Having an object in the distance to focus upon helped, but probably not so much as simply knowing the trip was nearing its end. His nausea subsided to the point of him no longer noticing its presence by the time he was climbing the rope netting on the side of the great ship. No disguise would be needed should anyone who knew me in Adeltia see me climbing as such. Even dressed in my normal clothes, they would insist it was merely someone making a spectacle.
He exerted himself as he pushed to climb faster, surprised with the strength he’d retained. These trips to meet with Sacarat, he had to admit, were as invigorating as they were critically strategic.
“Cass, my rival, how good it is to see you.” The man’s accent was most peculiar, though Cassen had come to find it comforting. He did not speak like the men of his crew, for they were all Spicerats—a name given by Adeltian merchants. On the sea there was no worse group of men to have board your ship.
“And you, Sacarat.”
Cassen was sure never to address him as friend. “A man who calls you a friend that you have not known from childhood is most assuredly your enemy,” the Satyr was known to say. Cassen’s philosophy was similar but somewhat simpler. All men are assuredly my enemies, he reminded himself, yet Cassen found himself trusting this sea scoundrel more than most.
“How do you find the life of piracy treating you as of late?” Cassen asked.
Sacarat crinkled his brow as if offended. He had the look of a man whose frown threatened true danger, a look Cassen imagined all of his people shared. Whereas the Spicerats were typically Spicelanders with mixed breeding from many foreign lands, the Satyr was half Spicerat and half Sacaran, making him mostly Sacaran in truth. Born a bastard prince to Queen Linota of Sacara, his native tongue was that of his native land, as were his loyalties.
“As good as any,” replied Sacarat, lifting his frown to move forward and embrace Cassen, along with a few solid strikes on the back.
Cassen took pleasure in seeing the confused looks upon the faces of the men who had brought him, clearly not expecting him to receive such a warm welcome. But they went on with their business with a few shrugs. For a band of sea brigands, the Satyr’s crew was impressively disciplined. He may have only been a prince, but on the Maiden’s Thief, Sacarat was king and his authority unquestioned—not by Cassen and certainly not by any of his crew.
“If anything, it has become too easy,” said Sacarat.
“Is that so?”
Though he was a duchess in Adeltia, here Cassen was every bit the duke. All traces of flamboyance and femininity were gone, at least by his own perception. Sacarans were not tolerant of such behavior, and Cassen had known it would be foolish, if not dangerous, to have maintained his normal demeanor upon first meeting the Satyr years prior. That did not mean Sacarat was ignorant to what Cassen was believed to be in Adeltia; he was just convinced it was a façade. Furthermore, he enjoyed teasing Cassen about it—something that a pureblooded Sacaran would never do, but Sacarat was neither pureblooded nor a typical Sacaran. Cassen thought the man may even respect him more because he believed Cassen to have so thoroughly deceived all those in Adeltia.
“I should like to know how stealing both lives and fortunes can be so effortless,” Cassen went on. “Does a man facing death not fight with all his strength?”
Sacarat himself was no stranger to the benefits provided by a thick guise of cloth. His own costume was almost farcical, consisting of a wide headband, a gaudy ornamental necklace with matching brass bracers, a woven oxhide sash that left his chest mostly bare, and a heavy sea shawl about his shoulders. It had the desired effect, however. He looked a Spicerat through and through, with the exception of his pronounced nose, a gift from his Sacaran breeding no doubt.
“The crew of the last ship we boarded,” said Sacarat as he guided Cassen below decks, “threw us lines. Those of them who were still alive, that is.”
They passed through a room with two long tables that served as the ship’s galley. Light peeked through small windows as they made their way to the stern.
“Those still alive?” Cassen asked.
It was always shocking to Cassen when he first set foot into the Satyr’s quarters. Any doubts that this man was a prince were snuffed upon seeing the ridiculous amount of wealth that had been crammed into the cabin of moderate size. Chests overflowing with gold and silver were stacked atop each other, secured with ropes to the walls as not to tip. A collection of goblets and steins were tightly packed within glass cupboards, brilliant in their gold, silver, and pearl, engraved with the most intricate patterns. And in the corner was a simple cotton hammock. Cassen could not help but feel a certain camaraderie with the man.
The Satyr chuckled. “Their men turned on one another as soon as they saw our sails.”
Cassen just looked at him, confused.
“They know by now that we won’t leave enough water for them all to survive. Those smart enough have begun to kill each other before they lose their strength.”
The mention of water reminded Cassen of his own desperate need. “Why is it you leave them any water at all?”
The Satyr made a sound of disgust. “All this,” he waved toward his stacks of gold-laden chests. “It means little. What is gold compared with glory? And who would tell the tales if none lived to return to land?”
“Ah, yes. And tall tales they tell. Some have begun to believe demon ships sail from the Devil’s Mouth. It seems there is no other explanation for how the short trip to Westport has become so much more perilous than to my eastern ports.” Cassen beamed his thanks as they sat at a small table covered in maps.
“Tell me, how did you take the message which was delivered?” asked Sacarat. “Near as pleased as I, I’ll wager, given the smile you wore upon boarding. Or were you merely elated to be once again in my presence?”
“Ah, yes. ‘The winds blow north.’ Rather cryptic,” said Cassen. “I was indeed pleased to hear it, and it is well timed with my own schemes, all of which, of course, serve both our benefits.”
“I am sure, I am sure. I believe you in that, but I doubt you can truly grasp what a moment it will be for my people, a moment for which they have waited over one thousand years. It is true—though I find it hard to accept—your people do not even recollect those events past? Ah, but it will make it all the sweeter.”
The Satyr spoke of the previous glory of the Sacaran Empire afforded by their total supremacy at sea. It was all but forgotten by the Adeltians and took Cassen a great deal of searching through ancient annals, but he’d finally found some record of the event. It had taken place before the years were recorded as they now were, further lending credence to the Satyr’s claim of the time in which it occurred. A great storm was said to have come, so massive that it ripped trees by the roots, heaved rocks from the ground, and pulled fish from the sea. It would stand to reason that such a storm would wipe out any and all ships in its wake, which was said to be all-encompassing. The Sacaran influence would have been all but extinguished.
“That they do not. They have seen what I assume must be your peoples’ ships to the south, but they are yet to make the connection, nor to perceive a threat. They are also convinced that your square sails cannot tack into the wind. Which raises the question, how is it that you can predict the direction of the winds, if it is you can?”
“Predict the wind?” The Satyr snorted. “If only I had such powers. I assure you, however, that the sails of our warships, though they do not share the grace of those of the Maiden’s Thief, will take our armies to the shores of Adeltia no matter the wind’s preference. When properly rigged they can cross the wind. Just not so well as I, of course.”
Knowing that the Satyr had no claim of controlling or predicting the elements put Cassen’s mind at ease. “I suppose you would like to know how it is I intend to help with your conquest so that my rewards, should you see fit to give them, are justified?”
“You have the tongue of a snake, Cass. I like that in you, for a snake’
s tongue points in two directions, and one knows the truth must lie somewhere in between. But I do not need to know your every plan, just that you have chosen our side, the side of victory. You have given me much in the way of knowledge, but I assure you this: nothing could stop that which is now in motion. An army of a scale your people have never seen will descend on your shores to reclaim our honor. And you will sit atop the throne of your choosing when it is done, as I have no desire to remain a slave to a chair. But we will both command wealth and respect, that much is known, in witness of the now-hiding Gods.”
Cassen believed the Satyr’s faith and worship of the celestial deities to be genuine, and his swearing by them further evidence of the veracity of their alliance.
“Well then, you need only know that I have efforts in place to improve the ease at which you will achieve conquest. Should any of them succeed, you will face a kingdom led by a fool, and an army already engaged elsewhere, fighting its own people. What’s more, the hungry populace should embrace new authority, so long as they are provided with some minor compensations.”
“We Sacarans are no strangers to the exchange of food for loyalty. Some say there is no greater loyalty, and offer animal companions as their example. Those we rule are little different after all.” Sacarat did not appear to be mocking the masses, but rather stating what he believed to be a universal truth.
“I believe you are right in that. Let us drink, then, to our ruling over many human pets. Is it not a custom among your people to offer refreshment to those aboard your vessel? Even to a rival such as I?” Cassen was thirsty beyond measure at this point, but his priority had been their business, which now seemed settled.
“Yes, of course. How poor are my manners! Let us drink!”
TITON
The idea to construct another boat had been discarded in favor of building a raft. Neither he nor Keethro had any experience on real rivers, but it seemed implausible that there would be any sizeable waves, and that a large, flat raft should do nicely. The memory of sleepless nights on the Timid Sea bade them make ample room to lie flat and nap.
They had floated less than a mile on their hasty creation before their inexperience with their materials became evident. The dry horse leather that bound the timbers expanded, making the structure unstable, barely holding together long enough to make shore. They were not too upset at the failure, as they both conceded they had aimed too small to start, with not quite as much room for sleep and storage as would have been preferred. They then spent a day constructing what was, to them, a true work of art: a giant raft one man in width by three in length, bound this time with horse leather that had already soaked. After a strenuous launch and some backslapping, they floated down the river atop their lazy behemoth as if they had tamed a mighty beast.
“How much longer will it be?” Titon growled, doing his best to remain calm. Keethro showed no sign of responding, which only added to Titon’s annoyance.
Aside from his current torment, the voyage had been slow but pleasing, and compared to the time spent on the sea, this river rafting experience was one of luxury and leisure. There was usually no wind, but the wind that did come was welcomed to help mitigate the heat. Despite the season, the temperature had risen to an uncomfortable level, at least for Galatai, and they found their stolen coats to be too heavy even for the cooler nights. Deciding to throw them into the water was perhaps the greatest decision they had made, as each man admitted to having thought the other’s smell was an irremediable burden that would have to be borne for the duration of the journey.
Of the few people they’d seen on shore during their trip thus far, they’d only been close enough to make contact with one. A young boy with a pole had a line in the water, fishing from the muddy bank. It was not apparent to Titon if the boy spoke a different language, was dumb, or was merely afraid, but his attempt to speak to him as they passed by was met with no success. “Hullo there, boy,” Titon had said, sounding as harmless and amicable as possible. “Do you know what city lies down this river?” The boy stared, jaw agape, his wide eyes alternating between Titon and the giant horse hock. “It’s just food,” Titon had explained before taking a bite of it to demonstrate. That had been enough for the boy, who abandoned his pole and ran. “Goodbye then,” Titon called out to the boy’s back, unsure of what else he could have done to seem less threatening. “We need to work on your table manners,” Keethro had taunted, and Titon decided he’d let Keethro do the sweet talking next time.
“By the Mountain’s tits, it takes you long enough to prepare a simple meal,” Titon griped in frustration.
The scents that filled Titon’s nostrils were those of sizzling fat and onions. With little else to do as they drifted, the men had alternated cooking meals as a form of competition. Titon was confident his skills learned over the years cooking for his wife would have given him a clear advantage, but Keethro had shown a surprising prowess when it came to inventing ways to prepare their unfamiliar game.
They were also no longer alone on their journey. They found the third member of their party, Iron Hips they had dubbed her, on the side of the river, probably left there due to her heft and rough edges. After they took turns washing and scrubbing her with some horsehide, they had a skillet free from rust scale and ready for curing. Keethro had Iron Hips over the fire that burned at the center of their raft, cooking up his latest inspiration. The wet logs that comprised their raft served as a suitable platform for keeping their small fire going without risk of igniting themselves, and thankfully no rain had threatened since they set off.
“It is no wonder your food tastes good, given our starved state by the time it is prepared,” Titon went on. The skill that Keethro had shown with this new skillet was beginning to try Titon’s patience. Damn this Keethro. He is a natural at all things it seems, save archery.
“Eat some horse jerky if you are so hungry. I am working here,” said the chef.
Titon let out a noise of disgust and did not move to eat any jerky. His stomach, twisted in a knot, would not allow him to eat anything other than what the smells promised.
Life was abundant on this stretch of slow, dark water. Whiskered rodents floated on their backs, diving as soon as they were spotted, lank birds with long curved beaks speared minnows in the river grass near the shore, and schools of small fish broke the surface everywhere. Their well-preserved horsemeat was rarely needed as Titon was able to shoot birds at will, standing steady upon their raft. Just today, he had taken two stout birds with webbed feet and rounded beaks, which supplied the meat for the pending meal. The previous day, Titon had made of the same type of bird a stew flavored with sprigs from a small bush with blue flowers, leaves like short pine needles, and a woody scent. It was a savory stew with a generous amount of fat pooled on the top, some of which Keethro had saved. He was using it now to fry the breasts from the two birds, fat side down, for what seemed like a lifetime. Having just added wild onions to the bubbling liquid, the aroma it gave off was intoxicating.
“It must have been a week on this river so far, no?” Titon asked, trying not to lisp with the excess saliva in his mouth.
Keethro moved the breasts each to their own dry piece of wood while he fried some green beans they’d found along the bank. There was also a generous portion of a red berry sauce in a hollowed wooden bowl. These were not the tinder berries they were accustomed to in the North that grew in singleton and had a pungent, somewhat sour taste. These grew in tiny clusters—a sign of danger—but one taste of a tiny burst drupelet, and they knew that these sweet, mildly tart berries were more than edible.
“A week and a day, I believe,” said Keethro.
“I must admit, it has been a finer week than I had expected.” With ample time for reflection, Titon had become grateful to Keethro for talking him out of marching directly to Strahl.
“It’s about to get better.” Keethro transferred the cooked beans to the plates with the meat and scraped some salt on top with his knife. He then picked up
a breast, dipped it in berry sauce, and took a bite. A devious smile grew on his face as he chewed.
Titon wasted no time doing the same. The thick layer of fatty skin had rendered down to a chewy shell on top of the dark, warm meat, infused with the scent and taste of the wild onions. Titon chewed and swallowed, then found himself dipping the meat again into the berry sauce that he had been prepared to mock, his plans of ridiculing Keethro for serving meat and dessert together forgotten.
Keethro finished chewing some of his green beans, nodding his head in approval of their taste as he asked, “Well?”
“Goat leather,” Titon said, barely having time to speak in between bites.
“Ha!” laughed Keethro. He continued to eat with the self-satisfied smirk of a man who had received a compliment beyond expectation.
Amused at his own stubbornness and wearing a grin of his own, Titon went to start on his second breast when their raft lurched to the side, sending much of their stacked firewood into the water.
“A rock?” Keethro stood and looked around for evidence to support his theory.
“Rocks do not hit from the side.” Titon knew it must have been a living thing that bumped their raft—a living thing with a weight no less than ten men to have caused such a jolt. “Get your spear.”
Titon had his bow at the ready and Keethro a simple spear with a fire-hardened tip. The river that once brimmed with activity had gone barren, the only ripples in the tea-colored water coming from their raft and floating firewood.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 26
