by Anthony Ryan
Turning his attention to the tube, Vaelin removed the ornate cap to extract the scroll within, unfurling it to reveal two carefully crafted, if somewhat fanciful drawings. At the top was a crossbow-shaped device, twice the height of a man, casting forth a torrent of bolts like a fountain. Beneath it an even-larger contraption shaped like a giant bottle spewed a thick cascade of flame onto the deck of a ship.
“I see,” he said, handing the scroll to Orven with a raised eyebrow. The North Guard commander scanned it briefly before letting out a faintly amused snort.
“We believe the rendering to be accurate,” Ambassador Kohn said.
“Your dimensions are off,” Vaelin told him, resuming his seat.
“You know these devices?” General Gian asked.
“I should. They were crafted by my own sister.”
The man exchanged a brief glance with Kohn, a doubtful frown on both their brows. Women rulers, women artificers, Vaelin thought. How strange we must seem.
“But they work as depicted?” Gian asked.
“The first is a type of ballista that can cast fifty bolts at a target in less than a minute. The second can issue a jet of fire capable of consuming any ship within seconds. Yes . . .” Vaelin’s voice faded as he recalled the many times he had held Alornis’s shuddering form after she woke from yet another nightmare. They keep asking me why, she would whisper. Even as they burn, they want to know why. It wouldn’t be so bad if they just screamed . . . “Yes, they work very well.”
He gave an apologetic smile before continuing in a brisk tone. “Good sirs, it grieves me to inform you that your journey has been wasted. By order of the Queen’s Word these devices are not for sale, at any price.”
Both ambassadors responded differently, General Gian’s blunt features bunching in a frown whilst Kohn pasted an empty smile on his face. “You have not yet heard the price we are willing to offer, my lord,” he said. “The gift we have already provided is but a small token in comparison, a mere symbol of our king’s intent.”
“I am not governed by your king’s intent,” Vaelin replied. “But by my queen’s, and she has decreed these weapons remain solely in the hands of her own host. I am sure a man of your intellect will be quick to understand her reasoning.”
General Gian let out a sigh, his lips forming a sardonic grin. “Sell a neighbour a dog and he’ll train it to bite you,” he muttered in an accent far more coarse than before. The general, it seemed, was not of noble origins.
“Quite so, good sir,” Vaelin said.
“If the devices cannot be purchased,” Kohn continued, Vaelin detecting a suppressed note of desperation in his voice, “then perhaps the expertise to craft engines of equal effectiveness could. Is your sister here? I should greatly enjoy making her acquaintance.”
“My sister currently resides in Varinshold,” Vaelin told him, voice hardening into a less than courteous tone. “Where she serves as Principal of the Royal College of Arts. I assure you any approach you might make to her will be swiftly refused. She has no desire to ever craft another weapon of any kind.”
Kohn’s smile faltered, a narrowing of his eyes bespeaking the level of insult he had suffered. Nevertheless, he recovered quickly, forming his long-nailed hands into a symmetrical clasp Vaelin recognised as a gesture used in calming meditation. “In that case, my lord, I must request that we be permitted to appeal directly to your queen. If you will allow us to continue to enjoy your hospitality for a few more days, I will compose a formal proposal.”
“As you wish,” Vaelin said. “The queen is currently touring her Volarian dominions so it may be months before you receive a response. I should caution you, however, that I find it highly unlikely she will accede to your request.”
“Nevertheless, as you are bound by your Queen’s Word, I am bound by my king’s.” Kohn bowed again, then paused, a flicker of irritation passing across his lined features as Gian murmured an unfamiliar word. It sounded to Vaelin much like the Chu-Shin word for “whore,” but with a more prolonged inflection.
Does he expect me to procure him a woman? Vaelin wondered as Kohn forced another smile.
“If you will allow me to raise another, hopefully less contentious matter, my lord,” the ambassador said. “The renown of the warriors in your Realm is acclaimed across the world entire, particularly the archers of the southern lands and the horse-folk of the northern plains. Our king is highly desirous of witnessing their skills with his own eyes. If we could be permitted to invite some to return with us to the Venerable Kingdom, it would be greatly appreciated. They will, of course, receive generous compensation.”
First weapons, now mercenaries, Vaelin mused. The Venerable Kingdom is troubled, it seems.
“All subjects of the Realm are free men and women,” he said. “And may go where they wish. However, I should advise you that, whilst you will surely have some success in recruiting archers from Cumbrael, the Eorhil rarely venture from the plains unless in direst need. Still, some of them may be curious to see what manner of horses you breed in your kingdom. A moment, if you will, good sirs.”
He beckoned Orven closer, speaking in Eorhil. “They want to recruit mercenaries from amongst your wife’s people.”
“Then they’ll be wasting their time,” Orven replied with a bemused frown.
“I know, but I’m keen to find out why and I doubt I’ll get a straight answer from the old man. The warrior, however . . .”
Orven gave a nod of understanding. “But I don’t speak his tongue, my lord.”
“A ruse. I suspect he speaks Realm Tongue just as well as the old man does. Perhaps he’ll demonstrate how well after you share some wine at the campfire.”
Vaelin turned to the ambassadors, switching back to Chu-Shin. “Whilst Ambassador Kohn composes his missive to the queen, perhaps General Gian would like to journey forth to meet with the Eorhil. Lord Commander Orven here will make the introductions. He knows them very well.”
The general exchanged a brief glance with Kohn before bowing and offering a gruff agreement. There were more effusions of gratitude from Ambassador Kohn, accompanied by more bowing, before the embassy finally made its exit and Vaelin decreed Petition Day at an end. The few remaining petitioners exuded a low grumble of disappointment as they filed out, but knew better than to make any overt protestations. To Vaelin’s surprise, Ellese remained in her seat as the chamber cleared, a rare contemplative frown on her brow.
“Something wrong?” he asked her.
“The man with the scroll,” she said. “He had a scar.”
“Yes, I saw. You did well to spot it. He’s a warrior of some kind, or more likely a spy. The Merchant Kings are well known for their fondness for espionage. Don’t worry, we have our own spies. Lord Orven ensured they’ve been closely watched since their arrival.”
“It wasn’t just the scar . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head and rising from her chair. “It seems I can never escape my suspicious nature. Mother’s influence. I’ll forgo dinner, if you don’t mind, Uncle. Delightful as I find your company, I really should check on Scrapper. She’s still a youngster, gets jittery if she’s on her own for too long.”
Scrapper was Ellese’s horse, which meant she intended to visit the stables where Sehmon, the outlaw turned indentured servant, would be bedding down for the night. The urge to order her to her room was strong, as was the desire to nail it shut for the next few years, but Vaelin knew such tactics had failed before. The tighter I bind the leash, Reva’s letter had said, the more delight she takes in breaking it.
He was tempted to remind Ellese of her words to Olna but stopped his tongue. In all likelihood she had already sought out a wise woman with the requisite herbs. Instead, he said, “Be back before the changing of the midnight watch.”
“I will.” She stepped close to peck a kiss to his cheek before hurrying off. “Love you, Uncle. Thanks for taking m
e hunting.”
CHAPTER FOUR
This one.” Alum’s finger tapped at the symbol depicted in the ledger, a shield enclosing two crossed sabres beneath a cracked and bleeding heart. “The ships all bore this flag.”
“The Forlorn Blades,” Kerran said, peering at the recently penned script alongside the symbol. “A fairly troublesome lot, to be sure. Until recently that is. This is the first report we’ve had of them for some months.” She pointed to a red X inscribed below the symbol. “This indicates the Merchants’ Guild believes this particular group to have been wiped out. A not uncommon occurrence these days.” She waved a hand at the other entries on the page, Vaelin counting another ten Xs below the various pirate motifs.
“They’re feuding again,” he concluded. “Piracy has dropped off recently, but I assumed it was due to the increased number of warships escorting the convoys.”
“Some kind of power struggle seems to be playing itself out,” Kerran agreed. “We keep hearing rumours of a new pirate alliance far to the south in the Opal Isles. However, firm intelligence eludes us. Pirates are ever a secretive lot and surprisingly loyal.”
“The Opal Isles?” Alum asked.
Kerran reached for a map and unfurled it on her desk. It was a sailor’s chart, inscribed with numerous lines and notations beyond Vaelin’s understanding, but he did recognise the long, varied coastline of the southernmost regions of the continent that Realm Folk referred to as the Far West.
“Here,” Kerran said, pointing to an archipelago of numerous islands stretching across the lower Arathean Ocean that stretched between the Far West and the western extremity of the Alpiran Empire. “It’s a mostly lawless region, despite repeated attempts by both the Merchant Kings and successive Alpiran Emperors to bring it to heel. The plentiful channels and inlets make for excellent hiding places. The isles are dotted with pirate settlements, some quite large and well populated.”
“So these Forlorn Blades could have sailed there?” Vaelin asked.
“Possibly,” Kerran said, “but if they had slaves to sell, it’s more likely they’d head for one of the ports in the Enlightened Kingdom.” Kerran’s finger tracked to the mainland north of the Opal Isles. “The Merchant King dynasty here has a long-standing tolerance for the slave trade not shared with their brother kings in the north. It’s thanks to this that the queen forbade Realm merchants from trading with the Enlightened Kingdom three years ago.”
“I remember,” Vaelin said, recalling an unusually tense meeting with an ambassador from the court of the Enlightened Kingdom. Unlike Ambassador Kohn, the man hadn’t known a word of Realm Tongue, and his clumsy attempts to have his interpreter translate an offered bribe had been an embarrassment to all present.
“Therefore,” Vaelin continued, “no ship in this port will carry you to the Enlightened Kingdom. However, many vessels sail to the other kingdoms in the Far West every day. Here.” He took a heavy purse from his belt and handed it to Alum. “For your passage and expenses once you reach the Far West. One man alone cannot hope to free so many by force. You’ll have to buy them back.”
Alum eyed the purse, a puzzled frown on his face. “You will not be sailing with me?”
Vaelin glanced over the map once more, taking in the vastness of the region and realising Alum most likely faced an impossible task. Even so, he couldn’t deny a severe temptation to join the Moreska’s search. I could just leave it all behind, he thought. For a time, at least. Petitions, outlaws, Ellese’s lessons . . . Nortah.
“I have duties here,” he said.
Vaelin took hold of Alum’s wrist, planting the purse in his palm and nodding at Kerran. “The Lady Guild Mistress will find you a suitable ship. Come and eat with me again before you sail.”
“We will sail,” Alum said. “Together.”
“I told you . . .”
“My cousin spoke the true word.” The coins in the purse jangled as Alum’s fist tightened on it, a hard insistence colouring his words. Vaelin recalled the eyes of the Moreska woman at the mine, the piercing, knowing gaze. “We will sail together,” Alum repeated. “The path to our children lies with you. Until you are ready to sail, I must remain here.”
“Well,” Kerran said, breaking the silence that followed. “I’ll let Cook know we have one more for dinner tonight.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Artis scowled into his soup, maintaining a sullen silence as he ate, which was matched by his sister, although she seemed more distracted than angry.
“No next course if you don’t finish that,” her aunt chided from the head of the table.
Lohren gave a small grimace and dutifully spooned some soup into her mouth. Vaelin noted how her eyes kept straying to the portrait over the fireplace. It depicted a middle-aged man in the garb of a sea captain, standing with sabre in hand against a background of smoke-darkened skies and burning rigging. Vaelin had never met him, but by all accounts Kerran’s husband hadn’t been quite so tall and slim of waist, nor the hair on his head so plentiful.
He was a good man, my lord, Brother Kehlan told Vaelin once. Quick of wit and generous of heart for a merchant. But he had no business commanding a warship. They do say he died bravely, nonetheless.
To Vaelin’s eyes the dining room was, like the rest of Kerran’s home, overly large. The husband for whom she still wore the mourning ribbons had been a rich man, although Vaelin suspected much of his wealth had resulted from the acumen of his wife. Following his death, the profits of the Honoured Trading House of Al Verin had doubled and then tripled. Kerran was now one of the ten wealthiest individuals in the Reaches and the much respected head of the Merchants’ Guild. But still, the mourning ribbons remained firmly sewed to her bodice and he knew it wasn’t simply to ward off unwanted suitors, even though there were many.
“The twins aren’t joining us?” Vaelin asked, glancing at the empty chairs to his left.
“I find it best to let them eat in the kitchen,” Kerran replied. “They can be a bit fractious, even more so lately.”
“They miss Father,” Lohren said, which drew a derisive snort from her brother. “Well they do!” she insisted with a glare that she immediately turned on Vaelin. “As do I, Uncle.”
“Your father is where he needs to be,” Vaelin told her. “For now.”
“Leave the piss-stained drunkard there to rot for all I care,” Artis muttered, his first words of the evening.
Vaelin’s fist came down on the table, hard enough to make the cutlery rattle. He stared at Artis, letting the silence stretch until the boy eventually raised his eyes, defiant but also a little fearful.
“Your father,” Vaelin said in a soft but intent voice, “travelled across half the world fighting the worst war this Realm has ever known. He waded through fire and blood to save the life of our queen and watched our brother Caenis die in the process. He didn’t do this out of lust for glory or expectation of reward. He did this to keep his family safe, and it cost him more than you can imagine. Regardless of his crimes, your father requires your respect and you will show it.”
Artis glared back, Vaelin finding the boy’s face a disconcerting mirror of Nortah’s at the same age. He also possessed much the same capacity for acting without due thought.
“That man is no longer my father!” Artis shouted, getting to his feet, defiance overcoming his fear. His spoon skittered away as he flung it down on the table. “And you’re not even my real uncle.”
“Artis!” Kerran said, a rare scowl of anger on her brow as she rose from her seat, casting a pointed glance at Alum. “We have a guest!”
“And you’re not my mother!” Artis yelled, whirling away and rushing to the door. “My mother died, remember?”
The door slammed as Artis fled the room, leaving a thick silence in his wake.
“You should send him to a hut in the hills,” Alum told Kerran. He seemed
unruffled by the disturbance and continued to partake of his soup, lips smacking in appreciation. “Once I was disrespectful to my grandmother so my father sent me to the hut for a whole summer, with only a knife and no food or water. I ate snakes and scorpions.” He gave a nostalgic chuckle and took another mouthful of soup. “Or you could just beat him.”
“That’s a thought,” Vaelin muttered, drawing a hard glance from Kerran.
What had passed between them had been a brief thing, born of mutual loneliness in the months after the war’s end when the absence of those they had lost felt like a raw, bleeding wound. They had both known it would never last. Close as they became, their shared affection was not the kind that blossoms into something that could endure. It had ended amicably, at her insistence. She blamed it on the minor scandal and burgeoning gossip their less-than-discreet nightly liaisons had engendered, though he had known that to be an excuse; throughout it all the mourning ribbons never went away. Even so, these five years later, Kerran continued to enjoy a certain leeway with the Tower Lord not afforded to others.
“Perhaps,” she said, “he would be better behaved if his uncle spent more time attending to family instead of endlessly scouring the countryside for more outlaws to hang.”
“He misses home,” Lohren said, voice soft and eyes distant as she stirred her mostly uneaten soup. “Our friends are all at the Point. Cara teaches school there now Father’s gone. She is firm but kind and they love her, which makes her heart hurt less. She misses Lorkan but won’t say so, even to herself.”
Kerran stared at her niece, face suddenly pale. “You’re doing it again,” she said in a thin whisper. “You said it didn’t happen anymore.”
“It doesn’t, mostly. But sometimes it comes back. I don’t tell you when it does, but Uncle Vaelin needs to know something.”
