by Janny Wurts
By now, intrigued onlookers shouted for bets. Coins flashed, to the patter as someone made odds on which brawler was going to swing first. Here at the Kittiwake, fisticuffs and mayhem were counted as prime entertainment.
‘Young fool!’ the fat spellbinder snarled. Now jostled as enthusiasts totted up wagers, he nursed his pitcher and, with sullen deliberation, refilled his dry tankard. ‘I’ll wring your neck, you dirt-stupid Araethurian, before I move even one step.’ Ignoring the whores, who stopped kissing to crane, and the growl from their displeased patron, Dakar nattered on. ‘Press me further, yes, beware! You’ll see trouble on a scale you can’t possibly imagine. Enough to make a verminous sink-hole seem blithe as a nurse-maid’s picnic. Now, shut your mouth. Sit on your temper and swallow the beer set in front of you.’
‘Damn you to Sithaer before I take a drop,’ Fionn Areth retorted.
The rabid pack of gamblers shoved back to make space.
Dakar shut his eyes. He sucked a martyred breath. Then in one lightning move, he elbowed erect and dumped his brimming tankard over his tangled head.
The run-off doused the longshoreman, to ear-splitting shrieks from his harlots. They hiked up scarlet petticoats and fled. Their swain’s irate bellow clashed with the clerks’ howls and rattled soot from the Kittiwake’s rafters.
Dakar freed his captive arm. While the trestle skidded, upsetting the pitcher and smashing two lightermen’s dinner plates, he skinned through the clerks’ snatching grasp and used his tankard to parry the stevedore’s battering fist.
Crockery smashed. Fragments pelted over the dicers crammed elbow to elbow on the seat just behind.
Yelling murder, and unnaturally quick for a stout man grown tight on the Kittiwake’s twopenny brew, Dakar ducked a dock-walloper’s left hook. Then he lost his balance and sat. The brute’s knuckles hammered into the clerks’ outraged charge. The leading one crashed with a bloodied jaw, and flattened two of his fellows. Their thrashing upset the adjacent trestle. Bowls and hot chowder went flying. The four brawny fishermen deprived of their meal unsheathed flensing knives, screamed, and plunged in. Their vacated bench upset with a bang, toppling a drunk, who bowled into a circle of overdressed merchants. Lace tore; spilled food and spirits rained over fine velvets. The outraged peacocks redoubled the noise, bewailing their despoiled finery.
Trapped in the breach, Fionn Areth clambered upright. Disaster overtook him. Bedlam exploded like froth on a pot, and the Kittiwake’s tap-room erupted.
Tankards sailed. Broth splashed. Elbows and fists smacked against heaving flesh. Beneath the soaked tits of a gilded figure-head, an agile pack of sail-hands laid into their neighbours with marlinspikes, knuckle-bones, and clogs. Their sally encountered the longshoreman’s kin, who had levelled a trestle for use as a ram. Card games whisked air-borne. Stew bones and cutlery showered the brick floor, stabbing toes and tripping combatants. Three prostitutes scuttling for cover went down, then another man, who became mired in their skirts. Their squeals drew the lusty eye of a galley-man, who dived in to lay claim to the spoils. While the landlord at the tap screeched threats and imprecations, the three heavies the Kittiwake employed to toss drunks at last stirred themselves to take charge. Brandishing cudgels, they waded in, dropping bodies like beef at a knacker’s.
By then, Dakar had vanished, swallowed into the battering press.
Fionn Areth found himself trapped, all alone, mashed against the rocked edge of the trestle. The burgeoning riot cut off his escape, a rip tide that raged without quarter. The Kittiwake’s brawlers were a Shipsport legend, vicious with drink and seething with the age-old bad blood between galley-men and blue-water sailors. Crews seized on the chance to hammer their rivals. Enraged coopers shied bottles at all comers, while a reeling topman snatched lit candles from the sconces and flung them at random targets. Sparks flurried and ignited a puddle of spirits. Beset by fire and windmilling fists, the Kittiwake’s strongmen yelled to summon reinforcements. The cooks, the pot-boys, and two muscled butchers burst out of the kitchen, armed with bludgeons and cleavers. Their vengeful flying wedge suggested an experience well primed for this afternoon’s frolic.
At risk of being crippled, or knocked senseless for arrest, Fionn Areth grabbed the rolling pitcher as a weapon. But the body he slugged was a knife-bearing rigger, who whirled around, swore, and accosted him. His sally was backed by his ship’s bursar, and another sailor swinging a belaying pin.
Fionn Areth fell back on sword training, ducked the club, and used a guarding forearm to parry the wrist of the dirk-wielding assailant. The slash missed his gut and deflected upwards, the follow-through skewered his hat brim. He snatched, too late. The snagged felt whisked away. Bare-headed, and wearing the flawless, spelled features of a notorious criminal, the moorlander panicked.
His last feckless brawl had sent him to a scaffold, mistakenly condemned as a sorcerer. A blade through the heart, followed by fire would give the most stalwart man nightmares.
Haunted by dread since that narrow escape, Fionn Areth ducked in blind terror. He dodged the swift stab of a marlinspike, desperate. Unless he recovered the hat, now impaled on the point of a maniac’s dagger, he risked being falsely arraigned once again as the most wanted felon on the continent.
No one would believe the fact he was innocent. The uncanny likeness he wore was too real, a permanent imprint aligned by the wiles of the Koriani enchantresses. They had altered his face, then played him as bait. Their crafting was seamless: even his mother presumed the change was no less than his natural birthright. His late capture in Jaelot might have seen him dead for the deeds of his look-alike nemesis.
Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn, known as Spinner of Darkness, was too well renowned for obscurity. His horrific record of wanton destruction had dispatched fifty thousand armed men, sworn to serve the Alliance of Light.
‘Furies take Dakar for a witless wastrel!’ Fionn Areth gasped, sorely beset. Both marlinspike and dagger thrust in concert to maim him. He dodged the first, caught a gash on his forearm. His dive for the hat ran afoul of the brute with the cudgel dispatched to clear out the tap-room.
Fionn Areth crumpled, glassy-eyed and raging, into the dark of unconsciousness.
Roused by the throb of the bruise on his head and the stinging slice on his forearm, Fionn Areth groaned, limp and queasy with vertigo. Spinning senses revealed a small, panelled chamber, lit by a clouded casement. The fusty air smelled of ink and hot wax, while an old man’s voice stitched through his fogged thoughts, gravid with accusation.
‘…same pair wrecked the Kittiwake’s tap-room before, in the company of a known smuggler.’
Someone unseen cleared his throat and replied in the sonorous drone of state language.
While the debate sawed onwards over Fionn Areth’s head, he absorbed the fact that he slumped face-down, cheek pressed to a battered table. Iron manacles circled his wrists, which were draped like dropped meat on his knees. Somewhere nearby, a quill-nib scraped.
He tried to sit up. The effort spiked fresh pain through his skull, jogging the memory of terror. Where else could he be but in a magistrate’s custody? His despair was confirmed by the crack of a gavel, then a man’s bitten phrase, that the miscreants’ infractions were anything but a moot point.
While Fionn Areth mustered the shaken breath to assert his abused state of innocence, Dakar’s unctuous speech intervened.
‘Captain Dhirken passed the Wheel years before you took office. Lord Magistrate, the past charge was not left outstanding. Yes, her crew wrecked the Kittiwake. But the damages were settled in full at the time, paid off by the singer responsible.’
Fionn Areth shut his eyes. This was Shipsport, not Jaelot. His panic still haunted with visceral force. The nightmare repeat of prisoner’s chains could not be happening again. Through rising nausea, he tried to protest. ‘But I wasn’t th—’
A kick rapped his ankle. He gasped and shoved straight, snatched the swimming impression of a vaulted ceiling above a railed d
ais. There, a number of corpulent, robed men sat arrayed in stern judgement against him.
‘Shut up, you fool!’ Dakar hissed in his ear. ‘Handle this wrong, and we’re dog-meat.’ To Shipsport’s gathered tribunal, he temporized, ‘This time, to our sorrow, we haven’t the coin to pay fines for disorderly conduct. We can’t make amends to the Kittiwake’s landlord, beyond our respectful apologies.’
‘Well, sorry’s no recompense!’ The stout table jounced as the tavern’s greybeard owner thumped an indignant fist. ‘I’ve suffered enough of your hot air already to bore me past Daelion’s Wheel! The last time, your friend played his lyranthe for hand-outs. He sang, forbye, like a silver-tongued lark! Caroled until every last mark cleaned his pockets, and bedamned to your pleas that you’re penniless.’ To the magistrate rapping his gavel, he railed, ‘My tap-room’s in shambles! My son broke his arm. I demand satisfaction. Grant the Kittiwake use of the bard’s talent for one month. The house takes his proceeds until the debt’s paid, with the extra for punitive damages.’
The town clerk waggled his pen in remonstrance. ‘The accused in the dock broke the peace, don’t forget! Shipsport’s coffers are due a steep fine for their act of civil disturbance. These charges must be met beforetime.’
While the magistrate stroked his suet chin, and the spring’s nesting wrens cheeped in the eaves outside, Fionn Areth stirred to a sour clank of chain. ‘But I don’t—’
Dakar jammed an elbow into his ribs, then spun lies with pressured invention. ‘The bard has a head cold. Can’t sing a note. Force him to try, his sick croaking is likely to rile your patrons past salvage. You said yourself, the Kittiwake’s crowd likes to toss inept singers through the window. That won’t meet your fees, and my friend lies at risk of suffering a crippling injury’
Truth and impasse; the magistrate smothered a yawn. The victimized landlord glowered, arms folded, while the clerk licked his thumb and flattened a clean sheet of parchment. ‘Hard labour, then? Incarceration? Public whipping? The brawling was started without provocation.’ He tapped the scroll bearing the transcribed statement. ‘Disrupting the peace calls for a harsh sentence.’
Shipsport’s magistrate laced his prim knuckles and delivered the final verdict. ‘The accused have no money. Therefore, the bard will perform until the debts to the town and the tavern are discharged.’ He silenced objection with the superior glare he reserved for the low-class condemned. ‘No reprieve!’
‘I won’t sing for any man!’ yelled Fionn Areth, a mistake: his broad grasslands vowels displayed no congestion. ‘Not for a penny, not for struck gold, and not ever for settling damages over a riot that I didn’t start!’
The Kittiwake’s landlord stared down his beak nose. ‘Upright men don’t keep the company of smugglers.’
Since such shiftless character was the s’Ffalenn bastard’s legacy, the slung mud was going to stick. By luck alone, none of Shipsport’s officials connected today’s face with the infamous Master of Shadow. Draw undue attention, and some sharp-eyed busybody might come forward to point out the oversight.
Fionn Areth slumped in the prisoner’s dock, cowed by his fear as the steps of due process saddled him with the arraignment.
Experience taught him the futility of argument. His just plea would only fall on deaf ears and earn him a savage beating.
‘You dare the impertinence of claiming to refuse?’ The magistrate flicked a glance toward his clerk, then granted the case his sharp quittance. ‘Call back the guards to remove the offenders. Lock them in the dungeon on bread crusts and water till the singer sees fit to change heart.’
The dungeon in Shipsport outmatched even Dakar’s revolting description. Flood-tide clogged the drains with green slime, coating the floor with decomposing shell-fish, strained through the wracked straw and stranded kelp. Fionn Areth gagged on the nauseous stench. Too miserable to curse the rough handling of the wardens who hauled him into confinement, he sagged as they bolted his manacles to a chain spiked in the sweating stonewall.
Head tipped forward, shoulders hunched to avoid the damp masonry chilling his back, the Araethurian squeezed his eyes shut. The pound of his pulse split his skull to white agony. To make matters worse, the Mad Prophet had burst into a fit of inebriated singing. The cell had an arched ceiling. Within closed confines, his racket raised echoes fit to drive the dead to screaming torment.
Oblivious, Dakar belted on through a ballad expounding the exploits of two whores, a blind cobbler, and a goat. Cuffs from the guards failed to silence his noise. Dakar grunted, undaunted, through his tone-deaf rendition of the repetitive chorus.
‘He’s sloshed to the gills on the Kittiwake’s rotgut,’ the long-faced turnkey observed. Anxious to leave, he jangled his keys. ‘If you bash him unconscious, he’ll just wake back up. I say, let him bide. Locked in without recourse, his wretched companion is going to be driven insane. He’ll either pay up the charged fine for relief, or he’ll kick the brute’s bollocks clear through his throat. If such doesn’t kill him, the mutton-head jape won’t be left in a fit state to breed.’
Dakar widened his brown eyes, unfazed. Limp as a roped walrus in the hands of the guards, he forced them to tow him up to the ring to fasten his prisoner’s shackles. As they wrestled the bolts, puffing vile curses, his chained posture proved no deterrent. Dakar followed the ballad with warbled, scurrilious doggerel extolling the virtues of gin.
‘That’s it!’ snapped the turnkey, ears plugged with his thumbs. ‘The tide floods apace. Tarry much longer, and we’ll have wet boots.’ He fidgeted until the last guardsman filed out, then clashed the grille shut on the miscreants. His malicious grin flashed by the glare of held torch-light as he secured the rusty lock. ‘Enjoy the Lord Magistrate’s sweet hospitality!’
The squelching tread of officialdom retreated, plunging the cell into darkness.
Fionn Areth stifled his impulse to shout. The icy air settled like a batt of inky wool once the upstairs portal banged closed. The reek of sea rot and urine overpowered, as the flow of fresh air was cut off.
A large insect scuttled over the Araethurian’s scraped wrist. His jerk of revulsion clanged the fixed chain, and his curse snatched the break between choruses. ‘May the furies of Sithaer’s eighth hell plague the day that your dam spread her knees and gave birth!’
Through the hitched pause to recover his breath, Dakar chuckled. ‘You might as well sing along with me, bumpkin. Stay cheerful, you won’t have to think overmuch, or listen to the skittering wild life.’
‘Damn you for a sot!’ Fionn Areth lashed back. ‘Without your loose habits, we wouldn’t be dangled like carrion, nose to nose with the starveling rats.’
‘Ho!’ Dakar whooped. ‘Starveling rats! That’s poetic’ Buoyed to euphoria by the Kittiwake’s ale, he nudged his companion’s ankle. ‘Know this one, do you?’ He plunged into another obscene recitation, at a pitch fit to mangle the ear-drums.
‘Shut up!’ Fionn Areth kicked back, cleanly missed, and clunked his head against the wall with a yelp of anguished frustration. ‘Just how are we to get out of this fix? They think I’m Athera’s Masterbard! In truth, I don’t sing any better than you. If you’re going to insist that we work off our fine that way, the Kittiwake’s roughnecks might as well batter us straight to perdition right now. Better I give my consent to such madness, before we pickle in this cesspit, drowning in rat crap and sea-water.’
‘Well, practise a bit first.’ Dakar hiccoughed in brosy hilarity. ‘Might as well test your talent before we’re marched out to get diced by a mob of drunken sailhands.’
‘You should care, numbed as a dolt on cheap beer,’ Fionn Areth cut back in ripe sarcasm.
‘Actually I’m not,’ Dakar confessed, his blurred whisper nearly lost in the darkness. ‘For the record, at least, I’m uselessly pissed until after the tide-water rises.’ Louder, he added, ‘Sing, damn your hide. Howl like a monkey, or warble in counterpoint. If you don’t, the pesky warden might decide to withhold our ration of br
ead crusts. The last thing we need is some ham-handed grunt trying to drag us back upstairs beforetime.’
‘What!’ Fionn Areth jerked his sore wrists in a bale-fire flash of amazement. ‘Refuse the chance to get out of this place? You’re off your head! Gone moonstruck, and truly’
‘Skin-tight on beer, but not crazy,’ Dakar insisted with owlish gravity. ‘I thought, since we’re here, you should savour the experience. The odd, swimming varmint who might perch on your head will be offered the gift of survival. Far more than a rat might see benefits.’
Past hope of holding a sane conversation, Fionn Areth lapsed into stiff silence. Besotted whimsy could not reverse the gravity of his current quandary. He felt no pity for the doomed rats, though the shut door blocked their way to the stairwell. Not as long as he languished in chains, bearing a criminal sorcerer’s features.
Dakar was no use. Unfazed by the threat, he filled his lungs and resumed bawling sing-song nonsense. The cold grew no less. The stink stayed oppressive. The herder from Araethura cursed the short length of the chain, which would not let him clasp his hands to his aching head. While he sat, chewing over his circling fears, the news from upcoast moved apace: word already spread, that the Master of Shadow had escaped from the Mayor of Jaelot’s close custody. The men-at-arms dispatched in his pursuit had been lured over the Skyshiel Ranges and into the wilds of Daon Ramon Barrens.
In darkness, the graphic accounts spurred fresh terror: of town-born blood spilled by savage design; eye-witness tales of shadows and haunts bringing death on the Baiyen causeway; of men lulled to sleep by the singing of stones and frozen to glass under moonlight. Everywhere, Arithon’s name inspired fear. If Dakar gave short shrift to the doctrine that claimed Rathain’s prince was a demon, today’s episode of manic debauchery destroyed the last foothold for trust.
