by Mike Brooks
Tila wanted to snap an angry denial at him, but Livnya bit down on the words and forced them back behind her teeth. “This lady suspects it’s merely rumour and exaggerations,” she said, far more calmly than she felt. “Still, we may need to persuade Captain Kemanyel to make the best time possible back to Idramar. Change leads to uncertainty, and uncertainty is rarely good for business.”
If the rumours have reached here, they’ll have reached elsewhere. If the town’s opinion is divided here, they’ll be divided elsewhere. This princess takes care of one problem, and another crops up immediately.
Damn it all, Natan. How many children is your sister going to need to kill just to keep your arse on that throne?
SAANA
IT WAS DUSK when the boats came back, and Saana was staring into her cookfire when the door opened.
You didn’t fall in, then. She bit back that acidic greeting, but didn’t turn her head. She was angry, and wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, but she also didn’t want to outright start a fight. “Catch anything?” she asked instead, trying to keep her tone mild.
Half a dozen small silver fish thudded down next to her onto the floor, slipping and slithering off each other. Not bad, in all fairness. Jelema owned the boat, so she’d take the greatest share of the catch, and her fishers would each get a smaller portion, so long as they’d worked hard. Jelema might be warm-hearted, but she wouldn’t reward a liability, and nor would she be swayed by Zhanna’s status as the clan chief’s daughter.
Zhanna’s dragon woke up from its fireside slumber, sniffed the fish once, then ran out of Saana’s eyeline and towards its owner with an excited hiss. Zhanna still hadn’t spoken. Saana sighed, got to her feet and turned around. It would be polite to thank her daughter for the contribution to their meal, at least, before she had some words with her about disappearing without saying anything.
“Thank you for—”
“What is that?”
Zhanna’s eyes were wide, her face had paled even in the light of the firepit, and she was pointing with a shaking finger at Saana’s chest even as her dragon clambered up onto her shoulder again. Saana sighed.
“It’s Daimon Blackcreek’s brooch. Which I’m sure you know,” she added a little more sharply, “since you saw him offer it to me before you ran away—”
“You saidyes?!”
Saana took a breath. Zhanna was clearly upset, and Saana losing her temper because her daughter had interrupted her twice wasn’t going to help anything.
“Yes,” she said soberly, “I did. I was going to tell you—”
She didn’t get to finish that sentence either, because Zhanna turned, still in her salt-crusted furs, and ran for the door. Saana was moving before she’d even really registered what she was doing and got there just ahead of her daughter, slamming into the door with her shoulder to keep it shut.
“Zhanna!”
Zhanna grabbed at the handle and pulled for a moment, but the door wouldn’t budge and she spun away again with a wordless shout of rage. Her dragon hissed angrily, apparently picking up on her mood even though it presumably didn’t know the source of it, which was a condition Saana could quite identify with.
“Zhanna!” she snapped again, astonishment warring with her anger. “What is wrong with you?”
“How could you say yes?!” Zhanna shrieked. Her hair was tousled from a day at sea, her eyes flashed fury, and in her furs she was the very image of an Unblooded come to wet the teeth of her axe. On any other day Saana might have paused, tried to calm her down, but she’d been on edge since the morning. She’d had visions of a rogue wave sweeping out of the east and besting even Jelema’s skill, spilling everyone into the cold, dark waters. She’d dodged questions from clan members about the brooch, so determined had she been to give Zhanna the news first, as she deserved. And now here was her daughter, unrepentant and unapologetic, spitting hail at her for… what?
“If you’d stayed, instead of running off to sulk, you’d have found out!” she shouted back. “He is thinking of what is right for our peoples, and I must too! If Daimon says a marriage with him is our best chance to avoid the wrath of his countrymen, then that is what I must do! I trust he doesn’t lie, and I trust he knows this country better than I do!” She grabbed a breath.
“I’d have expected this from some of the clan,” she continued, trying to lower her tone a little, but only really succeeding in adding scorn. “From Ada, maybe, or Zalika, but my own daughter? Who’s lived with me? Who watched me argue the clan around to come here in the first place? Who watched me cry as we left our home behind? You can’t see I would only do this thing because it’s necessary?” She shook her head, not bothering to hide her disdain any longer. “I thought you were an adult. Clearly, I was wrong.”
Zhaana’s lip was trembling now, her rage abruptly consumed by more fragile emotions. “You… you don’t even love him?” she asked, her voice small.
Saana snorted a laugh. Finally, a break in the weather to steer by! “Love him? Is that what this is about? You’re worried he’ll replace you in my heart?” She chuckled and shook her head. “No. You’ll always be the most precious thing to me. This marriage will be… bearable. I think. In truth, it’s more of an alliance. Apparently that happens fairly often here—”
“He’s too young for you!”
Zhanna darted for the door again, her eyes filling with tears. This time, Saana was too slow and too startled to stop her, and Zhanna fled out into the gathering dark. Saana started after her, drawing in breath for a shout, then stopped.
What in the name of the Dark Father? He’s too young for me?
Things fell into place. Daimon knowing words of Tjakorshi that neither Saana nor Nalon had taught him. Zhanna joining in the dance and letting herself be guided through the steps by Daimon, when usually she’d have snapped like a young krayk at anyone trying to tell her she was doing something incorrectly. Daimon’s gift of the dragon, which to him had likely been nothing more than a curiosity but which Zhanna, who’d always loved raising crow chicks, would take as a gesture of great generosity and trust.
Oh, by all the winds and tides. She’s in love with him. Or thinks she is.
Daimon wasn’t unhandsome, as Saana herself had noted only that morning. He was brave, she supposed, and outwardly well-mannered in that stiff, Naridan way. Zhanna probably hadn’t seen the bone-deep stubbornness in him. Perhaps she wouldn’t have cared; she shared the trait, after all.
And it was true, Saana conceded wearily, Daimon was young. He was closer to Zhanna’s age than Saana’s. Was that it, then? Had Zhanna convinced herself she loved this strange, foreign lord a few years her elder? Had she convinced herself he loved her back?
Saana grimaced as her mind veered onto a new tack, but she dismissed the notion instantly. No, she could not believe Daimon Blackcreek had been intimate with her daughter, even if her daughter might have wished it otherwise. The man was simply too rigid for him to have deceived Saana in such a way. Everything Daimon had done since the clan had arrived had been a desperate balancing act as he tried to act as honourably as possible towards everyone, even his ancestral enemies, while still keeping as many people alive as he could. Fucking his newest ally’s daughter behind her back while holding her hostage would not be in keeping with that at all.
No, Daimon wouldn’t have known of this, else he’d have never brought Zhanna to witness this conversation. He must have been as oblivious to Zhanna’s interest in him as Saana had been of Daimon’s interest in her, before Tavi had said what he’d said last night. Come to think of it, Daimon himself might not have fully come to terms with that particular interest yet, but Saana had a nagging feeling the stablemaster had been right about it. Daimon Blackcreek didn’t seem the type of man who was good at lying, and he’d as good as said that he wouldn’t only want to fuck her just once, to make their marriage good in the eyes of his god, or whatever that strange Naridan belief was.
Father Krayk preserve me, but Zhanna will n
ever forgive me if I marry this man in two days and then fuck him, when she has her heart set on him.
Was that what being chief came down to, then? Not just cajoling, persuading, and in some cases downright bullying her clan to leave their ancestral homes and come across the Great Ocean? Not just arriving on a shore as a beggar where she’d once landed looking for battle? Not just casting away her freedom to marry a man she still barely knew, a man who for all that he might not be a bad man had, on the first day she’d laid eyes on him, killed her best friend in an honour duel? Not just marrying him simply in the hope it might mean his countrymen, when they finally came this far south, wouldn’t kill her people when they were discovered?
She must drive away her daughter, and break her heart as well?
Saana closed the door and sank down behind it, buried her face in her arms, and didn’t fight the tears when they came.
OLD ELIO
THEY SAT ABOUT the table, five true-hearted men of Black Keep, talking just loud enough to hear each other over the crackling of the flames in the fire pit.
“It’s not to be borne,” Nadar, one of the castle guards muttered, taking a swig of the ale his host had provided. “S’man thought his lordship would’ve seen sense by now.”
“That idiot Ganalel has not helped,” Shefal replied. “To take a coward’s blow at the sea witch was bad enough, but to miss…”
“That was Tavi’s fault,” Yoon, another guard said. “Warned the witch, he did.”
“Never had Tavi down as a traitor,” Elio put in, cradling his own mug of ale in his old hands. They ached from handling his nets, but he’d be damned if he’d see the Raiders steal his fish. “S’man always liked him. Seemed sensible, you know?”
“‘A man can understand dragons, or understand men, but not both’,” Nadar quoted. “He’s always been an odd sort.”
“And he’s been spending time with the witch’s daughter, too,” Yoon said. “She’ll have put an enchantment on him, you mark s’man’s words.”
“Perhaps he has always been little better than a witch himself,” Shefal mused. “Do any of us truly know what passes between him and those beasts?”
“Rotel’s girl Abbatane will,” Nadar pointed out. “She fair loves those dragons. Spends more time with Tavi than with her own da, or so it seems.”
“S’man won’t have that Abbatane’s a witch,” Yoon said firmly. “Spending time with Tavi or no, she’s a sweet little thing. Not like that savage Lord Daimon brought within the walls.”
“Speaking of witches,” Kelarahel said, his first words for a while, “did you hear of the curse stone found on the south side of the house where that Raider woman died?”
Silence.
“Curse stone?” Nadar asked, his voice suddenly a little shaky. “You mean to say, a witch’s curse stone?”
Elio glanced over at Shefal, and found the freeman looking back at him.
“The same,” Kelaharel replied. “At least, that’s what Lord Daimon and Aftak made of it. Lord Darel too, as s’man hears, for Lord Daimon asked his opinion of the thing.”
“Why can’t the witches curse the whole Nari-damned lot of them? That’s what s’man wants to know,” Yoon said, but his voice held the hollowness of a man seeking to cover his sudden uncertainty with bold words.
“Will a witch’s curse even hold on these demon-worshippers?” Nadar asked.
“She died, did she not?” Shefal said baldly. “It seems the curse was potent.” He took a sip of his ale. “And besides, who is to say the witch is a Naridan? The Raiders have their own squabbles.”
“And their own witches,” Nadar said, making the sign of the Mountain. “S’man’s heard his lordship talking of them.”
Elio took another sip of his ale, and said nothing.
“His lordship also still talks of finding the man who sent the Raider woman into the Downwoods,” Kelaharel said, looking at Shefal, who stiffened.
“And?”
“And he’ll not hear the truth of it from s’man,” the reeve assured him. “He’s in a powerful temper over it, though.”
“His tempers will be his undoing,” Shefal said darkly. “The guilt of his actions wars within him, and leads him to further outrage.” He sighed, and took another drink. “When it comes to it, who will stand with us?”
“Too few, s’man fears,” Elio replied heavily. “Even his own son has been talking about how p’raps these Raiders aren’t as bad as we thought. If only more young men were like yourself.”
“What of the thane’s household?” Shefal asked. The first shook his head.
“Precious few. Duranen saw the truth, but then his lordship threw him in the cells.” He looked over at the Kelaharel. “How secure are they?”
“Secure enough that Duranen won’t be getting out without the key,” the reeve grunted.
“That is not unachievable,” Shefal pointed out.
“Achievable, yes,” Kelaharel acknowledged. “But it would betray us, and for what? Duranen’s one man. Give him his cudgel and his rattletails and he might be worth three in a fight, if he can make sure his dragons only go for Raider blood, which isn’t certain. Duranen won’t tip things in our favour if the rest of the town are too meek to stand up for themselves, though.”
“There’s no hope of swaying Aftak to our cause?” Shefal asked. “The word of Nari could bring many to our side.”
“If the priest ever heard the God-King, he’s stoppered his ears,” Kelaharel said dismissively. “All he hears now is his lordship’s silver. Aftak’s been a contrary bastard at the best of times, and that beard of his makes him look half-Raider anyhow. He’s more likely to shove his staff between your eyes than do the decent thing.”
“No word from the north?” Yoon asked hopefully.
“This man is not in the habit of communing with the Thane of Darkspur,” Shefal snapped. “Evram carried word, but we cannot rely on Darkspur. If he comes, we will be rewarded for our loyalty. But he may not come.”
“Time is short,” Elio pointed out. “Can you rally the town yourself?”
Shefal shook his head. “This man doubts it. He is not the best-loved, and many would rather bow their heads and live as traitors than risk their lives for freedom and honour.” He drummed his fingers on the table, then stopped suddenly. “All are invited to the ceremony, yes?”
“Yes,” Nadar said, nodding.
“We need a figurehead,” Shefal said slowly. “We need someone who can rally the town, as you say.” He left his words hanging, and it took a moment for Elio to catch his meaning. When he did, he saw that the others had got it as well.
“That’s less achievable than springing Duranen,” Kelaharel objected.
“Perhaps,” Shefal conceded, “but worth far more.”
“The captain has the keys,” Nadar said. “He’s loyal to his lordship, and by that s’man means Lord Daimon.”
Shefal smiled. “Then we shall have to see if Captain Malakel can be persuaded. What say you? This man believes this our last true hope. Otherwise we condemn ourselves.”
“It’s a bold plan, but s’man agrees,” Yoon said. “Malakel can see reason, and hopefully the town can as well.”
One by one, the others nodded, Elio included. It would be risky, but the risk was worth it. He had no intention of seeing out his remaining years being forced to bow and make nice to Raiders.
“A toast, then,” Shefal said, holding out his mug. The others mirrored him. “To the true-hearted men of Black Keep, and the confusion of their enemies!”
JEYA
GALEM WANTED TO leave hìs old clothes behind in exchange for the ones they’d snatched off a drying line, but Jeya had overruled hìm. It was too dangerous: the stolen maijhi and karung were unremarkable in their own right, but if the owner told their neighbours how they’d discovered richer clothes left in their place then it was always possible that could get back to Galem’s pursuers, and that meant they might not only have an idea of which way hè’d fled b
ut also, if they spoke to the owner, what hè could now be wearing.
Now they’d reached where Jeya had planned to spend the rest of the night, but shé couldn’t find the way in.
“The Old Palace?” Galem asked hesitantly, eyeing where the wild hedge rose up beyond the old boundary wall. “Yóu want us to hide in there?”
“No, Í want us to jump up and down and shout to announce ourselves!” Jeya retorted, then immediately regretted hér words. They’d have been harsh on any night, let alone to someone who’d had to run from what had almost certainly been hìs family’s murders. “Sorry, Í’m sorry. Yes, we should hide in here. It’s the safest place Í can think of for now. There’s a hole in the wall somewhere.”
And yet shé couldn’t find it. Even though they went up and down the stretch of wall, the gap through which a person could wriggle remained stubbornly absent.
“Ì always heard it’s haunted,” Galem said. “Could that be it?”
“If it is, Í’ve never met a spirit in there,” Jeya replied. Shé slammed a fist into the stones beside hér in frustration. Shé was tired, and not a little scared, and the longer they stayed here, the greater the risk of them being seen.
Then shé saw the god.
Sa, the god of thieves and tricksters—amongst other things—in their form as a golden-maned monkey, walking across the street as bold as brass. The moonlight bleached all the colour from their pelt, but there was no mistaking the thick ruff of fur around their neck, and the tufted tip to their tail. Any normal animal of that kind would be asleep now. Only Sa walked abroad at night, and their eyes were fixed on Jeya as they came to a halt, not ten paces away.
Jeya made a small noise of alarm in hér throat, and reached behind hér for Galem’s hand. Shé’d never seen a god before.
“What?” Galem asked, as hér fingers found hìs.
Sa turned and trotted away, and Jeya knew immediately that shé was supposed to follow them. Shé started forwards, pulling Galem behind hér, as the god disappeared around the corner. When shé rounded it after them, shé just caught sight of the god’s hindquarters disappearing through the wall.
