by Tim Stead
A Game of Three Hands
By
Tim Stead
The Fourth Age of Shanakan
Book 4
© Tim Stead 2018
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author.
Author’s Note
Yet again I would like to thank all those who helped to make this book happen, all the patient readers whose comments, praise and criticism made this better than it otherwise might have been.
You can find more about me and my work at
http://www.timstead.info
Also by Tim Stead
The Sparrow and the Wolf
The Seventh Friend
The Bloodstained God
The Pity Stone
The Beggar’s Ride
Serpentine
The Fourth Age of Shanakan
Shanakan
The Lawkeeper of Samara
Scar Felice
1 Jerohal
The ship eased towards the dock with apologetic slowness. She had no right to be here, and her master knew as much. All of Cabarissa was forbidden to men and Jerohal, its capital city, doubly so.
There was a precedent, however. Some Pekkish merchantmen had managed to dock and trade without loss of life, but it was a delicate balance, especially since a group of Darnese ships had attempted an invasion of the island, with catastrophic results, some three years earlier, and this was a Darnese ship.
The master, a swarthy, stocky man of some fifty years who bore the name Kent Silman, heeded the advice he’d been given – as few on deck as possible, don’t set foot on shore or dock, be polite as though your life depended upon it, because it did.
He had men fore and aft with ropes looped and ready for the bollards on the pier and four more poling the ship across the shallow harbour. As the ship crept towards the dock he could see one of them, one of the Shannish warriors, standing there, watching.
Silman had no idea how these creatures were related to the Shan, but did not doubt some magic was involved. He’d never heard of them when the Faer Karan ruled, only after their fall, and that meant Serhan had something to do with it. He resisted the urge to spit at the Mage Lord’s name. The thing on the dock might take offence. That would be bad. Just one of them could rip his vessel to pieces and slaughter his crew.
As they drew alongside the dock he examined the creature. It was half as tall again as a man, armoured with scales, adorned with a long, thick mane that fell most of the way down its back, and possessed of the most wicked claws he had ever seen. It reminded him of the Faer Karan themselves. It was just the sort of form a Faer Karani would have chosen to terrify men.
It watched him in silence.
His men threw ropes around bollards fore and aft, tightened them and then vanished below decks. He would gladly have followed them, but he was being paid for this, and well paid at that.
“Honourable Kastan Delor,” he called. “Will you hear me?”
The creature stared. It didn’t blink at all, just stared like the dead stare.
“I hear you,” it said, its voice oddly effeminate for such a thing.
“I would beg a favour of you, mighty warrior,” he said.
“Speak plainly,” the monster said.
Polite had been the advice – be polite but not too florid, not too grovelling. He licked his lips, tried to work spittle into his dry mouth.
“I carry a passenger,” Silman said. “He seeks an audience with Sage Dahl who dwells here in Jerohal.”
The monster looked towards the city, a scattering of low, whitewashed houses that clambered up the hills surrounding the port. There were larger buildings, too, clustered to the west around a low promontory. Silman wondered if that was the famed college of Seers.
“I am not a messenger,” the creature said.
“Of course,” Silman said. “Perhaps another could help?” He could see several Shan, creatures he recognised as Shan, small, flat faced, clumsy, sitting in a group at the root of the dock. The monster followed his gaze.
“I can offer recompense,” Silman added.
“I will ask,” the warrior said. It walked slowly down the dock, not sparing a backward glance at the ship, until it came within a few paces of the Shan. They looked up and words were exchanged. One of the creatures broke away from the group and walked towards the ship, outpacing the larger warrior, which strolled back with deliberate steps.
The Shan stopped on the dock above Silman and looked down.
“You want to send a message?” it asked.
“I do. I have a message for Sage Dahl.”
The Shan pulled a face. “He lives up the west valley,” it said. “It will take me an hour to get there and he may not be at home.”
“There is payment,” Silman said.
“We do not have much use for your gold,” the Shan said.
“I have other currencies,” Silman assured him. “What is your interest?” Silman had only ever seen a Shan once before, but he had been thoroughly briefed. Not all Shan were Seers or Sages. Some were dedicated to the culinary arts, some to architecture, though he saw little evidence of the latter in Jerohal. The place looked as though it had been built by the land itself. There were no great towers, no rising spires.
The Shan shrugged. “I can trade many things. Do you have spices?”
They would be used to spices. The Pekkans specialised in them and had established a precarious market here. Silman was prepared for this.
“I have Pekkan fire spice, yellow pepper from Blaye, and wine vinegars.”
“Vinegars? What are they?”
It was the response that Silman’s passenger had hoped for. Something new had additional value to the Shan. He’d been told that, too.
“They are liquids, made from grapes, but sour tasting – highly prized in Blaye and Samara,” he said.
The monster had drifted up and now stood behind the Shan, looking over its shoulder. Its presence made Silman uneasy, but he opened a box on the deck and took out a small glass flask. The dark red liquid within caught the sun and glittered like rubies.
“To eat?” the Shan asked.
“Aye, to eat, but mixed, like a spice. They use it to preserve food as well.”
The Shan pulled a face. Apparently preserving food was repugnant. It held out a hand.
“A taste?”
Silman stepped up onto the wooden rail of his ship, balancing by holding onto one of the mainmast stays, to hand the bottle to the Shan and the monster behind it stepped forwards as well, watching the Darnese master’s feet. One step too far would still be a disaster.
The Shan took the bottle and removed the stopper. It sniffed the vinegar, then, apparently satisfied with the aroma, stoppered the bottle with a finger, briefly turning it upside down before sticking the tainted finger in its mouth.
“Good,” it said. “I will carry your message for two bottles.”
“One bottle now and one when Sage Dahl stands where you stand now,” Silman said.
“He may not wish to come,” the Shan said.
“Persuade him.”
The Shan smiled, which made it look less human, and tucked the bottle of vinegar into a pocket. “I accept your terms,” it said. “But what have you to offer the Sage? He will not be willing to come just to bandy words with a ship master.”
“What I have to offer him is a secret not be entrusted to messengers,” Silman said. “Especially those not of his household. It will be something he will want.”
“That is good,” the Shan said. “I will tell him that.”
It turned and sauntered off down the dock, paused to speak a few
words to its former companions, and then vanished into the streets of the town. Silman stepped back down onto the deck of his ship. Now he must wait.
The monster continued to stare.
*
It was three hours before anything happened. The sun had passed its zenith and the heat of the day had become a torture for Silman. Darna was hot, but it was nothing like Jerohal. Here the sun climbed until it was vertically above him, and it beat down on his unprotected head with unreserved malice. For all he had been told, his passenger had neglected to tell him to wear a hat.
He sat on one of the hatches with a cloth draped over his head. From time to time he sipped at a flask of warm water, and from time to time he poured a little to dampen the cloth. He had long lost his air of expectation when he caught a movement and saw that the monster on the dock had turned its head to look to landward.
He followed the creature’s glance and saw that two Shan were walking up the dock towards him. He squinted against the sun’s tyranny and thought that the one on the left was perhaps the messenger he had sent. That would mean that the other would be Sage Dahl. Perhaps. He stamped his foot on the deck three times and was rewarded with another dead stare from the monster.
There was a sound from the companionway going down into the stern, a creaking board, a shuffle.
“Is he coming?” The voice was Silman’s passenger.
“Perhaps,” Silman replied.
Their exchange had not escaped the notice of the thing on the dock. It stared harder, then turned towards the approaching figures and held up a hand. They stopped.
“I will come aboard your ship,” the monster said.
It was the very last thing that Silman wanted, a prelude to disaster, but what could he do?
“Of course,” he said, stepping back from the rail.
The warrior jumped down to the deck with surprising grace. There was no thump when it hit the planking, just a delicate clicking from the claws of its bird-like feet. It was almost as though it weighed nothing at all. It stalked over to the companionway and peered within.
“Who are you and why do you hide here?” it asked.
Silman’s passenger stepped out onto the scorched deck. The master had to hand it to the man. He showed no fear and took a few steps to put a polite distance between himself and the towering creature.
“Forgive me, worthy Kastan Delor,” he said. “But I was anxious to meet my guest.”
“You are the master of this ship?” the creature asked.
“Indeed not,” the man said. “But I have employed the master to bring me here so that I might meet with Sage Dahl.”
“So you are in command here.”
“No. The master commands the ship in all things.”
The monster shook its head, a sign of frustration, Silman thought. It was having difficulty comprehending who held the senior position of the two, which hinted at a simpler life, which in turn didn’t seem particularly Shannish.
“I am merely a trader,” the man added. “He is the master of the ship.”
The Kastan Delor stared for a moment, then gave up. “Very well,” it said. The creature sprang back onto the dock, jumping the six feet up from the deck with consummate ease, and waved the two Shan to approach. Silman watched them come. The Sage was dressed in black, and the cloth was clearly a better weave than the messenger who walked half a step behind. It also wore a hood, presumably as shelter from the sun, but it was clearly more comfortable than Silman, who wore less cloth and was sweating like a pig.
The master took another bottle of vinegar from the chest on the deck. He handed it up to the messenger Shan who took it and promptly scuttled back down the dock to its friends. It was clearly more disturbed by the presence of the Sage than by that of the warrior.
Sage Dahl stood and inspected the ship, hands folded together and hidden by sleeves. Apart from the clothes he could have been the same Shan as the messenger – Silman could see no difference in their faces.
“Secrets,” the Sage said. “Things not to be shared with mere messengers. I hope that you will not disappoint me, captain.”
“It has been my duty to bring you here, Sage Dahl,” Silman said. “But your expectations will be exceeded by my passenger.” He indicated the man standing close to the companionway, and the man took a step forwards and bowed, ever so slightly. It worried Silman a little that he did not know his passenger’s real name. He had introduced himself as Jon – just Jon – and that was about as plain a disguise as wearing a mask. His name was false for sure, but his gold was real.
“I am honoured, Sage Dahl, to meet so famous a graduate of the college of seers.”
“I am a master of lore, not a Seer,” the Shan said. It seemed a little put out.
“And yet your fame…”
“You want poisons,” the Shan interrupted. “What have you to offer in exchange?”
So that was it. Silman had wondered what this trip was about. It would have to be a very special poison to justify such a journey. That made him wonder who was going to be on the receiving end. He saw that his passenger was looking at him, and the coldness in his eye made Silman shiver.
“It is best that I speak of these things in private,” the passenger said, looking pointedly at the monster on the dock, but Silman knew that he, too, would be excluded from what passed between them.
“You want me to board your ship?” The Sage looked about, but of course there was no ladder and no ramp by which he might come aboard. Silman hurried to fetch a ladder and set it against the dock.
The Sage examined it and sighed. The rungs were really too far apart for a creature of the Shan’s size, and it descended awkwardly to the deck, like a child taking overlong steps.
The two of them went below decks to the master’s cabin. The captain had surrendered it to the anonymous Jon for the duration of the voyage in exchange for an additional gold coin.
Silman stayed above only briefly. The sun was still hot and he didn’t see the point of suffering any more. He was serving no useful function up on deck now that his passenger was below. He wiped his face one last time and went down.
His ship, the Laughing Gull, was a fine vessel, but oddly built. The crew – he needed only seven – were closeted in the fo’c’s’le out of harms way. The cargo hold, empty of everything but rocky ballast, occupied the central section of the ship, and the captain’s and officers’ quarters the stern. There were a couple of walkways starboard and larboard that connected fore and aft, but he had no officers and the stern was generally his private domain. On this trip he shared it with his passenger. He had moved into the smaller – much smaller – mate’s cabin that lay beneath.
He descended to one of the hold walkways and crept towards the stern. He knew his own ship, and from the mate’s cabin he could hear most of what went on above.
He eased open the door and stepped inside. It was cluttered – too many things that were comfortable in his usual quarters vying for what little space there was. He stepped carefully across the cabin to the hull and climbed onto his cot, putting his ear as close to the wall as possible. It was here that he had heard his passenger snoring every night since they’d departed Darna.
He lay still and listened.
Voices. He could hear voices, but not words. It was like hearing the sea from far away where the crash of each wave was lost in the chorus.
“… a game of three hands?” It was the voice of Sage Dahl raised in astonishment. “The price would be as exceptional as the task.”
Voices were lowered again and Silman rose to a kneeling position, the better to hear, pushing his ear as close to the deck above as he could.
“...a fair price,” Jon was saying.
“You know that I cannot deliver such a thing at the drop of a hat?” Sage Dahl protested.
“A week then, and you can have the oil of oak as well as the grave salt, and I’ll throw in two hundred Samaran gold.”
Silman had no idea what oil of oak or grave sal
t might be, but two hundred Samaran gold was enough to buy two ships – a fortune. He stayed on his bunk for another five minutes, listening to the few sentences and words he could catch.
Every word he caught added to his sense of foreboding. It was trouble, trouble like he’d never known, and he had to do something.
2 Two Boats
From the top of the cliffs the sea seemed to go on forever, and it was blue, rolling steadily into white surf on the jagged rocks fifty feet below.
Sara loved this time of day. Her work was finished and every day she walked the five miles from the village, where she studied as a weaver’s apprentice, to her family’s farm. It was her own time, a time when she dreamed and sang songs and listened to the skylarks. They fell from the sky like wild leaves caught in a magical wind, singing as only larks can sing, summer’s very signature.
Today was an especially fine day. The sea was calm, or as calm as it ever was along the south coast, and the sky was a joyous blue. She dawdled along, picking flowers and making chains of them, stopping to sit in the soft grass and look out at the endless ocean.
She was happy in the moment, but she knew that her life was going to change. In a year or two she would have to leave the farm, find a place in the village and work as a weaver. Perhaps there would be a husband – she already had a couple of suitors – and children, and that would be happiness of a different kind, but Sara loved her childhood and greedily wrapped herself in what remained of it, even as it melted away.
She stopped and sat in a sheltered dry valley. Here the cliffs dipped towards the sea, and a path led down to a sandy beach. It was a favourite spot, sheltered from the north wind and only a mile from home. She could wait here until the sun was a finger’s breadth above the hills in the west and still be home in time for supper.
She sat and looked down at the shoreline.
There was a boat, a small boat like the ones the village men took out to lay crab pots, and it was pulled up on the sand, oars shipped, alone.
