by Helen Lowe
“The ledger records the sailings we know about, as I told the warriors who arrived the other day. But a Derai ship can arrive at any time.” The clerk’s eyes, a faded blue between deep crow’s-feet, were still assessing. “We can’t sell you a passage either, just give you a token for the ship’s captain. Your Sea House mariners decide who they do and don’t take.”
If they would not let him embark, then Kalan would have no choice but to travel overland, which would take weeks, maybe even months if the weather turned against him. In which case, he reflected ruefully, the Bride of Blood might reach the Keep of Winds before he even sighted the Red Keep. He took the metal tag the man was holding out, nodding as he saw the ship engraved into one side and the Sea Houses’s mer-dragon device on the other. “Thank you. Other Derai warriors, did you say?” he added.
The clerk nodded. “Seeking passage north, like you. They said they’d been following the tourney circuit in the Southern Realms. We get a few like that these days.”
It wasn’t just mice in the warehouse, Kalan thought, catching the whisper of a footfall. Wood scraped faintly against wood—a bin lid being shifted, he suspected—as the clerk’s lips pursed. “They’re staying at the Marlinspike, if you want to find them. I don’t recommend it, though,” he added, taking the ledger back.
The stealthy footsteps were retreating toward the rear of the warehouse. “The Marlinspike?” Kalan inquired. “Or finding these warriors?”
“Oh, very good.” The clerk’s faded eyes studied him a moment longer. “I’d try the Anchor if you want somewhere clean and honest. They’ve hosted Derai guests before.”
Kalan heard the rear door creak open and then as softly close. “Thank you,” he said again. “I take it the Anchor has a stable?”
The lips pursed again. “Horses, is it? Yes, they do. But you may find transporting horses will cost you a great deal more, depending on which Sea House ship you strike.” He tapped the ledger with his forefinger. The nail was deformed, Kalan noticed, as though it had been torn off and grown back warped. “The Elv’Ar-i-Anor’s due soon and has a reputation for fair dealing.”
I’m still feeling the motion of the sea, Kalan told himself—but it did not quite cover his disconnect at hearing the Sea House name spoken in a Grayharbor accent. “I’ll go to the Anchor.” He pulled out what he hoped would be an appropriate sized coin. “If a ship arrives before the Elv’Ar-i-Anor, could you send me word there?”
The clerk shook his head, the silver earring glinting. “No need for the coin, not in Grayharbor. I’ll send word, though I doubt you’ll need it, staying that close to the port.” He paused, before adding slowly, “You’ll have been in the south awhile, then?” This time he did smile, a very dry expression, when Kalan nodded. “I thought that must be the case. Most Derai who come here, even the mariners, don’t say thank you. Not to us.”
6
The Pastry Thief
Of course they wouldn’t, Kalan thought, emerging into the wharf’s bustle. He wondered what else he was going to give away without realizing, simply because he had been too-long away from Derai society. The breastplate he wore might be crimson, but he had been seven years old when he last dwelt in the House of Blood. Still, Malian’s foreseeing had not only placed him on the Wall of Night, but as part of a wedding caravan. He could not be sure it was the Daughter of Blood’s wedding caravan, of course—especially since Tarathan, who was also a seer, had told him that the paths of seeing were always fluid and no outcome ever set in stone.
There’ll always be risk, Kalan told himself, but at least Malian’s vision offers hope I’ll succeed. I just need to be more careful, that’s all.
A lot more careful, he added silently. He had been tempted to repay the clerk’s advice about inns and—inadvertently—Derai behavior, by informing him that someone was using the warehouse’s back door to pilfer. Doing so, though, would have raised too many questions around how he knew. Still, Kalan was sufficiently curious to investigate the alley behind the building before going to the Anchor. The narrow strip of dirt was a dead end, confined between the rear walls of warehouses on three sides. He could see nowhere for a thief to come and go, except via the alley entrance or slipping from one warehouse into another. The latter was the most likely explanation, he reflected, turning away. The pilferer had been drawn to the same bins as the mice, probably also looking for food, and Kalan began to feel glad he had kept silent.
By the time he reached the inn, he had dismissed the matter from his mind. The Anchor was comfortable, rather than well-appointed, but the inn-wife looked him over with care before confirming that she had both a room and stabling for the horses. The tariff fitted the unpretentious style of the accommodation, but Kalan was grateful to have both his share of the Caer Argent tourney prize and the journey money Lord Falk had given him. He had known the Castellan was being generous, paying him a knight’s fee for his service between Summer’s Eve and the Midsummer festival, on top of the Aldermere revenue that was his by right. Nonetheless, he would need to be careful if he had to wait long for a Sea House vessel, then buy passage to the Wall for himself and two horses.
“We’re plain here, both the rooms and the food, which comes at set hours if you want it.” The inn-wife’s look sharpened as she handed him a room key. “And we’re no Marlinspike. We’ll not have abuse or brawling in common room or yard.”
Kalan thought she looked brawny enough to deal with disorderly guests at need, although he was also forming an unflattering picture of the Derai warriors who had arrived in port before him. He kept a lookout for both them and the Marlinspike on his way back to the Halcyon, but did not see either. Mostly, he wanted to eat now rather than waiting for the Anchor’s next set meal, in the hope that food might banish the world’s slight, persistent sway—but the Halcyon’s bosun waved him over as soon as he appeared on the dock. “Tide’s right,” the man said. “Let’s get this done.”
Madder came down the ramp with a squeal, trying to rear against Kalan’s hand on his bridle, before sidling sideways to bare long yellow teeth at a nearby stevedore. “They’re warhorses,” Kalan warned, keeping his other hand close to Tercel’s bit and maintaining a safe distance between the destriers and interested bystanders. These were mostly sailors and traders, although a band of urchins loitered close to the warehouses, and midday drinkers lounged in a tavern that was little more than an awning stretched above coopers’ barrels.
“Earl Sardon must have taken to breeding horses now, as well as offspring.” Despite Madder’s nervous excitement, Kalan heard the comment in Derai at once. He kept the horses walking and picked out the warriors as he turned, counting four of them beneath the awning. One was sitting in the deep gloom cast by an adjoining warehouse wall, but the three to the front were all unshaven, their leather and mail well-worn. Yet it wasn’t until the horses’ circle took him away again that their faces and appearance clicked into place. These were House of Sword warriors from the contingent that had been in Caer Argent for the Midsummer tournament.
Kalan’s thoughts raced, realizing they had to be a remnant of the group who had broken their tourney oath and fought the Darksworn Lightning knights in the ruins of the old Sondcendre mansion. Many had died there, and he had thought, when the bodies were found, that the Lightning knights seemed to have the upper hand. Clearly, though, these warriors had gotten away.
They must, Kalan decided, have been just ahead of the heralds and himself on the road to Port Farewell, and taken ship before they arrived. “Easy, my braveheart,” he murmured to Madder. “Steady, brother,” he told Tercel, keenly aware that they had not found the giant Orth’s body among the dead: Orth, who had tried to kill Audin in the sword ring and later sought to force a fight on Tarathan of Ar, despite the inviolability of heralds in every realm from Ij to Ishnapur.
An oath breaker and a murderer, Kalan thought, as the horses’ circle brought the dockside tavern back into view. More importantly right now, all the Sword warriors had seen him in C
aer Argent, so the question—regardless of whether Orth was among them or not—was if they would see past the Derai armor and House of Blood trappings to the young Emerian knight. And Orth was with them. He was the one in deep shadow beside the wall, his height disguised by the fact that he was sitting down. While the horses circled, he had turned to face the dock, and now Kalan recognized him despite the gloom.
The Sword warrior’s expression was bleary, his eyes bloodshot, and although he was watching Kalan and the horses, his demeanor remained incurious. One of his companions leaned forward. “I’m Kelyr,” he called in Derai, “of the House of Swords. Honor on you and on your House.”
His voice, Kalan noted, was not the one that had made the observation about Earl Sardon. “Khar,” he replied, using a common House of Blood name, one of the many diminutives of Kharalth, the Battle Goddess. It could easily be a shortening of Kalan as well. “Light and safety on your road,” he added, observing the formalities.
Kelyr rose and moved out onto the wharf. “Those are fine horses you have there.” His tone was friendly, although the warmth did not touch his eyes. “Are they great horses, out of Emer?”
“They were both bred there,” Kalan replied, matching the friendly tone. “Have you been in the south?”
“Following the tourney circuit, ay, as well as about our Earl’s business.” Kelyr’s tone hardened. “Some of our number stayed, but we four are to report the loss of our captain, Tirorn, who was also our Earl’s nephew.”
First Kin, Kalan thought, suppressing a whistle. When confronting Tarathan, Orth had blamed the heralds for the disappearance of his captain, who was also a blood relative, in Ij. If the captain had been First Kin to the Earl of Swords as well, that would explain the giant’s determination to be revenged—although it didn’t justify Orth and his comrades’ indifference to identifying the right culprit.
“A difficult homecoming for you, bearing such news.” Kalan halted the horses so as not to seem disrespectful. Madder shook out his mane, but otherwise both chargers had quieted and stood with their heads up and ears pricked toward Kelyr.
“Ay.” The Sword warrior looked away, toward the waterfront with its forest of masts and rigging, and the gray firth beyond. “But our Earl needs to know, so we’ll take a ship if we can, rather than traveling overland.”
“If we do all end taking the long road, you can ride with us,” another of the warriors said. “Tawrin,” he added, indicating himself. Like Kelyr, his tone was friendly but his eyes less so. Kalan nodded in response, letting the Sword warriors interpret the gesture how they chose. The road might be dangerous for solitary travelers, but no more so, he suspected, than traveling with a group of oath-breaking warriors that included Orth. The prospect of making his way through wild country while they were on the same road was equally unappealing, and additional reason for hoping there would be a ship.
At least none of the four seemed to connect the Blood warrior before them with one of the many knights of Emer they had encountered briefly in Caer Argent. People saw what they expected to, though, so all things considered, it would probably have been more surprising if they had recognized him.
Orth and the warrior opposite him, introduced as Malar, returned to their drinking, but Kelyr and Tawrin seemed disposed to talk. Most of the watchers were drifting away, although Kalan was aware that the urchins had crept closer once the horses stopped moving. They were a scruffy bunch, and like any dock loiterers could well be pickpockets. “Keep clear,” he warned them again, switching back to the language of Emer, which was similar enough to all the other dialects spoken in the Southern Realms to make him understood from Grayharbor to Aralorn. “These horses are trained to fight and could attack if startled.”
A server moved out from beneath the awning and snapped a dishcloth at the urchins. “Be off! We’ve no pickings for your kind here.”
One of the youngsters skirled a challenge, shrill as the gulls overhead—and then the whole bunch charged as one, shrieking and snatching up food and coins left on the barrel tops. Orth surged to his feet, roaring, as a small thief seized the half-eaten pastry from his plate, while the server and other patrons cursed and grabbed at darting bodies. Those who sat further back, or had already eaten, laughed and called encouragement to either side, only swiping out if any urchin came too near. The vagabonds twisted and dodged clear, racing away with their booty.
Safety, Kalan saw, was a tangle of godowns at the town end of the dock, and the raiders took full advantage of wharf traffic to make their escape. All, that is, except the ragged lad who had snatched Orth’s pastry. His swerve to avoid one of the alejack drinkers brought him too close to Tawrin, who stuck out a foot and brought him down flat. The boy sprang up again immediately, the pastry still clutched in his hand—but it was too late. Orth’s giant hand had closed on the tattered tunic and now hoisted the thief high, his other fist poised to smash into the dirty, terrified face.
“Stand!” Kalan ordered the horses in Emerian—one of Jarna’s painstakingly inculcated commands—and sprang forward, intercepting Orth’s blow. The giant snarled and tried to hammer the fist into Kalan’s face instead. Checking the strike’s momentum felt like trying to prevent a mountain toppling, and Kalan called on the combined strength of five years working in the Normarch forge, and training in full Emerian armor with sword and lance, battle-axe and mace. His arm and shoulders were rock, his mind cool as his eyes met Orth’s. “He’s just a child,” he said, keeping his voice level.
The Sword giant’s expression was almost comical as he glared from Kalan’s hand, locked on his wrist, into his face. “He’s a sniveling Haarth thief!”
“He’s hungry,” Kalan answered, countering Orth’s shift in weight and alert for a head butt, or knee to the groin. “Look at him.”
Orth glared, his head lowered. “A thief!” he roared, and shook his captive so violently that the boy’s head snapped back, his teeth jarring together. But the threadbare tunic, unequal to such treatment, tore apart—and the boy’s body dropped clear, leaving Orth with a handful of fabric. The warrior gaped, a second bellow cut off as the boy scrabbled to get away. Kalan stepped back, but not so far that he could not intervene again if necessary. Kelyr and Tawrin threw him a hard look as they moved in to flank their comrade, who remained standing with his head lowered.
His breath sobbing, the boy regained his feet and darted toward a clear space between the curious onlookers and Kalan’s horses, swerving away from the snake of Madder’s head just as a watcher turned to boot him on his way. The kick caught the boy’s rear a glancing blow, enough to send him sprawling along the wharf, stopping short of a pair of black-booted feet.
Kalan, turning with the rest of the bystanders, saw the boy’s gaze lift from the boots to the hem of a long black tunic. A sword in a silver-worked scabbard was belted around slim hips; a hand in an embroidered gauntlet rested on its hilt. The newcomer’s face was framed by cables of twisted, shoulder-length black hair and her expression was stern as she studied the urchin at her feet. She wore a mail corselet and steel breastplate over the black tunic, with the twelve-pointed star of a Sea House navigator worked into the bright metal. Slowly, the stern gaze traveled from Kalan, to Orth and his companions, then around the gathered watchers, before returning to the boy.
“Begone,” she told him, a single word in the Grayharbor dialect, and he was up and running as though released from a spell. No one turned to watch him go. Like Kalan, they were all looking at the navigator and her companions. The clerk from the shipping office stood close by her right hand, while two men and another woman were ranged at her back. The device on their breastplates was a pair of crossed swords rather than a star, and all three wore steel caps on their heads and carried crossbows. Sea House marines, Kalan supposed—but it was the figure to the first woman’s left who held his attention. The man was tall, with the same twisted hair as his companion, although his was mostly gray, framing a deeply weathered face. The breeze rippled the folds of his s
ea-green robe, the deep border a wave design in indigo and black. Power stirred, too, telling Kalan that he was in the presence of a Sea House weatherworker.
Orth’s attention had swung to the robed figure and now he growled, low in his throat, before spitting onto the dock. “Priest-kind! By the Oath that binds the Derai, you’ve no right to walk here.”
“The ship decides who quits its decks, no one else.” The navigator’s voice rang cold, and her eyes, dark as a storm at sea, held Orth’s glare. The wharf stilled, its quiet filled by the cry of seabirds and creak of the moored ships. Kelyr’s fingers closed on his comrade’s sword wrist, and Kalan wondered which imperative would win out: the giant warrior’s hatred of priest-kind, or the realization that the fastest way to travel north was on a Sea House ship.
The matter hung in the balance a moment longer before Orth growled again, but in defeat this time. Throwing off Kelyr’s hand, he turned on his heel and stalked away. Malar’s head swiveled, tracking Orth’s departure, before he tossed back the last of his ale and followed. The Sea woman’s gaze lingered on Kelyr and Tawrin, before considering Kalan. “Swords,” she said meditatively. “And Blood.” She inclined her head gravely. “Honor on you and both your Houses. I am Che’Ryl-g-Raham of the Sea House, navigator to the ship of the same name.”
Kalan saluted. “Khar, of the House of Blood. Light and safety on your path, Navigator.”
“Honor on you and on your Houses, light and safety on all your roads,” Kelyr said, as though trying to smooth over the tension by giving the salutation in full. “I am Kelyr and this is my shield comrade, Tawrin. Our companions are Malar”—he paused—“and Orth, who is Second Kin to our Earl.”
Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s expression was thoughtful. “Orth of House Swords: that name has reached us in the Sea Keep.” The navigator’s tone was neutral, but the Sword warriors stiffened. Her gaze returned to Kalan, then circled the bystanders again. “What business was it that we interrupted here?”
