by Dan Abnett
Estalian banners hung limply from yard poles on the quay, as if admitting, with a lacklustre shrug, the sovereignty of the colony town. Batteries of culverin covered the harbour from little headland redoubts, but they were unmanned, though the firebaskets hanging above them had been lit.
The town itself, as it faced the sea, was a mix of lime wash and clay brick, in the Estalian manner. In the higher part of the town, lanes ran up to a little garrison fort, beyond which rose lush green hills.
“Quiet,” said Silvaro simply watching the harbour line slowly approach.
“Not so,” said Casaudor, and pointed. Figures had appeared on the quay and the runway, and around the heads of the town streets where they reached the harbourside. Shadows in the dying light, but people nonetheless.
“We must be a rare sight, so tell,” Benuto muttered. “Like as much, they’ve not seen a sail in weeks.”
They dropped anchor a few hundred spans from the quay, and the Safire nestled in under their shadow. Silvaro called for a boat crew, and beckoned Roque and Sesto to come.
“We may need your airs and graces,” he told Sesto as they went down into the waiting boat.
By the time they came up the eroded stone steps onto the quay, the silent crowds had all but vanished. They could see lamplight coming from the buildings near the harbour, but there were no sounds of laughter or of music.
Roque, Sesto and Silvaro advanced together into the town, unnerved by its hush. The land heat was oppressive, and their clothes stuck to them.
Along the harbour end and down the main street, doors and window shutters stood open. Lamps burned within. In silence, as if weighted down by fatigue in the night heat, men, women and children sat on doorsteps, or lurked inside at tables. Some looked sullenly out at the three newcomers as they walked past. Many did not. Every doorway and window seemed to reveal a little yellow-lit cave in which weary people sat in torpor. Even the dogs lay panting in the dust.
They passed an inn where men sat at tables, clutching thick-lipped glasses full of drink that looked like tar or syrup in the golden light. Everything seemed brown and faded, like an old painting hung too long in the sun. The drinkers were all silent too, and slouched: glasses on tables, hands around glasses, bodies sunk back on chairs.
Silvaro stopped and gestured his companions into the bar. A few heads swung round slowly to watch them pass. A few murmurs. The bar owner stood at the back of the room, unwashed glasses lined up on the bartop. He was leaning against the back wall, as if cowed by the heat.
“Three cups of rum,” Silvaro said in decent Estalian. The barman stirred and picked three little snifter glasses from a shelf. The rum looked almost black in the gloom as it poured into the glasses, and it seemed as reluctant to leave the bottle as the man had been to move.
“You’re from the ships?” the bar man asked. He spoke Estalian, but with the rounded vowels of a man born in Tobaro. The islands were home to men of all compass points, no matter the flags they wore. His voice was slow, a tired whisper.
“We are,” said Luka.
“There was excitement when your sails were seen,” the barman said. “Porto Real is a merchant town, and its lifeblood runs from the sea, but you are not merchants. That much we saw.”
“We are not.” Silvaro lifted his glass and took a sip. “To the crown of Estalia,” he toasted politely. Sesto and Roque drank too. The rum burned, and its wetness was fat with sugar. It was like watered molasses.
Silvaro put a small silver coin on the bar. “But there is trade in us. Victuals. Water. We can pay.”
“This can be arranged,” the barman said, picking up the coin.
“Where is the harbour master?”
The man shrugged. “At this hour? Asleep or drunk or both.”
Roque glanced up and cocked his head. In another second, Sesto heard it too. Hooves clattering on the street outside.
“They’ll be looking for you,” the barman said.
Silvaro and his companions went back out into the street. Three riders were slowing their horses to a walk. The men wore the breastplates and comb morion helmets of Estalian soldiers. They were looking out into the harbour towards the shadow of the Rumour, still visible in the heavy night.
Silvaro hailed them, and they turned. The leader, a tall man wearing black beneath his polished armour, dismounted and tossed his reins to one of the others.
“Those are fighting ships,” he announced in strong Estalian. “Plunder ships.”
“They are,” Silvaro agreed, “and I am their master.”
The man nodded, a formal bow. It was a gesture rather than a courtesy, the sort of movement a man would make before a sword bout. “I am Ferrol, first sword of the Porto, instrument of the governor. Who is it I address?”
“I am Captain Luka Silvaro.”
There was a brisk, raking sound of steel. Ferrol and his mounted lackeys drew their rapiers with abrupt speed. “Luka Silvaro? Silvaro the Hawk? Master of the Reivers?”
“Thrice counted,” Luka smiled. He glanced at his companions. Roque’s blade was half drawn and Sesto’s hand was on his pommel. “Put them up,” he advised.
He took a step forward, apparently fearless for his own safety. The sword in Ferrol’s hand was long and basket hiked, with a straight blade of the finest watered steel.
“Sir,” said Luka. “I have business in Porto Real, not mischief. Had I meant the colony harm, I would have been dashing the harbourside with chain shot from my two fighting ships, not standing here unarmed.”
“You’re a pirate and a rogue,” Ferrol replied.
“I am a captain and a master, seeking victuals from a friendly port, and moreover, I have coin to pay. There is another thing…” Luka reached into his doublet and produced a roll of parchment. He held it out to Ferrol.
The man took it cautiously. He unrolled it and read it over.
“A letter of marque and reprisal, signed and sealed by his grace, the Prince of Luccini. My business is official and legitimate, as my associate here can vouch.”
Sesto moved forward. “My lord the prince has engaged me to vouch for Captain Silvaro’s good bearing. I express respectful greeting to his excellency the governor, and trust the good and ancient friendship that exists between the sovereignties of Luccini and Estalia holds true.”
Ferrol handed the papers back and sheathed his sword. His men put their weapons away. “Prepare a list of your needs, and a price will be determined. Once it is agreed, I will issue you with a permit to obtain the goods. Your men may come ashore, no more than two dozen at a time. Any trouble will be censured by colonial law. That means me. I am first sword, and also the colony’s legal executioner. I will not allow brute behaviour.”
“Nor should you,” said Silvaro. “I thank you. My crew will be a model of good humour.”
It was early still, not even eight of the clock. The night was as dark and hot now as if a damp cloak had been drawn over the sky with the sun still in it. There was no relief from the humid warmth. Silvaro sent the boat back to the Rumour to fetch Casaudor, and to draw, by straws, the first two dozen for shore leave. Roque, Sesto and Silvaro waited for a while in the stifling bar, but the lethargy became too draining, so they purchased a bottle of muscat and retired to the harbour wall, supping in a pass-around and relishing the meagre sea breeze that came in across the water.
Longboats came back from the Rumour, three of them this time. Casaudor came up first, clutching the slates of requirements he and Fahd had been drawing up. Gello was with him. Casaudor had job enough being master mate, and had decided to get Junio’s apprentice up to speed. Behind them came the lucky straws. Eight men from the Rumour, four from the Safire. Sesto didn’t know the Safire’s men, except the ship’s master, Silke.
Chance—or more likely rank-pulling—had made sure Silke was one of the first ashore. His broad frame was wrapped in a yellow tunic of Arabyan silk, painted with clover leaf designs in cochineal, and he sported a purple slouch cap over his seven-pi
gtailed coiffure.
Sesto knew the men from the Rumour. Vento, the sail-maker, Zazara, Small Willm (as opposed to Tall Willm, whose straw had been unlucky), Runcio and Lupresso. The sixth man surprised him. It was Sheerglas, the master gunner. Sesto had never seen that spectre of a man above decks, let alone on shore. He wore long robes of black, as if attending a funeral.
“Two hours,” Silvaro told the visitors. “Then change smartly for the next boats. And make no trouble, or you’ll hear from me.”
The men began to disperse into the quiet town.
Casaudor and Gello brought the slates over and were discussing them with Luka when horsemen rode up onto the quay, escorting two carriages. The carriages were ornate and once-fine, their carved decorations covered in gilt that was flaking away in the salt air. Each one was drawn by a six horse team, and their lamps blazed like mast-lightning in the dark.
The outriders were all Estalian soldiers in comb helms, carrying spears upright at the saddle bow. Ferrol dismounted.
He came to Luka and bowed. “His excellency the governor Emeric Gorge invites you to dine with him this night. He makes the invitation as a gesture of hospitality to the servants of his grace, the Prince of Luccini.”
“I am honoured by the invitation,” Luka said. “How many does it extend to?”
“All of you,” Ferrol replied.
Luka left Casaudor and Gello to get on with arrangements. A few drowsy-looking merchants had been persuaded out of their town houses to haggle prices. The rest of the Rumour men boarded the coaches with Luka.
All except Sheerglas, Sesto noted, who had disappeared.
XI
The carriages, lamps gleaming in the tropical night, took them out of the sleeping town and up into the hills. After weeks of sea life, such conveyance was very strange to all of them. The coaches shook and rattled in a way a ship never did, not even in a tempest. Every rut and crevice in the roadway made them jump and clatter. The coach interiors—faded velvet and polished oak—were well-lit with sconced lanterns, and made little worlds of firelight that reminded Sesto unpleasantly of the tired scenes of melancholy he’d viewed through the windows in the town. He’d managed to get a window seat, and the compartments of the carriages were cramped. The men, some of them the roughest rudest ratings, were gabbing excitedly. The ride, and the dinner that awaited them—with the island governor no less—was a once-in-a-lifetime jolly.
Sesto looked out at the rolling landscape: dark fields under a moonless gloom. It had been a long time since he’d ridden in a state carriage, or any carriage. Outside, the crickets brisked louder than the beating hooves and the rattle of wooden wheels. Sugar cane plantations and plantain rows, dry and coarse, reached away into the humid night. He was thirsty. The rum he’d drunk caked his throat like bitumen-caulk. He longed for clean drinking.
The governor’s mansion stood on the brow of an inland hill, gazing out over the plantations and woodland that fed both it and the island. It was a red brick edifice, palatially fronted and decorated with the influence of Araby, as Estalian fashion had much favoured a century or so before. Red bougainvillea draped the nearby trees. Candles flickered at every window in the facade, and torches and braziers, gushing sparks into the night, had been arranged in the courtyard. Moths, in their hundreds, circled the lights. As the Reivers dismounted from the coaches, many of them awe-struck at the faded grandeur of the place, they heard music playing from within. Pipes, a viol, a spinnet. This was living like they’d never known.
Ferrol, a striding, purposeful figure in black, led them into the hallway, where they stood on polished marble and gazed up at glittering chandeliers. On the walls, gilt-edged mirrors of stupendous quality and size alternated with portraits of Estalian nobles. Goateed men in ruffs, bosomy ladies with skins like chalk, children in silk pantaloons. Every painted eye seemed to follow them.
“Of all the men I expected to welcome to my home, Luka Silvaro is about the last,” said a rich, soft voice.
The governor of Porto Real, Emeric Gorge, stepped into the hall. He was an old man, completely bald, his dry white skin creased with age and drawn tight across his lean face. His eyes were bright. He wore red velvet doublet and hose, and a cape of white silk that was almost painfully clean and spotless. He opened his arms wide. His fingers, clustered with rings, were pale and thin.
“My lord governor,” Luka said, dropping to his knee.
“Rise up, pirate lord… or should that be privateer now?”
“I am the proud bearer of the marque of Luccini,” Luka said, rising.
“The only reason you are welcomed here, to this house and this island.” Gorge chuckled and winked at Luka. “I’m lying. The chance to dine and converse with the Reiver lord? Forgive me, but I count that as a luxury. I trust you and your motley followers can regale me with blood-chilling tales of cut-throat daring?”
“We’ll do our best,” Luka said. Quickly, he introduced his crew. Sesto was touched by the humble formality shown by the common dog ratings. Men like Zazara and Small Willm doffed their scarf-caps and bent their knees. The Reivers were on best behaviour.
Silke did not fawn. He wanted it known he was a ship master, second only to Silvaro. He preened and conversed agily with the governor when his turn came.
Gorge reached Roque. “An Estalian brother?” he remarked.
Roque bowed. “A son of the sea, rather,” he demurred.
“But you have a noble look about you,” Gorge persisted. “I am reminded of the Delia Fortunas, that highborn family. Is their blood in you?”
“I have only a poor freebooter’s blood in my veins,” said Roque.
“Aha! We will see.”
“And this is Sesto Sciortini, a gentleman from Luccini,” Luka said at last.
Sesto bowed quickly. Gorge gazed at him, his tiny, pale tongue wetting his drawn lips as if they were too dry.
“Estalia welcomes its friend from across the sea,” Gorge said in perfect Southern Tilean. “Come, let us feast.”
The governor led them into a great hall. The roof was three storeys high, and brazier fires around the walls created that golden fire glow that Sesto now associated with lethargy and torpor. The musicians were playing on the balcony, and servants were placing the last of the dishes on the long trestle tables: roast pork, braised fish, spice-stuffed fowl, bowls of steamed vegetables, baked plantains, sugar-glazed fruit, sausage, curd cheese, plates of rice and shrimp. Gorge ushered them all to seats, and stewards began to track back and forth, filling their goblets—silver beakers inscribed with the Estalian coat of arms - with wine and watered rum.
“I want water,” Sesto said.
“Sir?” the steward asked, poised to pour his jug of wine.
“Water. I’m thirsty.”
The steward nodded, and came back with a glass bell-bottle full of cold water.
Sesto filled his glass and drank deep.
“I cannot deny that times have been tight,” Gorge told Luka as they tore into the salted pork. “My town lives or dies by the process of trade. Ships come in, ships go out. Porto Real turns over. Six months now, trade has been dead. Before tonight, it’s four months since a ship put in.”
“I sensed a malaise,” Luka said.
“How so?” Gorge asked, wiping grease from his chin with his napkin.
“In the town. A strange lethargy, as if the heat had sweltered the life out of the citizens.”
Gorge nodded. “Porto Real is dying. Without trade it is drying up. You’ll find you get a good price for your water and victuals. It’s a buyer’s market.”
He reached out and took a chicken leg from a nearby dish. Liquid sugar dripped off as he raised it to his mouth.
“There is an illness too.”
“An illness? Plague?” Luka started.
Gorge raised his hand quickly. “Be of calm heart, Luka Silvaro! I would have had the quay men raise the quarantine flags if plague had entered Porto Real. No, it’s something much more subtle. A malingering we
akness. A sapping of strength. It might be the heat, or the draining emptiness of the season.”
“I saw it in the faces around me,” Roque said.
Gorge nodded. “We have been craving newcomers. New arrivals. Fresh blood, so to speak. Anything to enliven our lives. Commerce and intercourse have run dry.”
Luka raised a fat scallop to his mouth on his twin-tined fork. Cooking butter ran down the handle over his fingers. He bit into its flesh. “Because of the Butcher Ship?” he asked.
“Because of the Butcher Ship, precisely,” Gorge agreed, watching as Luka devoured the scallop. “That hideous thing is out there, and no ships dare sail. It is a monster, dare I say it… a vampire, sucking the life out of a sea that was once thronging with trade.”
“The Butcher Ship is the reason I have been awarded my letter of marque,” said Luka.
Gorge was impressed. “You are charged to kill it? Well then. Good luck, Silvaro.”
“Have you seen it?” Luka asked.
“I have heard stories. Better men than you have died facing it. Once, at nightfall three weeks ago, I was called to the quay because yards had been seen. A daemon ship, scarlet like blood, coursed in, took a look at us, and sailed away. I am certain it was the Butcher Ship. The very sight of it terrified me.”
Luka nodded.
“And you’re going to hunt it out and sink it?”
“That’s the plan,” said Luka Silvaro.
Sesto took a swig of his drink. He’d finished the water now, and the steward had been topping him up with wine.
He swilled down some of the wine, and then took a helping of sausage from the nearest dish.
He felt very tired suddenly.
Sesto woke with a start. His mind was as blurry as a fog-bound dawn. He thought he’d been woken by a cry of pain or fear, but it was quiet now.
