by Tim Stead
That was traditional in a ship court, Corin knew. They were all taught such things now, but Corin had never thought the knowledge would be useful. He made a note to thank Sam Hekman for insisting on it.
The tension was gone – almost. The captain, against all expectation, was still tense as a strung bow, still holding his knife in a white knuckled grip.
“Captain?”
The captain was still staring at Duro, but slowly his eyes came up and met Corin’s. “Aye,” he said.
For a moment Corin thought he would attack, try to kill Duro then and there, but slowly the man relaxed, his blade fell to his side. There was more to this than the poisoning – something between the captain and the cook – and it had nearly undone his good work. Corin made a mental note to mention it to Arla, and led Duro through the cordon of sailors and towards the stern.
“My thanks,” Duro said.
“Thank me by being honest,” Corin said.
They descended to the captain’s cabin, and Corin was amused to note that Otway had joined them, finally abandoning his position by the wheel. The captain followed, and another member of the crew, chosen in a brief discussion between the deck hands. They gathered around the table in the captain’s quarters, which now seemed cramped indeed.
Corin managed a few discreet words with Arla before the company assembled. He contrived to convey a little of what had happened on deck, but he managed no more than twenty words before the others were there.
“I do not think that this is a trial,” Arla said.
“How so?” the captain demanded.
“We know so little,” Arla said. “We should know more before we apportion blame and hand down sentence.”
The captain looked away, almost as though he had actually bitten his tongue to keep himself from protesting once again. He stayed facing the wall for a count of five and then turned back.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us see what lies the vermin speaks before we decide his fate.”
Arla looked at Corin. He could see that she was troubled, but it would have taken an eye as practiced in her moods as his own to see it.
“May I begin?” Corin asked. He had established some kind of rapport with the cook, he felt, and thought it might be beneficial.
“Go ahead,” she said.
Corin turned to Duro, who in turn had his gaze firmly fixed on Corin. The cook wore hope like a thick coat against the chill of his fear.
“You poisoned the two men,” Corin began.
The cook nodded. “Aye, but not to kill them.”
“Why?”
“To turn the ship back,” Duro said. “Back to Samara.”
“Again, why?”
“It’s what he paid me for. A dozen gold coins to make a few men sick. I’ve done worse for nowt.”
“And who paid you?” This was the question. This, most of all, was what Arla and Corin wanted to know.
“The blind man,” Duro said.
“The blind man? What blind man?”
“He came to the docks, tapping with a stick. There was nothing in his eyes, so you could see un was blind.”
“Did he have a name, this blind man?”
“Not that I know,” Duro said. “But he had a fist full of gold.”
No name, then. It had been a foolish hope, and even if there had been a name it would have been a lie.
“What did he look like, this man?”
“Like any man,” Duro said. “But for the eyes.”
“Was he well dressed? How tall? Did he have a big nose, what colour was his hair?”
“Oh,” Duro seemed to have caught on. “He was of a height with me, dressed like a rich man, a black coat with silver buttons, good brown boots, and he wore a hat, so I couldn’t say about the hair, but his nose was about what it should be, I suppose, not especially big or small. He spoke quiet, like, in the Samaran way. I’d say he was a city man.”
A blind Samaran with money. There couldn’t be too many of those, Corin thought.
“Anything else you remember?”
The cook thought for a moment, squinting and scratching his head. He really seemed to be trying.
“No,” he said. “But I thought it odd that he was in no hurry to go when I’d taken his money. He was still on the docks half an hour after. I looked out and saw him there, like he was waiting for someone.”
“Someone else?”
“Aye.”
“But you didn’t see him speak with anyone?”
“I did not.”
The implication wasn’t lost on Corin. If the blind man had been on the docks for so long he’d been looking for a second agent aboard the ship, and the obvious choice was the captain.
“So why did you start with the planking?” Corin asked.
“Planking? You think I did that? No, that was just the ship.”
“You’re denying that you loosened the planks below the forward hold?”
“Sure I am,” Duro said. “Why would anyone poke holes in a ship when we’re a hundred miles from land?”
Corin had a moment of doubt. Perhaps it had just been the ship after all, just a natural fault or shoddy workmanship. He glanced across at Arla, hoping to see what she thought of it, but she was looking down at the table as though hoping to find some truth written in its worn varnish. She was listening, he realised, listening to Duro’s voice, not watching his face.
“I believe you’re telling the truth,” Corin said, and he did. Duro would no more hole the ship than he would jump overboard in the middle of the ocean. He turned to Arla once more.
“What do you want to charge him with?” he asked.
The captain leaned forwards. “I’m not finished with this,” he said. “This man endangered my ship. Ship’s court will have its say.”
“As you wish,” Arla said.
The captain drew his dagger and placed it on the table, the hilt towards Duro.
“You’re accused of endangering the Blackbird, Duro. What say you?”
“I never meant no harm to the Blackbird, captain. Just a couple of sick men, just the fear of something worse to turn her back to Samara.”
“I don’t sail this ship to give beds to sick men,” the captain said, his voice rising in anger. “And I don’t pay a cook to poison my crew. Also, you took money from another master, and that to do things aboard my ship. You betrayed your comrades, conspiring to make the voyage fail and thereby take the bread from their mouths.”
Duro looked miserable and afraid, but he didn’t deny anything. He just sat in his chair and shrivelled before the captain’s anger.
“For poisoning the crew, you’re no longer part of it. For taking another man’s money you’ve lost your pay for this voyage. For endangering the ship…” He turned to Arla. “Do you need him for anything else?”
“He might be able to point out this blind man,” Arla said. “That would be a great benefit.”
The captain stared at her for a moment, then picked up his knife and stuck it point down in the table.
“Fifty lashes,” he said. “And if he survives you can have him when we get back to Samara.”
It was a harsh punishment. Fifty lashes would like as not kill the man, but Corin knew that Arla was in no position to challenge a ship’s court. It was as legal as anything on the sea, and the captain had stopped short of killing the man outright. Sometimes a miscreant would simply be thrown overboard if his crime was heinous enough, and sometimes hung from a spar.
“What say you?” the captain said, turning to the man chosen to represent the crew.
“Fair and merciful,” the man responded.
“So be it,” the captain said, and pulled his knife from the wood, terminating the court. “Punishment will be at dawn.”
Sailors took Duro away and Corin followed Arla out on deck. She moved to the ship’s bow and stood there looking at the blank horizon. Corin knew that it was one of the few places on the ship where they could talk and not be overheard.
“You think he’ll live?” Corin asked. Arla shrugged.
“Maybe. But I doubt he’ll ever finger that blind man. Long gone would be my guess.”
“Then why did you speak for him?”
“Duro was greedy,” she said. “We all have a piece of that in us, and sometimes it makes us do a foolish thing. A man shouldn’t die for that.”
Corin looked back towards the wheel. Otway was there again, standing with his legs braced looking up at the taut white sails. Just below the raised deck a couple of sailors were lashing a grating to the rail. Duro would live or die chained to it in the morning.
“Do you think it’s the captain?” Corin asked. “The other man?”
Arla frowned. “I did think so, but now I’m not sure. Could he sentence a man to death knowing that he’d taken the same payment for the same cause? I don’t know. The one thing I am sure of is that the ship’s hull was breached deliberately, and that Duro isn’t the only danger on this ship.” She turned and faced Corin. “Guard Seer Jud,” she said. “Guard him with your life.”
“I shall,” Corin said. He touched the hit of his sword and nodded, turned and went to find the Shan.
17 Sharp Eyes
Taranath had sent two of the king’s men back to Samara bearing dispatches. He thought he had learned enough to make it worth the trip, and Hekman would want to know everything.
Now they had left Pek behind them and rode on down the coast towards Darna. The villages here were indistinguishable from those to the west of Pek. They inhabited a swathe of pasture land between the sea to the south and the forest to the north, filling the space with sheep and whatever grains or greens they could grow.
The Pekkan Mayor’s agent, Dorcas Sloepicker, rode at his side. He found her company more rewarding than he had expected. She was not what he would have called pretty, but her voice, with its soft Pekkan accent, was easy on the ear, and she was well educated in the classical sense. Taranath knew a great deal about ships, sailing, lawkeeping, food and the world in general as he’d seen it, but Dorcas knew about books and music, and more about history than anyone he’d met, excepting Ella Saine who was somewhat above his rank and below his years.
“So,” he said as they rode at an unhurried pace between villages. “You’re telling me that the Pekkans preserved their history orally, not writing down a word, for four hundred years?”
“My father himself carried words all his life,” she replied. “And I would have learned too, if the Faer Karan had not fallen.”
“And nothing was lost?”
“A great deal was lost,” Dorcas said. “We are trying to negotiate with the Shan to recover some small part of it.”
“The Shan?” Taranath was surprised, but should not have been. “Of course,” he said. “They were left alone. Jerohal was never crushed as Samara and Pek were.”
“They didn’t fight,” Dorcas said.
“Wisdom or cowardice?”
“Both. Neither. Who can say? Perhaps they were just used to being slaughtered by men when they got out of line. Perhaps they saw the Faer Karan as saviours.”
“That’s a harsh judgement on your own kind,” Taranath protested.
“Is it? The first thing the Darnese did when freed from the yoke of the Faer Karan was try to invade and slaughter the Shan. The Saratans tried to conquer the world and the Samarans started killing each other. It’s hardly a glorious history.”
She had a point, Taranath had to admit, however uncomfortable. High Green, Taranath’s home, had been quite different. Perhaps it was because, as a relatively small island, there had been nobody else to attack. His memory argued otherwise. There had been respect for their new lord and a general sense of relief and wellbeing.
“How was it in Pek?” he asked.
“Our tradition was different,” she said. “We choose our leaders. We made our living by trade, even before the Faer Karan we were a trading city. We went back to that and the Saratans conquered us with ease.”
Taranath was going to ask her about Borbonil and the freeing of the city, but Worrel drew his mount up alongside.
“Keep looking ahead,” Worrel said.
Taranath almost turned his head to look back, but he resisted. “What is it?”
“We’re being followed,” the lawkeeper said. “He’s a long way back, but further when it’s open country. Closes up when we go through forest, then drops back once more.”
“How far back now?”
“A mile maybe. No more.”
“You’re sure? He could just be travelling the same road.”
“Doesn’t feel like that,” Worrel said. “If I were following I’d do what he’s doing.”
Taranath was silent for a while, and they rode on, Worrel and Sloepicker, who’d doubtless heard every word, waited for him to speak. It was the Pekkan who broke the silence.
“Who do you think it is?”
“Worst case, it’s our assassin from Samara. It makes sense that he’d go back wherever he came from after taking care of business in the city. That would mean our messengers might be dead, that he might be hunting us. It also means that we can hunt him. Best case, Worrel is wrong and it’s just a traveller who’s afraid of catching up with so large a group.”
“What do you want to do?” Worrel asked.
Taranath squinted up at the sun. It was still high. There were several hours yet until it sunk behind them, but even now it gave their shadow an advantage. With the sun in their eyes he’d be hard to see and they’d be easy.
“Was he there yesterday?” he asked.
“Aye, I think so,” Worrel nodded.
“Then we’ll ride on and camp as usual tonight. Don’t tell anyone else, and we’ll set a normal guard. Either way that won’t make a difference. We’ll deal with it in the morning. Worrel, I want you to scout ahead.”
He told the lawkeeper what he was looking for, and watched as Worrel rode off ahead of the group, a thin trail of dust blowing out towards the sea. He hoped whoever was following wouldn’t see it for what it was.
When Worrel was out of sight he turned to Sloepicker again. “You’re going to ask me why I don’t just turn and confront him,” he said. She nodded.
“Aye, I was.”
“We have twelve soldiers, three lawkeepers and yourself, half a dozen bows and fresh horses. You’d think we’d catch him, but if he’s our assassin I don’t think we’d get a sniff of him, and if he’s not he’d probably run. We need everything on our side.”
“You’re afraid of him,” she said.
“I’ve every right to be. He’s killed at least three men, and two of them were armed and ready for him. He’s good. I don’t think he’s even been tested yet. I don’t want to get these men killed.”
He made camp early with an hour of light still left in the sky. He wanted a chance to look behind him and see if he could spot their follower in the evening light.
He paused near a tree, leaned against it as though resting and scowled against the evening light. The road stretched out naked before him for more than a mile – no cover and no sign of a foot upon it. Taranath wondered at Worrel that he could see so elusive a figure. Worrel rarely spoke, but he had sharp eyes.
The lawkeeper came back to the camp a few minutes shy of dusk. He swung down from his mount and walked over to where Taranath sat by the fire.
“There’s a village five miles east,” he said, “but there’s a place like you said between here and there.”
“Tell me about it,” Taranath said.
They sat by the fire in the dying light and Worrel drew shapes in the dirt.
*
Taranath roused them at dawn. He had them fed and mounted barely twenty minutes after the sun broke the horizon, and that meant a cold breakfast and a degree of grumbling from the king’s men. They rode at an easy pace, which made the soldiers grumble more. They didn’t understand why he had been in such a hurry to break camp if he was now content to dawdle.
“Do you see anything?
” he asked Worrel as they rode up a gentle rise.
“Not so far,” the man said.
They crested the rise and found themselves in a long, low dry valley across which the road passed straight as an arrow, cutting through grass and scattered scrub. Now Taranath picked up the pace, pushing them to a steady canter.
Sloepicker rode up alongside him.
“You’re setting a trap,” she said.
“In a manner,” he replied. “But it’s a box with only two sides, so we’ll be lucky to catch anything.”
It was a mile across the valley, and Taranath reined back as they came up the final rise on the far side. He came alongside Worrel again.
“Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“So either he’s staying below the rise until we’ve passed or we caught him napping.”
They crossed the rise and fifty paces down the other side Taranath reined in, turning to face the ridge. He waved the others past him, but Lieutenant Genardy drew up alongside.
“What are you up to?” he demanded.
“We’re being followed,” Taranath told him. “I hope to find out by whom.” He glanced up at the sky. “I’ll give him up to an hour to catch us. Have your archers string their bows, lieutenant. They might have something to shoot at.”
Most of the party dismounted, the archers began to form a line below the brow of the hill they’d just come over, but Worrel stayed mounted.
Ansel came and stood next to him. “You’d not believe it,” she said, pointing to the soldiers. “They’re laying bets on how long he’ll take to show, and even on who puts the first arrow in him.”
“They’ll be mortally disappointed,” Worrel said.
Taranath turned and looked at him, and saw that he was pointing on in the direction of Darna. He followed Worrel’s arm, and there, on the far crest of the next hill, was the tiny figure of a man on horseback, still as a statue, watching them.
Taranath swore. “That’s him, isn’t it?” he said.
“Aye, that’s him,” Worrel agreed. “Clever bastard. Don’t know how he did it, but he must’ve seen me see him.”
