The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  “Chief!” Inkeru had risen from her seat and seen Saana. “The Flatlander is as strong as he is handsome! Do you want to show him what the Brown Eagle clan are made of?”

  Saana snorted. Inkeru was a salt-hardened raider on whom you could blunt an axe, as the old saying went. If she couldn’t beat Menaken then Saana didn’t fancy her chances, but she shrugged and took the other woman’s place. Menaken smiled and reached his hand out, and Saana clasped it as the people surrounding them cheered again and, it sounded like, made quick bets amongst themselves.

  Yaro the fisher had taken on the responsibility of starting the contests. He took their joined hands in his own, squeezed three times, and released them.

  Saana threw everything she had into it immediately. Menaken resisted, but not quite quickly enough, and had just enough time to look surprised before his knuckles grazed the table’s surface: only for a moment before he started to fight back up, but it had been witnessed by the crowd.

  “Winner!” Yaro shouted, pointing at Saana. It took her a moment to realise he’d used the Tjakorshi word, and she stared at him in surprise while the crowd around them alternately celebrated, or lambasted Menaken for his poor performance. Yaro’s expression turned to one of worry.

  “Is that wrong?” he asked nervously in his own tongue.

  “No,” Saana replied, thinking doubly hard to make sure she spoke the correct language back, “that was right. How did you know the word?”

  “S’man heard people shouting it when someone won,” Yaro told her. “He thought it was what you did.”

  “It is,” Saana reassured him, and he smiled.

  “S’man wasn’t ready!” Menaken was protesting.

  “That’s your fault!” Yaro said, rounding on him. “S’man gave you the signal, Menaken! Give up your seat!”

  Menaken shook his head, but got up. A tumbler of shorat appeared in front of Saana and she threw it down, since it was there.

  When she righted her head again, Tavi the stablemaster was lowering himself into place opposite her.

  Saana couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “Did this man not leave you in the mud today? You wish to lose again?”

  The corner of Tavi’s mouth quirked in reply, but he simply reached out his hand and said nothing. Saana gripped it and felt the calluses on his palm and fingers where they rubbed against hers. Yaro took their hands in his, squeezed three times, and released.

  Tavi wasn’t slow to react. Their hands quivered as they both strained, unable to move the other. Tavi’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and Saana grinned at him.

  “You’re strong for a woman,” Tavi said, his voice tight with effort.

  “You’re strong for your size,” Saana replied, and snorted a laugh at his resulting expression of outrage. Unfortunately the laugh weakened her and her hand slipped slightly, and Tavi pounced on the opportunity. Saana groaned and grimaced as her knuckles began to creep towards the wood of the tabletop, while the spectators shouted indiscriminate encouragement in two different languages. Some people began to pound on the table itself, which jarred Saana’s elbow. She managed to halt Tavi’s downward pressure with a furious effort, to a hiss of frustration from her opponent, and looked around quickly to see who was banging, to shout at them to stop.

  What caught her eye instead was two faces next to each other: Kerrti and the Naridan girl Henya, the healer’s daughter, who’d worked together to splint and set Chara’s leg. They were pressed up close beside each other, as was everyone around the table.

  They were holding hands.

  Saana’s eyes met Kerrti’s and, Dark Father help her, the witch paled and froze. She couldn’t have looked guiltier if she’d tried.

  Saana barely noticed her knuckles hitting the wood as Tavi seized on her moment of inattention, barely registered the shouts of the crowd. She snatched her hand out of Tavi’s and stood up so quickly and clumsily she spilled the remnants of a tankard across the boards, then pushed her way out of the immediate circle of townsfolk behind her and stormed around the table to the other side.

  Kerrti and Henya were still there, although they were now facing each other, and weren’t holding hands any longer. The Naridan girl looked confused and hurt, while Kerrti was talking urgently to her, but not making any headway against the language barrier. The witch looked around and saw Saana bearing down on them. For a moment it looked like she might flee, but instead she took a deep breath and turned to face her.

  “What in the deeps are you doing?” Saana shouted, louder than she’d intended. She’d translated between them when they’d been helping Chara! They’d seemed to get along instantly, which Saana had put down to a shared interest in healing. She’d actually been hopeful, and had thought perhaps if more of their two peoples could be like Henya and Kerrti then they might be able to integrate after all. Now it seemed there’d been darker forces at work.

  “I wasn’t doing any—”

  “You were holding her hand!” Saana raged.

  “I didn’t—”

  “I saw you!” Her shouts were attracting attention, but she didn’t care.

  “You were holding his hand!” Kerrti shouted back, pointing at where Saana had been sitting.

  “I was wrist-wrestling!” Saana spat. “You were holding hands as you would with a lover! Was Tsolga right about you? Has this land turned your head?”

  “This land,” Kerrti bit out, blinking furiously, “has done nothing to me!”

  The unspoken assertion was there for all to hear. A coldness swelled in Saana’s chest to match the chill nipping at her hands and face. She drew in breath to denounce Kerrti as an abomination, perversely grateful that she’d found an outlet for the dark mood plaguing her since she’d narrowly avoided taking a dagger between the shoulders.

  “What is the meaning of this?!”

  Daimon Blackcreek arrived, robes flapping, with several of his fellow dancers in tow. In fact, the thane’s sudden movement seemed to have focused most people’s attention. Saana rounded on him.

  “This is none of your concern, Daimon of Blackcreek!”

  “You are in this lord’s castle and disrupting his people’s festival,” Blackcreek said sternly, glowering from beneath his reddish brows. “That makes it his concern, Chief Sattistutar.”

  “Then tell your healer’s daughter to keep her hands off our witch!” Saana demanded angrily.

  Blackcreek’s face returned to the neutral, unreadable expression that the Naridans did so well. “So she is a witch.”

  Saana cursed herself.

  Blackcreek turned to Henya. “Well?”

  “Lord, this servant swears by Nari and all her ancestors, Kerrti came to her,” the girl said miserably, her eyes brimming with tears. Even through her rage, Saana felt a sudden stab of pity for her, interrogated by her ruler in front of everyone. “She doesn’t speak but a couple of our words, nor does your servant speak hers, but she was eager enough to hold this servant’s hand and your servant swears to you, Lord, that’s all we did! And if she’s a witch, she showed naught of it when we set that woman’s leg.”

  Daimon nodded, and stepped in close to Saana. She thrust out her jaw pugnaciously.

  “Yesterday, and this morning,” Blackcreek said in a low voice, so quietly she could barely hear him, “we spoke of trying to bring our peoples together.” His jaw worked for a moment before he continued, as though chewing over his words. “This lord confesses this was not what he had envisaged, but perhaps it is none the worse for that. Would you so quickly cast this idea aside?”

  “These things are not done in Tjakorsha,” Saana told him through gritted teeth.

  “You are no longer in Tjakorsha.”

  With tremendous effort of will, Saana prevented herself from punching him. It wouldn’t be so bad if the man’s face actually showed some expression! “It is against the will of Father Krayk!”

  “Let him worry about it, then!” Blackcreek snapped. “Your people wish to live here? You wish to be protected
by our law, so this lord must take the hand of his own man when that man raises his hand to you? Then this lord will also protect your people from you, for we have no law prohibiting two men or two women from courting!” He turned away from her, but Saana grabbed his arm.

  “And what of those who not wish for this?” she demanded.

  “Then do not do it!” Daimon exclaimed in frustration, tugging his arm free of her grasp. “This lord cares not who does or does not court who, so long as both are willing!” He raised his voice. “People of Black Keep! Bring fire! It is time for the burning!”

  A cheer went up, and for a moment Saana thought he’d honestly called for her to be burned, but as he strode off her eye was caught by the giant effigy of the Wooden Man, and she remembered what Daimon had told her earlier. It seemed mightily convenient that it was time to set it alight just as they’d argued, but a crowd was flooding towards the square and Blackcreek was already lost in their midst. Angry though she was, Saana wasn’t going to chase after him now.

  She looked about her. Kerrti and Henya had disappeared. Most of her people were following the Naridans, probably on the basis that even if they hadn’t understood what Blackcreek had shouted, it certainly seemed something important was about to happen. Tavi, however, was finishing some ale and appeared in no hurry to go anywhere.

  “You are not watching the burning?” Saana asked, sitting down next to him.

  “No,” he replied, and grimaced. “S’man is… He doesn’t like fire.”

  Saana laughed. “You don’t like fire?” Tavi’s face became even less expressive than was the Naridan norm, and she raised her hands in apology. “But you work with dragons!’

  “Dragons don’t like fire either,” Tavi said, his brow creasing. “At least, ours don’t. The big thundertooths are a different matter, but—”

  “This man means she finds dragons far scarier than fire,” Saana explained.

  “All dragons?” Tavi asked. He turned to face her, swinging his left leg over the bench so he was straddling it. “Even the small ones?”

  Saana shook her head. “Well, no. The small ones are strange, but they don’t scare this man.”

  “Just like this man and fire, then,” Tavi said with a grin. “He can cook food and warm himself without too much worry, but that…” He pointed out beyond the castle’s gate, and shuddered. “Dragons can be understood; can be taught to an extent, as s’man and your daughter are learning. No man alive can teach fire.”

  Saana laughed. “True.” She looked around for something to drink, but unless she wanted someone else’s dregs, everything had been taken out to the main square. Tavi must have guessed her intentions, since he gestured towards the gate with a rueful smile.

  “This man understands.”

  “No.” Saana shook her head firmly. “You saved this man from being stabbed; she should not leave you on your own just so she can find a drink. Besides,” she added, “this man does not ale like.”

  Tavi scratched his chin. “Then perhaps s’man can offer an alternative. But he keeps it in the stables, and there’s dragons there.”

  “This man would be with Tavi, Master of Dragons,” Saana declared expansively, getting to her feet. “What would she have to fear?”

  “That’s the spirit,” Tavi laughed. He swung his other leg over the bench and got up. Behind them, a crackling noise and a cheer from many throats suggested the Wooden Man had been set ablaze. “Let’s go.”

  Saana took one of the reed torches down from a sconce on the courtyard wall. By its flickering light they passed through the open gate into the second yard, then over to the squat shape of the stables. Tavi heaved the small door open and ducked inside, and Saana followed.

  The stable didn’t stink quite so badly this time, perhaps because she was expecting it. It was also slightly warmer than outside, since the bite of the night air hadn’t infiltrated past the door and shutters. Saana held her breath as a huge shadow moved in the gloom, but Bastion had simply noticed their appearance and got up in his stall to see what was going on.

  “Easy there, boy,” Tavi murmured. “It’s just your servant and his friend.”

  Bastion exhaled a monstrous, sour gust of air, and slumped back down again into his straw. Saana couldn’t help but smile. “His servant?”

  “S’man feeds them, houses them, cleans them, attends to their needs,” Tavi replied, taking the torch from her and using it to light another. “Not so different to what we do for the thanes, really.”

  Saana laughed out loud at that. “And have you said such thoughts to your thane?”

  “Hah! S’man prefers his head on his shoulders,” Tavi informed her. “He speaks his thoughts to his dragons, who’d never betray him.”

  “This man is no dragon,” Saana pointed out, following him past the stall doors.

  “True,” Tavi conceded. “S’man will just have to hope you won’t betray him either.” He knocked one side of what turned out to be a loose wooden panel in the wall at the end of the stable, and withdrew a small brown ceramic bottle, which he unstoppered. “Perhaps this will help.”

  Saana sniffed the neck and coughed in surprise at the tart smell that assailed her nose. “That is certainly not ale!”

  “Applejack,” Tavi replied, and took a small swig. He offered it to her. “Careful now. Too much will send you to sleep.”

  Saana raised her eyebrows, but sipped carefully. There was a moment of intense sweetness as the liquid hit her tongue, before it tried to shrivel her mouth up. It burned on the way down, too: she wasn’t sure it was as strong as shorat, but the flavour was richer, if anything.

  “This man thought your people could not make a decent drink,” she said, wiping her mouth and handing the bottle back. “She was wrong.”

  Tavi laughed. “We’re full of surprises.” He pushed open the door of the empty stall door next to them and wandered over to the heap of straw against the far wall. He sat down, then looked at her doubtful expression. “It’s clean.”

  “Very well.” Saana scuffed her way across the floor and threw herself down next to him. Her head was pleasantly fuzzy, and her dark mood from earlier had abated somewhat. It was good to not be chief of anything for a short while.

  “So how do you become chief of a clan?” Tavi asked, and Saana groaned inwardly.

  “In our clan? The old chief dies and the elders pick a new one,” she told him.

  Tavi took another swig from the bottle. “Only in your clan?”

  “In some clans a chief can be challenged to a fight,” she said. “Some clans do it like we do. Some clans, this man does not know.” She took the bottle from him and sipped at the applejack again, savouring the flavour of it. “You never have female thanes?”

  Tavi snorted a laugh. “No. A pity. Lady Delil, Lord Asrel’s wife, was sharp as a knife, but kind too. Always had time for us, though s’man was only a stable boy when the sickness took her. S’man thinks he’d have preferred her rule to Lord Asrel’s, but that would never happen. Still, she might’ve softened him somewhat.” He took the bottle back. “As it is, Lord Asrel loved her too much to ever remarry, so the boys grew up without a mother. With their father the way he is, it’s amazing Lord Daimon blackened his scabbard to save us.”

  “He what?” Saana frowned at him, unsure if he was being coarse.

  “Hmm? Oh, it’s… Well, he hasn’t actually done it yet. See, a sar’s longblade scabbard shows their great deeds,” Tavi explained. “Painted onto the white wood. If they dishonour themselves, part of it gets stained over, to show that. If they commit a great enough crime or failing, the entire scabbard is turned black and they’re a blacksword, because no matter what they do, nothing will erase the shame of their past save their own death.” He took another swig. “Lord Daimon hasn’t actually stained his scabbard yet, but he’ll be a blacksword once the Southern Marshal hears about this, would be this man’s guess.”

  Saana frowned. “But he is so young! He could yet do many great deeds!”


  Tavi shrugged. “Sars, thanes, and lords don’t forgive easy. It’s simpler for us lowborn. We just get whipped or lose a hand, and there’s an end to it.”

  Saana eyed him, as he stared straight ahead at the stall door. “That does not sound simple to this man.”

  “S’man is drunk,” Tavi said, looking at her. His speech was a little loose, but his eyes were clear and focused as they met hers. “He’s probably saying things he shouldn’t.”

  Saana shifted uncomfortably. “This man did not ask Daimon to take Ganalel’s hand—”

  “Pffft.” Tavi waved his own hand dismissively. “Ganalel was a fool and a coward. But sometimes…”

  “Sometimes?” Saana prompted him when he didn’t speak further. Tavi sighed, and looked past her shoulder as though checking no one had followed them into the stable.

  “Sometimes s’man thinks that if the God-King truly meant for us to be ruled like this… well, perhaps he was wrong.” Tavi took another swig of applejack. “There. S’man said it. His head’s forfeit now.”

  “Daimon would take your head for saying that?” Saana asked, shocked.

  “Why not?” Tavi replied. “He threw over enough tradition by imprisoning Lord Asrel. If he lets much more slide, who’s to say people won’t start thinking the same as s’man does?” He laughed, but there was little humour to it. “You’re a threat to him too, you Raiders and your women who do everything a man does. They don’t like that here.”

  “But you do?”

  “Faaz and Abbatane help in the stable,” Tavi said simply. “Faaz is a good lad, he does what s’man tells him to. Abbatane knows what to do without being told. She understands the dragons, in a way Faaz doesn’t. If she’s still here when s’man gets too old to be stablemaster, she’ll be the best choice to take his place, but Faaz’ll be put in charge, because he’ll be a man. Same goes for the apothecary. Tevyel’s good enough, but he just knows what his teacher taught him, and he thinks that’s all there is to know. Henya, she knows all he knows, but she wants to learn more. S’man’s heard her talking about it. But Tevyel’s the apothecary, and if he looks to train a successor he’ll probably pick a lad.” Tavi shrugged. “What’s true for stables and apothecaries is probably true for castles and countries. Or so it seems to s’man.”