by Mike Brooks
TILA
MARIN OF IDRAMAR was, it turned out, a petty thief, although he insisted he was in fact an exceptional one. Tila had her doubts, given his previous remark of having spent time inside East Harbour’s cells, since surely an exceptional thief wouldn’t have been caught. She never voiced them, however, because he not only managed to procure a rowboat by dint of quickly picking a crude lock on a boathouse, but also turned out to be a fair hand with oars. As a result, after quite a tense time hiding under a tarred canvas in the bow to avoid notice, Tila felt a stronger swell beneath the hull suggesting they’d reached the harbour itself. It was reassuring in one way, but alarming in another.
“Are you sure he knows what he’s doing?” she hissed at Blacksword. It was pitch dark beneath the canvas and she couldn’t see the disgraced sar, despite him being merely the width of Barach’s chest away.
“Marin can handle a boat, and knows what a three-masted Naridan merchantman looks like,” Blacksword said reassuringly. “He was born and raised around the Idramar docks. He’ll find your ship, have no worries.”
Tila had been told many times not to worry, usually by men, and it rarely achieved the desired effect. However, as they drifted through the noises of a harbour where activity never truly ceased, even at night, she heard Marin raise his thin voice in a hoarse hail.
“Ho, Light of Fortune!”
Tila winced, imagining heads turning along the wharf. What if the Watch was there even now, looking for Naridans? She just had to hope Marin was being cautious.
A voice called from above. “Who’re you?”
“S’man has a couple of your passengers,” Marin replied. “Would you care to drop a rope?”
“No, s’man bloody wouldn’t! Piss off!”
Tila sighed and fought her way out from under the canvas, then stood up cautiously. Marin had brought them up close astern of the Light of Fortune, and a sailor was leaning over the rail above with lantern held high. She blinked up into its light.
“Do you recognise this lady?”
“Lady Livnya,” the sailor said, his tone immediately more respectful. “Should s’man rouse others to set down the gangplank?”
“No need,” Tila told him. She didn’t want to set foot on the dock again, just in case the Watch were lurking. “Drop a rope. We will climb.”
“Aye, lady.” The sailor disappeared, along with his light.
“Did he call you Livnya?” Marin asked.
“Mar,” Blacksword said warningly, as he too pushed the canvas aside. “She said introductions could wait.”
“But s’man’s heard of a—”
“Mar!”
Tila grimaced. Of course an Idramese thief would have heard of Livnya the Knife. She simply hoped she hadn’t made an example of one of his friends or relatives at some point.
“Heads up, in the boat!”
A rope ladder unrolled from above, splashing into the waves. Livnya eased past Barach and Blacksword, and began to climb. Her dress was still wet, and fearsomely heavy, but she wasn’t willing to remain in the rowboat for a moment longer than she had to. At least the cloying warmth of Grand Mahewa meant her skin was merely clammy, instead of being chilled to the bone as would have happened if she’d taken the same soaking in Idramar.
“Lady,” the sailor said quietly, helping her over the ship’s rail. “The other two in the boat. Are you intending them to board?”
Tila hesitated. Barach was climbing next. It would be easy to prevent Marin and Blacksword from coming aboard, and thereby neatly end any form of association with them. She doubted Captain Kemanyel would be overly fond of two more landsmen aboard his ship, for all that he’d almost certainly do as she ordered.
On the other hand, it would have been much harder to evade the Watch without the pair’s help, unorthodox though that had been. Tila had also built Livnya’s reputation through rewarding loyalty and punishing treachery, so it went against the grain to break a deal.
Finally, and perhaps most compelling, Marin and Blacksword might subsequently get picked up by the Watch while the Light of Fortune was still in port. They’d almost certainly try to buy some clemency by offering her whereabouts, and would also have a strong suspicion as to her real identity… or one of them, at least.
“Yes,” she replied to the sailor, as Barach began to climb. “This lady will speak to the captain.”
Captain Kemanyel was out of his bunk not long after, and scowled at the two newcomers with all the menace of a southern gale as he regarded them by lantern light in the ship’s mess.
“You caused trouble with the Watch?” he growled.
“The Watch caused the trouble,” Tila told him. “These two helped us get away.”
Kemanyel looked at her. “Was there fighting involved?”
“If you could call it that,” Blacksword sniffed.
The captain rounded on him with a snarl. “Tits of the Sea Dragon, boy! The Watch don’t take kindly to anyone drawing blades on them, let alone foreigners!”
“Which is why we’re all below decks, so we aren’t seen,” Tila cut in, before Blacksword could object too strenuously to being called “boy” by a man only a few years his senior. A captain was the lord of his own ship, but a sar, even a disgraced sar, tended to have a low tolerance for being spoken down to by anyone save the nobility.
Kemanyel glowered at her in turn. “Lady, this captain does you every honour, but you may’ve brought great trouble down on all our heads. This captain has yet to take on a cargo, for he didn’t know when he’d be sailing, yet now every moment we stay tied up risks the Watch deciding to search ships!”
“Put to sea as soon as you can,” Tila told him. “Take a cargo at the next port, or the one after. This lady will see you fairly compensated for any loss.”
Kemanyel scratched at his cheek. “See, that’s the thing, lady. It wasn’t a good cargo we brought here, merely the best we could find at short notice when you said you needed to travel to East Harbour. This captain’s already down on money. And he honours and respects you,” he added, with a glance at Barach, “but that only goes so far. To put to sea now, with no cargo… the crew won’t like it. A captain only has the respect of his crew so long as they can see a benefit in what he’s doing.”
“You’re saying they’ll mutiny?” Tila asked, alarmed.
“Unlikely,” Kemanyel said, matter-of-factly. “More likely they’d just leave, to a ship that offered better prospects. Then we’d have no crew, and my Light of Fortune would be of no use to you.”
Tila recognised a negotiation when she heard one, and was in no mood for it. She wanted to get back to her cabin—technically the captain’s cabin, but she’d piss on her ancestors before she gave it up—get dry, and get changed.
“A bonus, then,” she said. “Two silvers for every crew member and a gold piece for the captain, bosun and first mate, when we reach the next port. From this lady’s pocket.”
Kemanyel raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Aye, that’d do it. Little wins a sailor’s respect like coin in their hand.”
“Then we’re done here,” Tila said with finality. By the spirits, but she was tired! “Put to sea when the tide allows.”
“One thing more, lady,” Kemanyel said. “These two men, who tangle with the East Harbour Watch: who are they? It’s a foolish captain who takes on passengers without knowing their names.”
Tila folded her arms and looked around. “Well?”
“S’man is Marin of Idramar,” Marin said, bowing to Kemanyel. “Perhaps you know his arse of a cousin, Sarvon, who works on the Idramar docks?”
“The Wine-Nose?” Kemanyel snorted. “Aye, this captain knows him, more’s the pity.”
“Which is why s’man always states his opinion of his cousin before naming him, especially to sailors,” Marin replied with a smile. “He takes no pleasure in sharing blood with Sarvon, but that’s who he is.”
Kemanyel grunted, and turned his attention to Blacksword. “And you?”
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“This sar is Marin’s husband, and a member of the Brotherhood,” Blacksword said, holding up his right hand so the mercenary tattoo on the back was clearly visible. “He was Alazar of White Hill, but these days goes by Alazar Blade, or Alazar Blacksword.”
Tila’s mouth went dry. “This lady will leave you to your discussions,” she said, leaving the mess for her cabin. Once inside she shut the door and sat on the bunk in the dark, heedless for the moment of the wet clothes still sticking to her skin.
Alazar of White Hill. She’d thought “Sar Blacksword” had looked vaguely familiar, but she’d no idea he was still alive. Most of twenty years and an obscuring beard had combined to throw her recollection, and they’d never been close friends. Besides, there were plenty of disgraced sars around, making a living as best they could.
Alazar of White Hill. Her brother’s first, and perhaps last, proper love.
The man whose cowardice had been responsible for her father’s death.
SAANA
TEVYEL HAD BEEN as pompous and rude as Saana had feared, and she’d been able to tell that only his thane’s orders and her own presence—which he clearly found quite intimidating—had kept him from turning Chara out of his house. This had worsened when Kerrti arrived, obviously Tjakorshi and obviously female. Had it not been for Henya, the whole thing might have gone to the depths. As it was, the girl had asked her father’s permission to set Chara’s leg. That allowed Tevyel to feel important by giving her instructions without actually lowering himself, as he saw it, to touching Chara.
Thankfully Henya seemed knowledgeable, and her discussions with Kerrti, through Saana, had shown similar understandings of how best to set broken bones. It hadn’t been comfortable for Chara—by the Dark Father, that woman could scream—but Saana was confident her corpse-painter would be able to use her leg again in time.
As it turned out, bone-setting wasn’t the only thing Naridans did well.
“Metal tools!” Ekham the shipwright said, with the air of a man who’d just found a new god. “Metal tools, Saana! They may not be as sharp as blackstone, but by Father Krayk, they’re durable. And the things the Flatlanders can do with them!”
He and Otzudh were working on the first fishing tsek of the new land. The old boats hadn’t been big enough to make the ocean crossing and so had been left behind, to the distress of their owners. At the moment the clan fished from taughs and yolgus, which caused its own problems, since often two or more old fishing crews were forced to sail together, and didn’t always see eye-to-eye.
“You’ve done fast work,” Saana commented, looking at the wooden bones of the craft on the riverbank. “Clean lines, too.”
“Metal tools,” Ekham repeated. “We felled and split the wood in half the time. No stopping to change axes, no splintered blades.” He gestured to the Naridan working alongside Otzudh. “Samul knows what he’s about, no question. If I hadn’t seen him work the wood myself, I wouldn’t have believed one man could do it so fast.”
Saana nodded. She’d seen the Naridan in the town, but hadn’t yet spoken to him. He was currently chiselling the end of a length of wood into a rounded shape.
“Thank you for working with them,” she said in his language. “Our ships mean a lot to us.”
“S’man likes a new challenge,” Samul replied, looking up with a smile. “And he likes the look of what they offered for his work.” He reached into the pouch on his belt and pulled out a couple of small, red-orange stones that almost seemed to glow.
“Fire gems,” Saana said, nodding. They were beautiful, rare on Tjakorsha and, so far as the traders could tell, not found anywhere else at all. Some places viewed them merely as pretty curios, while in other lands they were highly prized. Naridans seemed to haul closer to the latter, judging by her clan’s bartering so far.
“A question,” Samul said, as he cut away more wood. “With gems like this, you could trade well. Why come and take what we had by force?”
There was a sour taste in Saana’s mouth. Samul made the final strike with his hammer and the segment of wood dropped away. He looked up at her.
She sighed, and squatted down to bring her eyes onto a level with his.
“This man does not know,” she said honestly, and saw the flicker of surprise in his expression. “When this man’s father’s father’s father came here, they did not trade. They attacked. After they did that, why would you trade with them? But why did they attack the first time? This man does not know. And so we have done since, because it is what we have always done.” She reached up and touched the dark line on her forehead. “This man came here when she was a child. She fought, and so she was a child no more. But why fight here? Because that is what the chief said.”
“And now… you are chief?” Samul asked. He was holding his chisel ready, but did not strike it.
“Yes,” Saana agreed. “And now the chief says different.”
Samul held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. “S’man is glad.”
He turned his attention back to the wood, and the tension in Saana’s chest eased a little. Black Kal had been a strong chief, but violent. His hair had been darker than Father Krayk’s own storm clouds, and he’d taken such pleasure in destruction that he’d seemed kin to them. The clan had mourned his passing, a hero’s death in battle against the Quiet Shore, but most had mourned the loss of his reputation, and the fear his name had struck in others’ hearts, rather than the man himself. The time had seemed ripe for a change of tack, although many had been astonished when the witches named Saana Sattistutar as the next chief.
It was still hard to believe her clan had agreed to uproot themselves at her command and come over the sea, but the threat of The Golden had been enough to convince most that she had the right of it. Saana might have got a warmer welcome for her people in a different land, but her clan didn’t know those routes so well. Most importantly, the eastern clans The Golden had conquered first didn’t know about Narida.
Besides, sailing anywhere other than west would have meant taking her entire clan into seas now controlled by the draug and its vassals, just after Long Night when the Tjakorshi were starting to put to sea again. The thought of The Golden’s war fleet hunting them down sent shivers right through her, even now.
“Chief?”
Ekham caught at her sleeve, and she turned and saw a squabble at the town wall, where the largest gap was. Naridan and Tjakorshi voices shouted angrily, and Saana cursed under her breath.
“My daughter’s locked up in someone else’s house, and still I have to look after children,” she growled. She set off through the knee-high tussock grass as fast as she could, with both shipwrights and Samul behind her.
As fast as she could wasn’t fast enough: she was still twenty ells away when the first punch was thrown. It was Nasjuk Jelemaszhin, one of the Hornsounder’s grandsons, and his blow sent the Naridan facing him sprawling into the grass and mud.
The small knot of Naridans and Tjakorshi who’d been working to repair the town wall exploded into action as soon as Nasjuk’s punch landed. Some Naridans grabbed their tools as weapons, others attempted to restrain them. Some Tjakorshi moved up alongside Nasjuk, one or two tried to hold the others back.
Saana arrived full pelt into the middle, just as the man Nasjuk had struck was scrambling back to his feet.
“What in the name of the Dark Father are you doing?!” she bellowed at Nasjuk. He was big, near as big as Tsennan Longjaw, and a few years older. Behind him as always lurked Andal the Clubfoot, nicknamed “Nasjuk’s Shadow” for how close he always stuck to his older brother.
“These storm-cursed Flatlanders think they can talk down to us!” Nasjuk spat, pointing over her shoulder at the Naridans. “They need to be reminded who we are!”
“Talk down to you?” Saana laughed in his face. “You can’t even speak their tongue, and they can’t speak ours!”
“I don’t need to understand a man’s words to hear his voice and see his eyes!” Nasjuk r
etorted. “We never should have stowed our axes!”
There was a rumble of agreement, and Saana’s gut tightened. “Are you so eager to die?” she demanded scornfully. “You could have stayed in Koszal to welcome The Golden, if that was your wish.”
A flicker of fear passed over Nasjuk’s face, but it smoothed out within a moment. “The Flatlanders aren’t draugs,” he said. “We’re here, why shouldn’t we live like Father Krayk’s chosen, instead of licking the feet of these arrogant little shits?”
Father Krayk’s chosen. Those were Black Kal’s words. Which wasn’t surprising, given Black Kal had been Nasjuk’s uncle, having married Khanda, another of Tsolga Hornsounder’s daughters.
“Your uncle got a lot of good people killed trying to prove we were Father Krayk’s chosen,” Saana said warningly. She spread her arms, encompassing them all. “The Dark Father doesn’t protect anyone, Nasjuk.”
“My uncle was a better chief than you’ll ever be,” Nasjuk sneered. “And what are you going to do about that, now Ristjaan’s not here to back you up?”
Fire flashed up in Saana’s chest, hot and quick, but Nasjuk seemed to either not notice or not care how her face had shifted, or that his fellows on either side had pulled back half a step at his words. Instead, he stepped forward and shoved her hard in the chest.
Under normal circumstances, Saana would have stood back and let others deal with him, but these weren’t normal circumstances. She was angry, she was frustrated, Nasjuk’s callous words had relit the fire of her grief over Ristjaan, and right at that moment she wasn’t totally sure anyone else would deal with him. She snarled and shoved him back, nearly sending him into his brother.
Nasjuk swung a punch at her head.
Saana had only ever gone raiding once, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know how to fight. Uzhan had never taught her much about using his sword, but he’d done well at the Clanmoot wrestling for a couple of years. Saana blocked Nasjuk’s punch with her left arm, then held onto him, stepped into him and shifted her hips to dump him over her shoulder and onto his back. He landed hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs, and Saana put one boot on his throat, none too lightly. He grabbed at her foot with his left hand, but she was holding onto his other arm with both hands, and he couldn’t shift her off him.
