by Helen Lowe
“Who are you?” she asked, as the fire roared and a hound belled in the distance. Another young woman turned, this time against a sky filled with storm wrack, and Kalan could not escape the impression that he had seen her somewhere before, although he did not know where. Her hair was twisted up into a fine mesh of amethysts and silver, and pearls the color of smoke hung in her ears, but the face beneath the jeweled net was blotched with tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” The single hound became a baying pack and Kalan’s dream filled with smoke and burning again. Because, he realized, shaking himself clear of the Gate of Dreams, it wasn’t just a dream. Somewhere in Grayharbor, a fire raged.
Kalan sprang from the bed to a furor of bells, shouting, and barking dogs. He still smelled smoke, but a quick glance out the window confirmed that it was not the Anchor on fire. The sky above the port was a red glare, and the bells clamored from that direction, too, borne on the wind like the smoke. Which means, Kalan thought, pulling on his boots, that the fire will be blowing toward the town as well.
A bell began to ring nearby—summoning fire-watches from farther afield, he guessed—while voices shouted along the street and in the yard below. Kalan pounded down the stairs to where the inn-wife had gathered her daughters and the rest of the staff. “Get to the port,” she said, when Kalan asked what he could do. “We’ll look to the inn and your horses, but they’ll need every pair of hands there if the blaze is not to reach us—” She broke off as the cook ran into the yard, and Kalan left, not needing to be told that the port was full of timber and tar, with goods from every part of Haarth stored around the quay, at least some of which would be highly flammable.
By the time he arrived, the ship closest to the town end of the wharf was an inferno and the blaze had spread to the godown warren. Like the ship, several buildings were already well beyond saving, the flames licking skyward. A barge was standing off from the burning vessel, with the crew working a pump and arcing water from long leather hoses over the blaze—but all along the wharf ships were slipping their moorings and heading downharbor.
On the wharf, what had to be most of the town’s fire-watches were working frantically around a series of water-wagons, some pumping on the flatbeds while others dragged more of the leather hoses to direct water onto the conflagration. Teams with leather helmets and protective hauberks were working to create a firebreak, pulling down the nearest buildings while others dragged the wreckage clear. Every sound building past the firebreak had a bucket brigade on its roof, ready to douse windborne sparks, and citizens were forming bucket lines from the harbor as a second barge nosed into the space closest to the water wagons.
When Kalan looked toward the far end of the wharf, he saw that the Che’Ryl-g-Raham was still in place but with a cordon of marines deployed along the dock. A horn blew frantically and he leapt clear as two more water wagons careered onto the quay and the fire-watch clinging to the sides leapt down. “Here!” a man yelled, gesturing for help with the heavy hoses, but Kalan pushed past, jogging toward the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s picket. He recognized both Temorn and the marine from the ship chandler’s door, but his eyes were on the navigator where she stood just behind their line. The reflected glow tinted her face with the same lurid colors as the woman in his dream, except her expression was hard, every bone a chiseled edge.
“That’s close enough,” Temorn said, but Kalan had already stopped.
“Your weatherworker,” he said, pitching his voice to reach Che’Ryl-g-Raham without shouting. “He could put the fire out. You have goods here,” he continued, when she said nothing, just regarded him without any change of expression. “This is the Alliance’s main trading port. Getting the fire under control is in your interests as well.”
For Serrut’s sake, he thought, when the navigator remained unmoving—but then she stepped through the line of marines, her unsmiling gaze boring into his. “Do you presume to tell us our business, Blood warrior? Or perhaps you think we are all poured from the same mold as your kind?” She bared her teeth: a challenge, not a smile. “Why do you think we’re still here? But weatherworking is not the snap-of-a-warrior’s-fingers business. So go and hazard yourself keeping the fire contained if you’re so eager to help. We’ll protect our interests as we see fit.”
The look Temorn shot him was decidedly sympathetic, but Kalan still gritted his teeth as he started back. Clearly, he had made a fool of himself. But she’s right, he thought, still smarting as he helped drag the final hose down from the last-come wagons: nothing is probably exactly what the House of Blood would do under similar circumstances.
A woman with a pickaxe shoved a dripping cloth at him, in lieu of a leather helmet, and he wrapped it around his head and face. The next half hour was spent helping bring the hose as close to the conflagration as they dared without being beaten back by smoke and heat. Despite the cloth, Kalan’s eyes and lungs ached, and the water being poured into the burning buildings seemed to have little effect.
“You look like you can swing an axe.” A watch captain grasped his arm, pointing toward one of the wider lanes through the godowns. “We need to get those lean-tos down. They’re too close to the buildings on this side and we risk losing the lot.”
So Kalan gave up his place on the hose to the next smoke-grimed face and seized the axe, plunging deeper into the nightmare of heat and smoke and sweat, aching muscles and aching lungs. In the end, he barely registered the first fat drop of rain splashing onto his hand, or a second that snuffed out a wind-borne spark in midair. By the time he did, the rain was on them in earnest, striking with such force it felt close to being hail. The man beside Kalan thrust both arms and his axe heavenward. “Thank Imulun!” he shouted, hoarse from the smoke.
No, Kalan thought: thank the weatherworker. Now he could feel the torrent of power being released through the deluge, and sense the strength that had pulled the rainstorm in off the deep ocean to break over Grayharbor. In time to be useful, he reflected, his face raised to the downpour while his chest heaved. The wind had also died away completely, so quite possibly the weatherworking had saved the town.
Once the lean-to demolition was complete, the axe team retreated to the open wharf. Kalan’s first look around, once he had stacked his axe beside the others and stripped the smoke-blackened cloth from his face, was to locate the weatherworker. The flow of power was so strong he had assumed the man must be close by, but he had to look the full length of the wharf, to the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s poop deck, before picking out the cables of gray hair—drenched to rattails by the deluge—and a rain-sodden length of robe. He did not know if the weatherworker could see him through the downpour, but raised a hand in salute anyway.
Others along the docks were looking the same way, but the marine cordon remained in place. Besides, there was too much to be done to delay for courtesies yet. The water wagons had to be refilled and a firebreak encircling the godown area completed, in case the blaze reignited once the rain stopped. But the downpour continued throughout the night and rain was still falling when dawn broke. By that time the captains were of the opinion that it was safe to begin standing the firewatch teams down. Food and ale were set out in a nearby warehouse, but like most of his sweat- and grime-streaked companions, Kalan ate mechanically and was too exhausted for conversation.
Afterward, the firefighters sluiced the worst of the muck from their bodies, before trudging their separate ways. Despite Kalan’s efforts at the pump, the inn-wife insisted he take a proper bath in the Anchor’s washhouse before coming indoors. She also sent the tapster to make sure he kept his head above the soapy water. By the time Kalan finally reached his room, rather than removing the clean clothes Stefa had brought him, he simply collapsed onto the bed, falling into a sleep so deep that no dreams intruded.
8
Puzzles
Kalan woke to the rain’s soft swish and a filtering of gray through the shutters. Although impossible to be sure in the overcast weather, h
e guessed the day was growing late. His muscles ached as much as they had after the Caer Argent tourney, and this time his lungs and eyes were smarting, too. He eased his feet onto the floor, trying to recall whether he had taken his boots off or left them in the washhouse—and realized that he had forgotten the Sea House navigator’s instruction to present himself at the ship that morning, in order to negotiate his passage north. Given her sharp words the previous night, he could only imagine that he was not going to be a passenger when the Che’Ryl-g-Raham did sail. Always assuming the black-prowed ship had not already left.
He stretched, groaning again, then forced himself upright and straightened his rumpled clothes. His boots, he recalled, had been left by the bathtub, but when he opened his door he found them sitting neatly beside it, cleaned of debris and freshly oiled. He pulled them on and buckled his sword and daggers about his waist, but left off the armor. Leti was watching from the stable door as he went past, so he waved, calling out that he would be back for dinner. She nodded, but he thought she looked as though she had been crying.
It might just be from the smoke, Kalan told himself, conscious of his own red eyes, but on impulse he turned back. “Is something wrong?”
Definitely crying, he decided, as she bit her lip and looked away. “A lot of people died. They got trapped on the ship and in the buildings.” Her voice was a thread, and faltered before she resumed again. “And Myron’s missing. After what happened yesterday, he told us he was going to hunt through the godown area until he found Faro. But he wasn’t free until last night.” She hugged her arms about herself. “We’re afraid he got caught in there, the fire took hold so fast.”
Recalling the heat and fury, Kalan thought it probable no one in the affected buildings had escaped. “I’m sorry,” he said, aware of the futility of the words. They woke another recollection: the young woman with her hair twisted into a silver net, who had appeared in his dream. “I’m sorry,” had been her words, too. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Did she feel as inadequate as I do right now, when she uttered them? he wondered. And what was she sorry for anyway?
“The fire captains,” Leti added, “think it might not have been an accident. That’s what people are saying.” She ducked back inside the stable door, her hands pressed to her mouth as though the information had escaped against her will, but the words stayed with Kalan. He had seen death before, both in the Keep of Winds and on Emer’s Northern March, where he had lost a great many friends fighting Swarm agents earlier in the year. But the death of children always hit hard.
On reaching the harbor, Kalan took shelter beneath a warehouse eave and studied the rainswept dock. The smell of burning was still strong, but the ships that had stood off during the night were either remoored or had departed altogether. The Halcyon was back and the Che’Ryl-g-Raham still in place, this time with only one marine on watch. At the opposite end of the dock the remains of the burned ship had been towed clear of the pier, while the port’s fire-watch was still working in the area where the conflagration had taken hold. Kalan could see covered-over drays in the warehouse where he had eaten as dawn broke, and guessed they must contain the remains of the dead. He felt no need to examine them for himself, crossing to the chandler’s warehouse instead.
Rayn was peering at a ledger through round, wire-rimmed spectacles when Kalan walked in, but this time the clerk offered him a tall stool to sit on before pouring a clear, aromatic liquor into narrow glasses. “The Che’Ryl-g-Raham,” he said, raising his, and pursed his lips when Kalan hesitated. “Not all of your people’s ships and crew would risk themselves for port and town, young man, despite their trade here.”
So it appears some of the Sea House are like Blood, Kalan reflected, as he raised his glass and drank. The liquor’s tang filled his mouth, before tracing a line of fire from throat to gut. He sipped again, listening to the rain and all the soft warehouse noises, but heard no sly creak from the back door, or any other sound out of place. The liquor seared his throat again as Rayn lowered his own glass. “I heard you worked all night among the fire teams. Andron said you did a hero’s work with an axe.”
Andron must have been the captain who handed him the axe, Kalan supposed. It would not be unusual for a smith to captain a fire-watch, especially since Leti and Stefa had said he was in the town guard. “I’m no hero.” Kalan sampled the drink again, the sip no less fiery than its predecessors. “I heard that the blaze might have been arson. Did Andron say anything about that?”
Rayn shook his head, his expression lengthening. “It seems hard to believe, but when Andron and his team finally got on board what was left of the Sea Mew, it looked as though the hatches had been wedged shut. And the human remains in what was left of the hold would account for captain and crew.” He shook his head again. “Sea Mew was a coastal trader and the captain’s son disappeared a few weeks back. The crew had been searching everywhere for him, even along the landward route to Ij.”
“And now this,” Kalan said softly.
“Now this,” Rayn echoed. “There’s talk the Sea Mew was not above smuggling on the side, and the Captain of the City Watch has taken over the investigation.” The clerk set his empty glass down with a small clink. “But the business doesn’t look good, whichever way you examine it.”
“Whoever did this,” Che’Ryl-g-Raham said, coming in out of the rain, “either has no regard for the Grayharbor authorities or is sending a message. Or both.” Her expression was reflective as well as stern, so much so that Kalan wondered if she knew more than she was saying.
“No regard, eh?” Rayn frowned. “Do you think this might be the School of Assassins’ work?”
“I think it could be interesting to look in their famous book,” the navigator replied, “although Dancers of Kan are by no means the only option. Some might say the method was too crude for them. Or too arrogant.”
They were all silent, and Kalan contemplated what was left of his drink before speaking. “I thought you might have sailed by now.”
“Not without a functioning weatherworker. And after bringing the rain early, ours needs complete rest.” Her gaze measured him, almost as expressionless as she had been in the fireglow of last night’s wharf. “Given the loss of stored goods, we should have space for you and your horses, as well as your fellow warriors with their Matter of Kin and Blood.”
Despite inward relief, Kalan kept his face composed and bit back his thanks. “They’re not my fellows,” he said instead, and sensed the glance that the Derai navigator and Grayharbor clerk did not exchange.
“No,” Rayn said finally. “When the smoke got too much in the Marlinspike area last night, they shifted their gaming and drinking to the Drover, near the landward gate.”
Kalan stopped himself from shaking his head, but his features must have been less composed than he thought, because Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s smile held a glimmer of malice.
“Don’t worry, everyone saw you fighting the blaze, so the honor of the warrior kind is not completely in the mud. And if the mood does turn that way, no one will look in your direction for a scapegoat to string up.”
Rayn studied her over his spectacles. “The honorable navigator has an excellent sense of humor,” he observed, very dryly, before his gaze shifted to Kalan. “There is no question of that, either in your case or that of the Sword warriors. Arson is a serious charge, and lives, buildings, and goods have all been lost, but I hope we still have enough justice in Grayharbor to make sure it’s those responsible we punish.”
A little to Kalan’s surprise, Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s edge of malice faded. “Still, better for all of us that Derai were not implicated in starting the blaze and that some of us were seen to help fight it. I know it’s not Grayharbor’s way, friend Rayn, but it would not be the first time the mob has answered a disaster of this kind.”
Better for all of us indeed, Kalan thought, seeing the look that passed between them. He understood what they did not say: that if Derai were hanged in Grayharb
or, it would mean blood feud with the Derai Alliance and most likely armed retribution as well. “Blood price,” he murmured, and the navigator nodded.
“Best it doesn’t happen,” she agreed, before turning back to Rayn. “I’ll let you sort out Khar of Blood’s fare once we have the rest of the manifest in order. Don’t go too easy on him,” she added, a grin crooking. “He does have two warhorses.” Her gaze returned to Kalan. “As for when we sail, it’ll be when our weatherworker’s recovered. Rayn will send word to your lodging when the time comes.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the rain, and Rayn reached for a third glass. “A drink?” he suggested, and she nodded, pulling up another stool and settling onto it so her scabbard swung clear. Rayn turned to Kalan. “You’ll have another?”
“Why not?” Outside, the late afternoon was fading to dusk, but he had at least an hour before dinner would be served in the Anchor’s common room. He watched the clerk fill all three glasses, before raising his in unison with theirs.
“Health,” Rayn murmured, and both Kalan and the Sea woman echoed the word. In Emer they would have drunk to friendship and glory; on the Wall to Earl, House, and honor. In Grayharbor, with an outsider and two Derai whose Houses were at best neutral to each other, health had the advantage of being a safe pledge. Although friendship, Kalan thought, listening while the navigator and clerk talked of goods and manifests, shipping movements and weather conditions beneath the drum of the rain, would probably be as true a toast.
He swallowed the last of his liquor and stretched, feeling a pleasant warmth in his belly. Further down the wharf, men conversed idly as a warehouse’s doors screeched closed; the sound almost disguised the tiny opening creak of the chandlery’s rear entrance. Kalan lowered his arms, listening intently until the creak sounded again. A brief silence followed before he heard the creep of carefully placed feet. Casually, he stood up and asked for directions to the privy.
