The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

Nabanda ran forwards, hurling hîs knife. Hê was no expert with thrown weapons and it wasn’t balanced for it in any case, but the guard flinched involuntarily as the improvised projectile glanced hilt-first off their shoulder. Badir swung again, seeking to take advantage of the opening as hè advanced up the stairs, but the hookbill’s haft knocked both hìs axes aside.

  However, Tungkung, leaning low and stabbing, thrust thëir blade into the guard’s groin.

  The guard staggered and lashed out with the butt of their axe, catching Tungkung in thëir wounded arm and knocking thëm back down the stairs with a curse on thëir lips, but this time Badir’s left-hand axe met no resistance as it bit into the side of the guard’s neck. The guard pitched forwards, falling on their face down the stairs, and Kedenta jumped in to plunge one of hìs dragon claws into the back of their neck.

  “They were dead already,” Badir snapped, from a couple of stairs higher.

  “Never assume they’re dead until they stop moving,” Kedenta replied. Hè turned to look at Nabanda. “Should we be expecting more?”

  “Do Î look like a seer to yòu?” Nabanda snapped, retrieving hîs knife from where it had landed. “Î doubt it, but go carefully.”

  “What of Guelan?” Badir asked, looking over at where hê lay whimpering on the floor.

  “If it looks like we can help hîm when we’re done, we’ll take hîm,” Nabanda said. “If not, it’s a larger share for the rest of us.” Hê led the way up the stairs, with Badir at hîs left shoulder and Kedenta at hîs right, the injured Tungkung bringing up the rear.

  The next floor up was quiet, but the quiet of people holding their breath. Nabanda cautiously pulled open the slatted doors directly facing the stairs to reveal linen closets of neatly folded fabric. No one lurked inside.

  There were three other doors to what would almost certainly be bedrooms. One was to their immediate right, past the linen cupboards, opening into the same wall. There were no other doors there, suggesting the room beyond was the same size as the living room below. A master bedroom, for the family’s adults? Then on either side of the stairwell, towards the front of the building, two more: rooms for children? The servants might not live here, would certainly not live on the same floor as the family. Perhaps there were small chambers in the carriage house? If so, hê could trust that Badir would have killed them on hìs way past.

  Two of the doors, including the master bedroom, were open. Nabanda cast hîs gaze from one to another, thinking. They’d heard the scream, heard the guard’s shouted warning of an intruder. Perhaps heard the guard die. The adults ran from their bedroom; the feet hê’d heard overhead. A child had come out of their room, or had been fetched, warned not to make a noise. Then… what? The other child hadn’t woken? The family had gone in to find them, trusting their guards would deal with the threat?

  You would always close the door behind you if you thought a threat was in your house. Even if it would do nothing, you’d close the door behind you.

  “Watch the stairs,” hê muttered to Tungkung, then raised hîs sickle to point at the closed bedroom door. “That one.”

  Hê went first, circling the stairwell and watching the door carefully, but no new threat boiled out of it. Hê stopped in front of it, paused, listened.

  Silence.

  No, not quite. A faint snuffling breath, cut off almost immediately. A frightened child’s whimper, stifled by an adult’s hand.

  Nabanda didn’t enjoy killing children, but it paid well. Hê stepped back until the rails of the stairwell were against hîs back, checked that Badir and Kedenta were ready, then launched hîmself shoulder-first at the door.

  It wasn’t the thickest, but it was made of decent wood, hard and heavy. The latch, on the other hand, wasn’t up to the task of stopping someone of Nabanda’s bulk. It gave way with a splintering sound, spilling hîm into the room.

  Someone screamed. There was a flash of motion, white in moonlight, as the shutters were pulled aside and someone scrambled for the window, but Nabanda couldn’t concentrate on that because a blade was coming for hîm.

  It was an aggressive, downwards blow; Nabanda side-stepped the strike’s arc, hooked hîs sickle around his attacker’s wrist and twisted, forcing their arm down and twisting the blade uselessly towards the floor. In the same motion hê struck the flat of the blade with the knuckles of hîs knife hand, sending it spinning away across the room, then stepped behind hîs opponent and drove hîs knife between their shoulder blades.

  Badir hadn’t even made it through the door by the time Nabanda’s attacker—the fàther, by hîs guess—was pitching forwards. Nabanda whirled around as the other adult screamed again and threw themselves at hîm. This time Badir got there first, hìs axe taking them in the chest and spraying blood into Nabanda’s eyes.

  “The window!” hê spat at Kedenta. “Î think one went out the window!” Badir made sure of hìs kill with hìs other axe and Kedenta rushed past them both to the window. Nabanda followed hìm, wiping hîs face.

  “Godshit!” Kedenta hissed. Nabanda came alongside hìm and looked out. Below them, climbing down a robust-looking plant clinging to the house’s outer wall, was a child in a white nightshift. They looked up, eyes wide with fear, dropped the last couple of paces to the balcony below, then sprinted away.

  “Move!” Nabanda snapped, shoving Kedenta aside to give hîmself more room. Hê swung hîs legs over the window’s edge, judged the distance for a moment, then dropped.

  Hê hit the balcony hard, and a sharp spike of pain in hîs left ankle caused hîm to curse, but hê forced hîmself after hîs fleeing victim. The child was no babe, but not yet an adult either; they might be swift, but they were barefoot, scared, and had nowhere to run except all the way around the house to the other stairs, where Perlishu would be waiting.

  Or, hê realised as the child jumped over the body of the guard Guelan had stabbed in the back, they could use the grapnel hê’d left on the rear railing, that trailed a rope down to the ground below.

  Nabanda spat another curse and forced hîmself to move faster, but by the time hê’d reached the corner of the house the child was already swinging themselves over the rail, grabbing at the grapnel rope as they went. There was a scream and a thud as they fell, their arms clearly unable to properly support their weight, and Nabanda had a flash of dark hope they might have broken their leg or something equally fortuitous. Then hê saw the shimmer of white moving again, heading away from the dead guards on the ground and over the clear area of grass at the rear, towards the trees and bushes that had given Nabanda and hîs crew cover on their way in.

  Nabanda sheathed his sickle and threw one leg over the railing, cursing hîs luck. Hê couldn’t afford another drop from this height, with hîs ankle already bad. Hê’d have to hope the child stepped on a thorn, or couldn’t get over the far wall, although hê didn’t relish the thought of trying to get to grips with them in the garden…

  Something glittered in the moonlight, like a shooting star falling to earth, and the child’s left leg was no longer attached at the knee. They fell, screaming at the top of their lungs, until Perlishu jogged across the grass and sliced another of hēr wind rings across their throat.

  “Yōu got them?” Badir called. Nabanda looked up to see hìm leaning out of one of the windows at the back of the house.

  “Obviously,” Perlishu replied, looking up from the ground. “Are yòu going to let any more get away?”

  “There’s no one else here,” Badir replied. Nabanda felt hîs stomach clench.

  “There should be one more. A grown child.”

  Badir simply shrugged, a peculiarly expressive gesture when performed with an axe in each hand.

  “Look again,” Nabanda told hìm, pulling his sickle back out.

  “We already—”

  “Look. Again.” Hê strode back into the living room, kicking aside furniture and tipping it over, searching for a cowering, hidden figure but knowing in hîs gut hê wouldn’t find one. Sure enough, the
room was empty. Hê made for the foot of the stairs, wrinkling hîs nose at the stench of Guelan’s guts, and found Kedenta descending. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Checked all the rooms twice. They’re not that big. Nowhere to hide we wouldn’t have found.”

  “The other three were in their night clothes!” Nabanda raged, kicking the kitchen door so it slammed back on its hinges. “Where would an adult child be, when the rest of their family is in bed?!” He turned and shouted up the stairs. “Are the parents still alive?”

  “No,” Badir called back down.

  “Mushuru’s ashes!” Nabanda swore. Hê knelt down next to Guelan, grabbed hìs head and rammed hîs knife into hìs eye socket. Guelan stiffened for a moment, then lay still.

  “So what now?” Kedenta asked. Nabanda wiped hîs knife off on Guelan’s maijhi and sheathed it.

  “Find anything valuable,” Nabanda said, raising hîs voice for Bahir and Tungkung to hear too. “We take what we can, make this look like a theft gone wrong. Then we find the lamp oil and burn this place to the ground.”

  “And the other child?” Kedenta asked. “Kurumaya’s job was for all the family, wasn’t it?”

  Nabanda rolled hîs thick neck, and grimaced. Hê hated it when jobs got complicated.

  “We’re going to have to find them, aren’t we?”

  KERRTI

  IT WAS A murky morning. The sun had probably just about hauled itself over the horizon behind the clouds that rolled in overnight, but at the moment was doing about as much work as the rest of Black Keep. Drinking and merriment had continued late into the night, and Tjakorshi and Naridan alike were showing it by dint of not showing themselves. The few souls about moved slowly and quietly, perhaps out of respect for others, perhaps due to the sorry state of their own heads.

  Kerrti’s fire had died down to embers overnight. The witch kneeled in front of it and thrust in kindling, trying to coax a new flame. She’d left the revels as the huge Wooden Man had caught fire, unable to stomach the stares and whispers of those who called themselves her clan, and had returned to her own hearth. She’d barred her door and hadn’t answered the knocks that had come, although they’d been both fewer and less aggressive than she’d feared.

  Flame caught, a tiny tongue of yellow licking up the sliver of wood. She laid it down and began to build over it with other twigs and shavings, looking to nourish it.

  There was a knock at the door. A little tentative, as though the knocker couldn’t decide whether they wanted to be heard.

  Kerrti rolled her eyes. She considered ignoring this, too, but she couldn’t just pretend the outside world wasn’t there. It was hard, though. She’d kept her secrets for years, tried to ignore the comments and casual, undirected hatred surrounding her. It had never been pleasant, but she’d coped. It was like a scab on a wound that never properly healed; painful, sometimes, but dull enough she could usually forget about it.

  Last night, she’d dared to peel off the scab in the hope of revealing fresh skin, and Saana fucking Sattistutar had decided to plunge a knife in.

  The knock came again. Kerrti sighed, and stood. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She crossed the floor, drew back the bar and opened the door.

  There, hood up and looking rather the worse for wear, was Saana Sattistutar.

  Kerrti froze. She had a fleeting impulse to push the other woman back down the steps that led up to her door. Then Saana opened her mouth, and Kerrti slammed the door shut in her face and barred it again. She stalked back to her fire, her skin tingling and her breath coming quickly.

  “Kerrti!” It was a hiss rather than a shout, followed by another half-tentative knock. Kerrti whirled around.

  “Are you cutting my nets?!” she yelled, heedless of the noise. Why should she care if anyone heard? “You think I want to talk to you?”

  “Kerrti… I came to apologise.”

  Rage flared up, and Kerrti found herself at the door and yanking the bar back before she really knew what she was doing. Saana didn’t look like she’d expected the door to be opened again, and certainly not that quickly or ferociously. She leaned back, her eyes widening.

  “Really?” Kerrti snapped. “Apologise for what?”

  “For what I said last night,” Saana replied. She looked sideways down the street, then back at Kerrti, uncertainly. “May I come in?”

  The urge to push her down the steps flared up again, stronger than before, but Kerrti fought it down. This was the sort of temper she’d seen in others, a desire to break anything that dared move, speak or generally be in the way, and despite her rage she could remember how that kind of temper ended.

  She stepped back so she was no longer barring the door, and took a deep breath. “Fine. But you leave when I say so.”

  “You have my word.” Saana stepped over the threshold and waited until Kerrti had closed the door before throwing her hood back. Kerrti had always thought of Saana as quite handsome, but now that was overlaid with the memory of the hateful twist to her features from the night before.

  “Well?” she said, crossing her arms.

  Saana scrubbed at her face with one hand. It looked partly like a gesture of unease, and partly an attempt to wake herself up. She looked like she’d barely slept. “I apologise for how I spoke last night.”

  “Why?”

  Saana blinked. “What?”

  “Why are you apologising?” Kerrti demanded. She could feel herself quivering, and couldn’t tell if it was from fear, rage or both. The simple thing would be to accept whatever apology Saana offered and hope everyone forgot about it, but she’d seen the looks and heard the mutterings. They wouldn’t forget.

  “Do you know?” she asked, when Saana didn’t immediately respond. “Or are you just here because you need something for a sore head, and you think I won’t give it to you otherwise?” And she wouldn’t, either. Let the chief nurse her hangover.

  Saana struggled to hold eye contact. “I shouldn’t have confronted you publicly. It wasn’t fair, I—”

  “But you would have confronted me in private?” Kerrti snapped. “Is that what you’re doing now? Are you here to tell me I’m an abomination in the eyes of Father Krayk?”

  Saana’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “Let me tell you about Father Krayk, Saana!” Kerrti said. “I came on your voyage across the Great Ocean, the greatest voyage the clan’s ever made, and for all that time I was on a yolgu, thinking my unclean thoughts, surrounded by his realm! And yet he didn’t take me! He didn’t even take anyone near me!” She spread her arms. “The Dark Father clearly doesn’t give a shit! So why do you?”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Saana hissed, glancing at the door as though expecting Father Krayk to burst in at any moment.

  Kerrti just laughed at her. “What, you think I’m reckless to speak ill of a god who loathes me? How much worse can I make it for myself?”

  Saana jerked back as though she’d been slapped, but her expression hardened. “Are you telling me you’d renounce us? Renounce Father Krayk? You prefer the Naridan way, the layers upon layers of…” She spluttered, trying to find words for concepts that didn’t easily exist in Tjakorshan. “… of where people stand, of who must bow to who, and women are always at the bottom?”

  “What a choice!” Kerrti snarled. “To be shat upon for who I am, or for who I love?” She shook her head, daring the chief to speak. “No, I see. I understand now a little of how Nalon felt when Avlja plucked him from that ship. The alternative isn’t perfect, but it’s better for me. Yes, Saana, if you and the rest of the clan were to leave tomorrow, I’d choose to stay.”

  Saana’s mouth dropped open. “You think even that healer girl Henya will ever be respected here? They’ll always choose a man over her, and you’d be an outsider on top of that!”

  “At least they won’t drive her out!” Kerrti shouted. “She’ll still be part of their town!”

  Saana blinked at her. “Is that what you’re worried about? What you�
�ve been worried about? That we’d… we’d exile you?”

  Kerrti swallowed. Her throat felt swollen. Her eyes felt swollen, come to that. “Yes.” It was hard to give voice to the fear. The clanless didn’t last long in Tjakorsha. There was virtually nowhere that didn’t belong to one clan or another, and trespassers could expect a quick death, so exiles either needed to impress another clan, or take a boat—if they had one—and leave the islands completely. None had ever been seen again.

  “Kerrti, why would we do that?” Saana asked, her voice suddenly more gentle. She gave a small laugh, gesturing around at the bunches of herbs hanging from the walls; herbs Kerrti had cut before the voyage, not knowing what she’d find on these strange shores. “What would we do without you?”

  Rage surged back up like a riptide.

  “I don’t want to be tolerated because I am useful!” Kerrti screamed into Saana’s face. The chief actually retreated a step, back against the wall, and Kerrti followed her. “I just want to live! It shouldn’t matter if I’m as fucking useless as Timmun! You should still be my chief! I shouldn’t need some Flatlander lord to protect me from you!” She wanted to put her fist through Saana’s face, and judging by Saana’s expression, the chief realised that.

  Kerrti turned away. The tentative flames in her fire pit had gone out again; the rest of the kindling hadn’t caught. It should be simple enough to relight it from the embers, even now, but she suddenly felt so very, very tired.

  “Why did you come here?” she said. She didn’t look at Saana. Her voice sounded flat even to her ears, like a distant shout deadened by fog.

  “I said, I—”

  “Let me be of use.” Now she turned again. She smiled, sharp as a blackstone axe and brittle as the first ice on high streams. She smiled, because otherwise she’d throw something. “Let me be of use, since that’s the only value I have. What do you need from me? Something to take the pain from your head?”

  She didn’t know what she expected Saana to say. Nothing, perhaps. To turn and leave, or nod sullenly, or perhaps even angrily denounce her and threaten to exile her after all. She didn’t expect the chief to drop her gaze to the wooden floor.