A Blight of Blackwings

by Kevin Hearne

  Olet grinned at me in relief and wiped imaginary sweat from her brow.

  “Whew! So I’m not paranoid! Somebody else thought the same thing. Thanks, Fintan. Was there anything else?”

  “Uh. No?” I felt embarrassed, because I should have assumed she’d already thought of it. She had grown up surrounded by such thinking.

  “Well, I’m counting on you to learn their language or teach them Nentian quickly. Best way to avoid miscommunication is to communicate. Thanks again.”

  That was a dismissal, and I gave her a quick smile before spinning on my heel and exiting, deciding to crash for the evening before I said or did anything else to embarrass myself. I was hopeful that the day’s events would be so exhausting that I’d sleep soundly and not be plagued by nightmares of the lavaborn.

  I woke up to fire anyway, startled before dawn by shouts and screams. Scrambling out of my tent and grabbing my stone baton, I emerged to see a pillar of flame in the darkness near where the Joabeians were camped. It was Olet, alight from head to toe, but facing away from the Joabeians and pointing at some other Hathrim squared off against her—I couldn’t tell who, since I only saw a sliver of them limned in her own firelight in the darkness. Picking my way carefully in that direction, I realized that there was a standoff with four sides and a whole lot of shouting. I needed to pick a side.

  Nearest me, Olet faced off against some unknown number of Hathrim—and then La Mastik joined her, lighting up her shorn scalp as a reminder that she was a priestess of the flame. Behind Olet and La Mastik, Koesha and Haesha were turned toward their own crew, who had once again drawn weapons in response to Olet lighting herself on fire. No longer cold and wet and terrified, they looked much more ready to attack. As I approached, it seemed they understood that Olet and La Mastik had not come for them, since the giant women were facing away and blocking the advance of other giants armed with axes. Koesha shouted a command and they shifted into ranks, just in case any of the giants got through. It was impressive discipline, and I would not want to confront those knives.

  By the time I got to the center of it, I saw that the giants challenging Olet and La Mastik were none other than the Thayilists—Lanner Burgan and Halsten Durik and a few others. Though Halsten Durik had been the leader of Mogen’s houndsmen, Lanner Burgan was doing all the shouting now. I didn’t know if that was because Lanner was leading the faction or if Halsten was letting him take point in this conflict.

  “You’re taking their word over ours?” Lanner roared.

  “I literally cannot take their word for anything, because they don’t speak our fucking language!” Olet replied. “They haven’t said anything to me. This is just me calling you on your nasty little scheme.”

  Arriving late as I did, I had no clue what scheme Olet might be referring to. But then I wondered if it might not have something to do with the long Hathrim houndsmen axes on the ground behind both Olet and Koesha; their backs were to each other, and four or five of the battle-axes lay between them. Given the lines drawn, I had little trouble making a decision: I would stand with Olet and La Mastik, because I could not imagine a world in which I would stand with Lanner Burgan against anyone.

  “My only scheme was to protect us from their sick murder plot! Look at them! They have their knives out for us!”

  “They find us threatening, Lanner. You think maybe it’s because you’re standing there with an axe? And trying to frame them? The idea that they got shipwrecked and then immediately plotted to murder us with weapons that weigh more than they do is just stupid.”

  “What?”

  “I said stupid. You. Are. Stupid. I saw you plant those axes, Lanner.”

  “I did not! They stole them to disarm us.”

  “Oh, changing your story, eh? Fine. It’s still ridiculous, because they can’t pick them up. Have you ever seen the little people try to move them? It’s both funny and sad. Kind of like your plan to paint them as the bad guys.”

  “You’re completely ignoring the danger they represent—”

  “Once they prove dangerous, I’ll deal with it. Right now you’re dangerous, so I’m dealing with you. Back off.”

  “What about them? Are you going to tell them to back off?”

  “No. Once again, I don’t speak their language. And I want your resignation from the council.”

  That stunned Lanner. His mouth dropped open and Halsten jumped into the silence. “Hey, that’s not a decision you can make!”

  “It’s his decision whether to resign or not. But it’s my decision to ask him to resign. Bard,” she said, turning her fiery gaze down to me. “Broadcast me, please.”

  “Right.” It only took a moment and then I nodded at her, and she spoke to the entire camp, no doubt waking up what few people had managed to sleep through the ruckus so far.

  “Good morning, everyone. Steward Kanek here. Sorry to disturb your sleep, but we’ve got a problem. I just witnessed Lanner Burgan, a Hathrim member of the council, plant battle-axes in the camp of our new shipwrecked friends. He claims he didn’t do what I saw him do and that the exhausted shipwrecked women stole these huge Hathrim battle-axes. First he said it was to murder us, then it was to disarm us. Neither is true. The truth is he was trying to frame them and sow distrust after his faction lost the council vote last night. I am asking for his resignation from the council, and I think his seat should go to one of the new women, so that they are represented in our government.”

  Lanner and Halsten had been seething up to that point, but at the idea of losing a seat to the newcomers they roared and charged, raising their axes high. Olet blasted them in the face with fire, and both she and La Mastik spun out of the way. Unfortunately, La Mastik spun right into me, and we both went down with startled cries. But Lanner and Halsten went down too, intentionally face-planting to the forest floor to snuff out the flames on their faces and beards.

  “Do you yield?” Olet asked them, but kept a wary eye on the other Thayilists, who were wondering if they could get to her before she roasted them all. She wasn’t broadcasting anymore, because I’d lost my concentration and may have bruised my spleen. But both Lanner and Halsten heard her and yielded. Their entire bodies were flammable, after all.

  “Fine.” With a gesture and exertion of her will, the fires went out on their faces. “I used my lowest intensity. I hope you won’t be permanently damaged.” She snuffed out the flames on her body too, as well as the small ground fires that had sparked up in response to La Mastik’s head contacting the pine needles of the forest floor. We groaned and got to our feet, but when Lanner and Halsten began to rise, Olet told them to stay down there for a few more minutes.

  “Fintan, are you all right? Can you broadcast me again?”

  “Yes. Go ahead.”

  “An important update: Lanner Burgan and Halsten Durik just attacked me. If they will not resign, I hope the council will see fit to dismiss them for cause and hold a new election to replace them. And let me remind everyone that it is my responsibility as steward to protect this settlement from within as well as without. You are all under my protection, but most especially the newcomers right now, as they clearly have more to fear from us than we do from them. Let’s all be better people.”

  She made a cutoff motion with her hand and I stopped broadcasting. Halsten Durik rose to his knees.

  “Tell me, Steward Kanek, if you are going to dismiss councillors whenever you wish and enforce your will with fire, how are you any different from a hearthfire? Is it just the name?”

  “A hearthfire would have killed you already,” La Mastik said before Olet could speak. “So that’s different, isn’t it?”

  “If you’re smart you’ll resign, go back to your people, and pick someone that you can influence to run for your spots,” Olet said. “If you make the council act against you, what you did here will be broadcas
t again and the election might not go the way you’d prefer.”

  Olet kept the axes and asked everyone to disperse and let the newcomers relax. Once they did—Halsten and Lanner trying to look like they’d won somehow, though their beards were still smoking—I noted that Koesha ordered her crew to sheathe their knives and stand down. I didn’t know how I would explain to them what had happened; it would be weeks before we had enough words to talk about such things as xenophobia and prejudice. But at least Koesha realized that Olet had prevented an actual attack on her people.

  It was not a day of perfect harmony, but I hoped that the first day of our civilizations’ meeting would set the tone for all the days to come, where leaders who desired peace prevailed against those who sought violence. Maybe, after enough such days, I would dream of smiling faces in accord rather than the screams of burning men.

  Pelemyn was a city of sardine breath on the thirtieth day of the bard’s tales. Not one but two ships had found a shoal to harvest, so practically everyone was eating them, but especially on Survivor Field, where the kitchen served them up along with flatbread to the folks who’d had nothing but bread the previous day.

  “They arrived under guard, can you believe it?” the chef told me when I showed up to volunteer.

  “I can.”

  She peered at me through narrowed eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “You did something?”

  “I left a note for the pelenaut and I presume he did something.”

  The chef snorted. “That he did. He removed the discount from pricing, so there’s no motivation not to sell to us, and then he had mariners escort the government’s portion here every step of the way.”

  “I heard some fishermen left because of the discount.”

  She laughed. “Wouldn’t be surprised if that was his plan all along. He wanted to get rid of the profiteers.”

  I laughed with her, realizing it was probably true. Rölly and his flow studies—he’d probably seen it coming. And whoever had been hijacking the shipments was probably in a dungeon by now.

  The chef set me to packing sardines in individual servings, bathed in salt and oil and wrapped in waxed paper, while she made flatbread. I had to leave before noon, but it was good to know that people would be eating, regardless of the damage to their breath.

  I was all ready to discuss the meeting of the Joabeians with Fintan and enjoy the day, but my hopes were dashed when I met him at the dockside fishblade joint. For he had someone sitting next to him on the bench, and that someone was his wife, Numa, master courier of the Raelech Triune.

  “Shall I return later?” I asked Dervan after greeting Numa. “I can let you have some time together.”

  “Nonsense,” Numa said, beaming a smile at me that was stunningly bright. “I’m here to see you, Master Dervan.”

  “Oh.”

  I gingerly sat down across the table from them, dreading what was to come next. Because Numa would not wish to see me for social reasons. I am not one of the cool kids.

  The fishblade himself, Gellart du Tyllen, came over with orders for each of us, plus a beer for me.

  “We took the liberty of ordering for you,” Fintan said, “since there was one thing on the menu—‘fishblade’s choice’—and we figured you’d want to eat.”

  “Thanks,” I said, digging into the meal right away so I wouldn’t have to think of anything to say. If I’d been clever—or petty—I would have started asking questions and wasting time. But I didn’t think of myself as the former and hoped I wasn’t the latter. I ceded the conversational high ground and waited for the attack.

  She waited until I swallowed, at least.

  “Any word from the pelenaut regarding the matter Fintan discussed with you? A certain missing item?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  “I’m asking if you’ve had any word from him.”

  “No. Because, as I told Fintan, I am not a channel to the pelenaut.”

  “You’re something, though.”

  “I’m an old ex-mariner and ex-professor who is currently a glorified scribe with a bum knee.”

  “Who goes way back with the pelenaut.”

  “Yes, we grew up together.”

  She pounced. “So you are a back channel!”

  “Not for your messages. You can deliver them yourself.”

  “Come on. You know how this works.”

  “I do not.”

  “May I explain, then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. You can’t say things in court sometimes because they’re sensitive. Saying them aloud means somebody’s got to own them and there’s official embarrassment and official efforts to save face, and none of it is discreet or fun. Use a back channel, though, an unofficial communication, and everyone gets to save face and deal with things on the sly.”

  “That’s fascinating, Master Courier, but I’m not one of those back channels. Even if I were, I wouldn’t know what to say. This mystery object is still a mystery.”

  “Is it?”

  “Are you implying that you know what it is? If you do, please inform me and perhaps I can make an inquiry on your behalf.”

  Numa paused to take a swig of beer and I flicked my eyes at Fintan. He dropped his gaze immediately, embarrassed or ashamed or something of the kind at having ambushed me like this. Or perhaps he wasn’t feeling any of that and this was merely a show to allow him to save face. His lifebond was here to apply pressure, and he could plausibly claim that’s not what he wanted or would have done. Regardless, it was distasteful business.

  “I don’t know what it is,” she said, shaking her head. “Only that Clodagh thinks it’s important.”

  It occurred to me that we were in a kind of negotiation. They might be willing to share something with me to get more information about what was important.

  “Tell me, Numa. Have your duties ever taken you to Aelinmech?”

  She blinked, surprised at the change of subject. “Yes, they have.”

  “Are there poison manufacturers or distillers in Aelinmech?”

  She scrunched up her nose and one side of her face, unsure why I was asking. “There are distillers, to be sure. Some people consider whiskey to be a poison, and I suppose technically it is, but those are the only distillers I know of there. No distillers of poisons like I’m-gonna-murder-you poison.”

  “No government houses of experimentation? No brewers of potables that might not be potable?”

  “What? No. Only distillers I know about are the ones that make the Good Shit, if you’ll pardon my language. It’s Aelinmech rye. Dare I ask why?”

  “Just because you haven’t heard of them doesn’t mean they’re not there. That is, of course, the problem with conspiracy thinking. As soon as you’ve decided there’s a conspiracy, even plain facts come into question, because they’re all part of the conspiracy.”

  “Let me ask you this: Do you know what was stolen, Dervan?”

  It was a direct question, and since I knew they would know if I lied, I didn’t, precisely. “I’m not sure I can say, since there’s no way to verify what it is from the victim.” I nodded as I said that to make sure they knew I did know what it was, and I kept nodding as I continued, “Whatever this mysterious thing is or isn’t, the pelenaut has no plans to use it against his Raelech allies.”

  The two Raelechs exchanged glances after I’d stopped.

  “So, just to clarify,” Numa said, “we can unofficially tell someone that the thing they are worried about is nothing to worry about?”

  I nodded again. “You can. This whole conversation has been about nothing.”

  Numa slapped the table, then pumped her fist once before spreading her fingers and holding up her palm to me for a high five. “Yeah! Yeah, Dervan! Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

  I tapped her pal
m quickly, tentatively, unsure what was happening. She looked briefly disappointed at the lack of a satisfying clapping noise, but then she smiled again. “That’s how you back-channel, man! That’s how! That was perfect! You’re great at this! Pardon me for a second.”

  Numa turned to Fintan, grabbed his face, and kissed him deeply. The bard’s eyes widened in surprise and rolled in my direction. I looked down at my fish and beer in an act of mercy.

  “Gotta go, sweetie. I’ll see you later at the embassy,” Numa said, after a slurpy pop of disengagement from their lip-lock. “Thank you again, Dervan,” she added, and that was my cue to look up. She was extricating her legs from the bench. “I’m off to the Wellspring to open official lines of communication, and it will be entirely pleasant because of this very important back channel.”

  “Oh. Okay,” I managed, which was spectacularly not smooth at all. I couldn’t figure out whether I had done a competent job or had just done something profoundly unwise. Numa put on her goggles, waggled her fingers at us, and then sped away as only couriers can, creating a gust of wind in her passage.

  “What in the abyss was that?” I demanded.

  “The word awkward comes to mind,” Fintan said. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  “I don’t mean your make-out session. Good for you and your entwined tongues. I mean this back-channel business. I want no more of that, you hear? Tell her when you see her later. I am out of the loop.”

  “All right, I will tell her. But you don’t know how important that was.”

  “You’re right, I don’t.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t reassured us it was nothing, it was going to be something. Official nastiness, leading to a deterioration of our countries’ alliance. And trade.”

  “Oh.”

  That could have been something indeed. We were dependent on Rael, Forn, and Kauria for large portions of our food supply at the moment. Any interruption in that would be felt in grumbling bellies.