by Tim Stead
The king leaned forwards.
“You represent others with this petition?” he asked.
“I do, Lord King. Fifteen city bakers have asked that I come here and raise the issue.”
“The tax is there to assist our farmers, Baker Delanian. You know this. I cannot reduce it, but what I will do is reduce the tax on bakers who bake bread. You will receive relief of one copper for every five loaves that you bake, but I warn you fairly that any man found cheating the system for profit will be beggared. Do you understand?”
“I do, Lord King,” the baker said. “And I thank you for your wisdom and kindness.” The baker seemed pleased with the result, and Renat could see why. The farmers who grew wheat would still benefit and the bakers would not have to raise their prices. He did not doubt that the import tax would cover the cost of the bakers’ relief. It was a clever solution, but he wondered if there would be inspections and how much they might cost. It seemed an abrupt sort of justice. Sarata, though, was not a big producer of wheat, so it wouldn’t bother the cartel either way.
The soldier by the lectern was on his feet again.
“The Lord King of Blaye will hear Hais Dorinder, merchant of Pek.”
Their competition, Renat supposed.
Dorinder was a small, dapper man dressed in dark green from head to toe and wearing a lot of gold. He walked confidently up to the lectern and executed a deep and respectful bow.
“Lord King,” he said, and his voice was surprisingly resonant for such a small man. He turned slightly in Calaine’s direction. “And the Princess Calaine of Samara. Rarely have two such just and noble scions of the royal houses of Shanakan graced the same audience. We, the merchants of Pek, are delighted by the friendship between your cities that this portends, and by the prospect of an alliance between your great houses.”
Renat thought he was sailing a little close to the wind, seeing as a betrothal had yet to be announced. But the man’s speech was well made, if a little florid.
“And so, in celebration of our good fortune, and the good fortune of all the peace loving people of Shanakan, we bring gifts.” He gestured and a man came forward from the crowd clutching a box.
Please don’t let it be knives, Renat thought. Knives would make their gift seem a copy, an imitation of Pek. The box was a little larger than the blind man’s blackwood, but about the same shape. Dorinder took the box and offered it to the guard standing closest to him. The guard opened the lid and peered inside. He closed it again and nodded to the king.
“You may approach, Hais Dorinder,” Portina said.
The small gate was opened and the Pekkish merchant strode through, pausing before the throne to bow once more and offer the box to the king. The king took it and lifted the lid. He gazed for a few moments at what lay within, a smile briefly appearing on his lips, then he turned to Calaine and offered the box to her. She stood and came to Portina’s side. She smiled, too. That was a bad sign, to Renat’s mind. The Pekkish gift found favour with both of them.
Calaine reached into the box and lifted out a piece of jewellery the size of a man’s fist. She examined it for a moment before turning it to the mob that they might, in their limited way, appreciate it. It was a cloak-brooch fit only for a monarch. The ancient arms of the house of Tarnell consisted of a ship, a sword, and a crown, and here they were represented on a brooch. There was a golden ship on a nephrite sea with the spray from the oars picked out in diamonds. Above that lay a silver sword with a handle of pearls studded with emeralds, and a crown of gold and rubies topped all. It was a beautiful piece. Renat doubted that Saratan craftsmen could have bettered it, and it must have cost a small fortune.
He was expecting the king’s gift, having seen Calaine’s, but it stunned the mob. There was a collective gasp as Portina lifted it from the box and displayed it.
Blaye’s arms were simple enough – a bunch of grapes with a crown above – but here they were rendered in precious stones. The grapes were rubies, the stem nephrite, and the crown an exact mirror of the one on Calaine’s brooch.
That was clever – two different houses but the same crown – a promise of union and a declaration of acceptance from Pek all in one small box. Not many would have been close enough to see the subtlety of it, but the Saratans were among the closest.
“A fine gift,” Renat said.
Jazic pulled a face. “Extravagantly sentimental,” he said. “Typical of the Pekkish.”
It seemed to Renat that the gift had achieved its purpose quite nicely, but that was an opinion that he chose to keep to himself.
On the Royal Dais the jewels were put away and in the hall the supplicants continued to take their place at the rail and speak their piece. It was a cross-section of Blayish life, a lesson in the politics of a kingdom, and Renat found it fascinating, though he could tell that Jazic did not share his interest. The agent tapped his feet, sighed at each new speaker and shook his head at the king’s pronouncements.
“It’s all pre-arranged, you know,” he confided. “The questions have all been submitted to the council and the decisions hammered out there. The king is no more than a mouthpiece.”
It was possible, Renat supposed, but it didn’t look that way. The news that most decisions were made in council, whether that was with a council of advisors or a council of the powerful was more reassuring than a matter for concern. Renat was familiar with Portina’s history, and he did not think such a man would be a puppet. It was odd that Jazic didn’t see it as he did. The man seemed blinded by dogma, found cause for scorn in everything that Renat saw as praiseworthy.
He had always believed that if you denied reality it would eventually come up behind you and bite. Hard. That had happened to the king when he’d tried to take Samara from Serhan, and it was a daily lesson for a trader like Renat. A deal is not always a deal. His father had taught him that. There were times when you just had to shake your head and walk away.
Was this one of those times?
Could he walk away?
It would be difficult. This was not his deal. He was indebted to his cartel, subject to their will, and to walk away would be to commit a grave breach of commercial law. It would cost him his head – if he ever went back to Sarata.
“The King will now hear Jazic Milan, trader of Sarata.”
“At last,” Jazic muttered. He stretched an ingratiating smile across his face and set out for the lectern. One of his retainers followed, clutching a blackwood box in each hand.
He mounted the lectern with confidence and bowed to Portina.
“Lord King,” he declaimed. “Blaye is the west and we of Sarata are the east. We are the brackets of the world, the very furthest of neighbours. And yet there is no animosity between us. We trade, we flourish, our ships go to and fro and so it should be with all the world. I am a trader, but I am a Saratan first, and it is my hope that the friendship between Blaye and Samara may yet herald a new age of friendship between Sarata and Samara, and indeed that all the great cities of the coast may flourish together
“And so I bring gifts – a small token of our esteem for Blaye and Samara. In celebration of friendship and recognition of martial prowess I offer these.” He took the boxes from the retainer and offered them to the soldier. The soldier inspected the boxes, opened each lid and looked briefly at the contents. He turned to Portina and nodded.
The small gate was opened once more and Jazic was permitted to approach the king, but this time he was flanked by a guard on either side. It looked like a gesture of mistrust, but Renat understood. He was offering weapons, and so he was carrying them and thus represented a possible threat.
Portina accepted one box and Calaine came forwards again to accept the other.
The king gazed at his gift, but Calaine lifted the knife out at once, examined it closely before spinning it on the heel of her hand to test the balance and snatching it by its grip even as it spun. It was a soldier’s gesture. Calaine knew how to use a knife.
“It is a fine
weapon,” she said, but in her face there was the memory of a Saratan army at Samara’s gates.
“There are many in Sarata who regret the past, Princess,” Jazic said. It was doubtless true, Renat thought, but he believed that Jazic was one of those who regretted losing at Samara Plain, and not the attempted invasion itself.
“A new beginning, then,” she said, “for those who recognise past errors.”
Jazic smiled and bowed, and Renat thought him transparent, but that didn’t matter. The deed was done, the knives were given, the first step had been taken.
28 Darna
The storm faded as though it had never been, and the Laughing Gull cruised easily across the southern ocean as though it was a millpond with light airs. Radiant Taranath, her nominal captain, stood by the wheel until he could stand no more. He had no desire to think, to remember, and so he stood and called out orders to trim the sails, to coil the ropes, to mend the rails broken in the storm. He corrected the course every hour, studied the land that lay far off the larboard side and badgered his scratch crew until he could find no fault with the ship.
Night came, and still he stood, even taking a turn at the wheel. After a while Worrel came and stood beside him, silent and still as a fence post. For a time Taranath found he could ignore him, but as the daylight faded he became distracted by his lawkeeper’s presence, and then irritated.
“Why are you standing there?” he demanded.
Worrel shrugged. “As good a place as any,” he replied.
“Go below. Get some sleep.”
“I slept this afternoon.”
They stood for a moment longer, side by uncomfortable side, looking into the night.
“You should sleep,” Worrel said.
“I’m not tired.”
Worrel turned and looked at him. “With all respect, sir, your eyes are bloodshot, your hands are shaking and the only thing holding you upright is that wheel.”
Taranath didn’t reply. He gripped the wheel a little tighter and tried to stand more rigidly upright. Worrel fished in a pocket and offered him a small silver flask.
“Blayish brandy,” he said. “It’s laced with Corinna bark. One sip and I guarantee no dreams – a clean, black sleep.”
“One sip?” He felt that he might need to drain the thing.
“Much more and you might never wake,” Worrel said.
Not such a bad thing, Taranath thought, but he pushed self pity away with a shake of the head. He had his duty – first to Arla Crail and the city of Samara and second to this ragged crew of farmers for whom he had worked to deliver this ship to the docks in Darna. That would change their lives, he was sure.
“One sip?”
“Aye,” Worrel said and handed over the small flask. Taranath sniffed at it.
“And how is it that a Samaran lawkeeper comes to be carrying such a thing?” he asked.
Worrel frowned. “I have need of it, from time to time,” he said.
It was a private matter then, a piece of Worrel’s past that the quiet man wanted to remain hidden, and that was fair enough. Most lawkeepers had a history of some kind and only a few like Radiant Taranath were lucky enough to have lived a blameless life in High Green. He took a sip and felt the liquid burn its way down his throat, raw and bitter.
“You’d best go below quickly,” Worrel said, taking back the flask. “That’s not a cup of wine you just drank.”
Taranath nodded. He could already feel warmth seeping through him, banishing cold and worry alike. He left the wheel to the helmsman and clambered down the companionway to his cabin. He thought of Ansel, but the memory had been robbed of its sting by Worrel’s magical liquid. No wonder the man carried this stuff. It was a cure for a troubled conscience, a salve for tormenting thoughts.
He closed the door. He stumbled onto his bed.
*
He opened his eyes on daylight coming through the great stern window of the captain’s cabin. By the quality of the light it was long past dawn, and he must have slept away at least ten hours. He swung his legs onto the floor and stood. The motion of the ship was easy, meaning that the good weather had not deserted them. The table before him was set with a cold breakfast of bread, fruit and cheese, and the sight if it woke a fierce hunger in his belly.
He ate.
He was thirsty, too, and made short work of both the food and a jug of cool water that had been left by the plate. He felt revived. The sleep and the food had done much to put his black mood behind him, and when he had finished he dressed and prepared to go up on deck.
He stopped before the stern window and looked at the sea. The swell was low, barely a rumple in the grey-green blanket of water. The ship was heeling over to port a little, and the white foam of the wake told him they were making good time.
He thought of Ansel again. The moment when he had looked back and seen her clinging to the rope was vivid in his memory. That had been the last time he’d seen her, and she’d been scared. But Taranath had been trying to save the ship. If the sails had stayed up a minute longer she might have gone under for ever.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the sea. “But it’s the first law. Ship first, lives later. Without the ship we all die.” It had been drummed into him by every captain he’d served under. Perhaps he should have sent her below, but she was as brave as any man aboard, and would have been insulted, no matter how much she might have wanted to hide from the storm.
He had not been at fault. It was no more than a terrible accident.
He finished dressing and went up on deck. It was a perfect day for sailing. The wind blew fair and steady from the west and someone had ordered all the sails raised again. They bellied out, taut and smooth and the Gull rose and fell in time to the rolling sea. Taranath strode up onto the wheel deck to find Worrel standing by the wheel with the Pekkish woman, Dorcas Sloepicker, at his side.
“Just following the coast,” Worrel told him. “Sleep well?”
“I did,” he admitted. “You been up all night?”
“Aye, but it’s not been a long one. I’ll go down now unless you need me.”
“You set the sails?”
“Torgan. He asked, but I told him to do what seemed right. I’m no captain.”
Taranath smiled. “You are relieved,” he said. He watched Worrel walk across the deck and vanish below.
“He’s a good man,” Dorcas said.
“He is that,” Taranath agreed. He looked towards the coast. His memories of this part of the world were a couple of years old, but he found he had no trouble identifying the land they were passing. Sharp Head was just behind them and they were passing across the mouth of Tonrat Bay. That meant they’d done well – better than he’d expected. He looked down at the wake.
“We’ll be there before dark if this keeps up,” he said.
“Sooner than you said,” Dorcas ventured.
“It’s the sea that decides,” he replied. “The sea and the wind.”
The helmsman was someone he didn’t have a name for – Botris, or something like that – a young villager.
“Been holding that long” he asked.
“Six hour, I think,” the lad replied.
“That’s a long watch. I’ll take her now. You go and get some rest, something to eat.”
The lad bobbed his head, a sort of bow, and hurried away. Taranath stood in the breeze, feeling the ship ride beneath him. It was a good feeling.
“Do you miss this, being a lawkeeper?” Dorcas asked.
“Some,” he said. “But the job is worthwhile, and I’d miss that if I did this again."
“I’m sorry you lost one of your people in the storm,” Dorcas said.
“One of mine, one of theirs,” he replied. “Ansel was single. She had no family but the law house, and we’ll mourn her in our own way, but the other likely had a mother and father, probably a wife and children.”
“So his death was the greater loss?”
“I didn’t say that.”
The
y didn’t speak again. After half an hour or so Dorcas went below and left Taranath by himself. He watched the wind fill the sails, felt the weight shift from one foot to the other as the Gull rolled. He felt sad.
Around midday Torgan came up onto the wheel deck with another man. It was the helmsman from the night before.
“Ready to turn the helm over?” Torgan asked.
Taranath looked to the shore. “A little longer,” he said.
He stood another hour at the wheel. The air was as clear as he’d known it, the sky blue from end to end. It was a dream of what sailing a ship should be, a momentary accident of perfection. He was grateful for it. He would probably never have this again.
“Captain?”
Torgan and the helmsman were still waiting. He had almost forgotten that they were there.
“I think I’ll take her in, Torgan,” he said. He could already see the ragged headland that announced Darna’s harbour. In an hour, maybe half as long again, they would round it and Darna’s harbour would be revealed.
They gave him the wheel deck, and for that precious hour he steered the Gull alone, slowly bringing her around point by point until the surf on the headland was audible as it slipped past and he could see the sprawl of Darna.
It wasn’t a pretty place, not like Pek or Blaye, and it lacked the sheer size of Samara and its rival Sarata. One of his captains had called it Poor Port, and another referred to it as Mud Town because a lot of the buildings were plaster and lath walls below thatched roofs. The streets were generally not paved and inclined to mud, though some of the main thoroughfares had been piled with gravel over the years and generally offered a good dry grip to boots or hooves.
Taranath thought the place had its own charm. It was not dissimilar to High Green in some ways, and it was by far the least expensive city in the south to find food and lodging. There was little crime, and it was always easy to find a berth on the docks.
He steered for the eastern piers. There were about seven other vessels here, and the port was busy, but still there was plenty of room.
Steel and cotton were Darna’s bread and butter. The flat land behind the city was good for growing cotton and they shipped it raw to every port in Shanakan. Steel, bricks of steel, were their other forte. They had metal workers, like anywhere else, but you could find better in Samara. It was their steel bricks that sword-smiths everywhere on the coast desired.
