The only way out is through,” Blacksword declared. He pointed to the gaping expanse of the warehouse’s main door. “There, now. Before they get control.”

  “You intend to kill the Watch to get away?” Tila demanded. He turned dark eyes on her, pits of deep shadow in the flickering light, and she felt a momentary rush of… recognition?

  “This man intends to get away,” Blacksword said simply. “If they die, they die.”

  “So long as we understand each other,” Tila said. She reached into her sleeves for the throwing knives in light leather braces strapped around her forearms, and pulled one out in each hand. “Lead on, Sar Blacksword.”

  Blacksword’s eyes widened in surprise, but only for a moment. He slapped Barach on the arm. “Don’t draw until the last moment.”

  Barach nodded, and they burst into a run. Marin was burbling a just-audible prayer to Nari as he scampered alongside Tila, and she tried to block it out. She always felt vaguely responsible when people started doing that.

  There were five Watch still in the doorway, making sure no one slipped out past their companions. They saw the Naridans bearing down on them at a dead run, and levelled spears, shouting demands to halt.

  It had been a while since Tila had needed to land a knife in someone’s neck while running, but she’d put enough practice in over the years to more or less perfect what had already been a naturally good eye. Running, jumping, turning, even hanging upside down…

  The first knife left her right hand and tumbled through the air to bury itself in the throat of the middle Watchperson, who staggered backwards. Their companions had just registered Tila was a threat when Sar Blacksword and Barach drew blades, and they were forced to hastily reorder their priorities.

  Sar Blacksword charged into the gap, ducked under a spear thrust, and lashed out with his longblade. It easily pierced the leather cuirass, opening its wearer up along their ribs. Tila put her second knife into the neck of a Watchperson about to stab Barach, and the suddenly unstable Alaban stumbled into the path of a companion’s spear thrust. Barach kicked out, driving them further onto the weapon and knocking both Watchpeople backwards, then reached around to bury his knife in the ribs of the rearmost. Tila slipped past him, heading for the open door.

  The first person she’d hit with a knife reached out to claw weakly at her knees. She shoved them away and wrenched her knife loose, turning the trickle of blood from their neck into a flood, then threw the blade at the last Watchperson. The blood made it slip in her hand and her target was struck in the cheek by the pommel rather than the blade, but it threw their balance off. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Blacksword to step in and drive the pommel of his longblade into their temple. They dropped, loose-limbed, and the four Naridans bolted out into the night.

  “This way!” Tila snapped, turning right, only to find another group of four Watch directly ahead of them down the wharf, watching the warehouse. Tila looked over her shoulder, but there was yet another, larger grouping at the far end.

  “Shit!” Blacksword spat.

  “Charge them,” Tila told her companions flatly, pulling two more knives clear of her wrist sheaths. The Watchpeople in front of them started forward with shouts, but she dropped one before they’d made two steps, and another before they’d managed two steps more.

  Barach and Blacksword broke into a run, silent and menacing.

  The remaining two Watchpeople, suddenly aware their fellows were no longer alongside them, took one look at the two big Naridans approaching at speed and decided discretion was the better part of valour. They fell over each other to jump into the channel, leaving the wharf clear except for the wounded. Tila drew one more knife and ran after Barach and Blacksword, with Marin tailing her.

  “How many knives do you have?” Blacksword asked shortly, as she drew alongside him.

  “Always one more,” Tila replied. She actually had six left, including the one in her hand, and the shouts behind her suggested it might not be enough: the other group of Watch were already in pursuit. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Running isn’t a plan?” Marin demanded. Running certainly seemed about all he was built for; he hadn’t even drawn a weapon yet.

  “We need somewhere to lay low!” Tila snapped. Was she the only one with any intelligence? She couldn’t outrun the East Harbour Watch for long, dressed as she was.

  “‘We’?” Blacksword snorted, hurdling a puddle. “We got each other out of there; now we part ways, unless you have a way off this island up your sleeve along with those knives!”

  “We have a ship!” Barach butted in, and Marin practically squeaked.

  “A ship! Laz, a ship!”

  “You seriously have a ship?”
Blacksword demanded, slowing his pace slightly. They were coming up on a bridge across a side channel, and Tila dearly wished to get over it as soon as possible. However, she also knew she couldn’t just run back to the Light of Fortune with the Watch in tow, even assuming she could stay ahead of them for that long.

  It was time to gamble.

  “Yes!” she told the disgraced sar. “Tied up in the Naridan Quarter! If we can get these dragon-shits off our backs long enough to get there, you can have passage!”

  “You’ve got a deal, knife-lady,” Blacksword replied, without hesitation. “This way!”

  He sheathed his longblade and cut right, down the narrow path running next to the side channel. Tila swore, but followed him.

  “This is taking us away from the docks!” she shouted at his back.

  “You let this sar worry about his side of the bargain!” Blacksword retorted, without turning. Tila tried to keep up with him, but the stone underfoot was slippery with moisture and slime, and with only the light of the two moons to guide her feet it was hard enough simply making sure she didn’t topple into the channel. Behind her, she heard both Marin and Barach slipping and swearing. And behind them…

  “They’re still coming!” Marin called anxiously.

  “Trust your husband, Mar!” Blacksword said from ahead. The channel they’d been following met another at an angle, forming a corner to the islet, on which the Alabans had built a narrow wharf. Blacksword slipped around the edge of the last building and disappeared. Tila clawed her way around it, then nearly ran into him.

  “What—?’

  “Into the water,” Blacksword said, pointing. A few yards beyond him, and out of sight until now, was yet another of the Narrows’ many bridges. This one was stone, wide enough for a wagon, and spanned the water to the next islet in two arches, with a central pillar sunk into the channel. On the far shore the street split into several different thoroughfares branching off at angles: an obvious place to lose pursuers.

  Tila grabbed him by the front of his tunic. “What in Nari’s name—”