Although his father had been nothing more than a tailor, leaving little of consequence behind him after his early death, he had managed to gift his only son with the best of inheritances. The silver pendant that hung around Arran’s neck had a thin wire of red iron embedded in the locket’s frame.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to turn the Siheldi from him. At his mother’s insistence, he wore it always, keeping it a close secret for fear of being robbed. It was an easy thing for most people to ignore. It looked entirely innocent, just a scrap of paper under bit of glass in a plain, tarnished frame. Sailors were a superstitious lot, as a rule, and often adorned themselves with charms against drowning or tokens from loved ones trapped far away on land. No one expected him to have such a thing in his possession, so few people looked twice at the necklace, even when he clutched it tight during the long watches of the night.
That didn’t mean he was immune from taking precautions, however. Such a small amount of the metal would scarcely protect more than his closest neighbor, so he still had to look out for the welfare of his crew. With the large number of green men, the untested vessel, and Elargwyd’s alarming behavior, he was feeling less than confident about the journey even before it had properly begun. He really would have to buckle down to his books and pay attention to the muster in order to prevent a disastrous panic by moonlight from cutting his plans very short indeed.
It wasn’t easy to build the watch list without being very familiar with the strengths and failings of each member of the crew, and it took him a long time to puzzle through it, deeply absorbed in the work as he chewed the end of his pen and occasionally scribbled something in a column or two.
The day was disappearing quickly under the burden of his task, and soon the sun would be going down behind him. The turning shadows that traced across his desk helped him hurry to his conclusion. He hoped he had left enough time to complete a drill or two before full dark fell.
There was a quiet knock on his door that he ignored as he raced to finish up, and then another. The third time, he shouted something vaguely threatening at the intruder, who took the sound to be an invitation to enter the room.
“E-Excuse me, sir?” said a boy who could be no more than eight years old, and looked so terrified to be addressing his captain that his heart might not keep him going until he turned nine.
“What is it?”
“Papa wants to see you, sir.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Papa wants to see you, sir,” he said again, slowly and clearly pronouncing every word, as if that was the trouble.
“Thank you, lad. I’ll be there in a moment,” Arran said, not wishing to distress the child further by questioning his parentage.
Most sailors had a pack of boys at home who all needed to bring in income to support their mother and sisters, and they often brought their young ones aboard as a sort of apprenticeship, putting them to work as messengers or galley boys to help them absorb the lessons of the sea.
Durville was the only one who could request Arran’s presence in such a manner, however, even if the boy’s curly blond hair and wide eyes made him look little like his dark-featured and grizzled father. And Durville could wait until he finished the job he himself had asked for, Arran reasoned, checking over his work once again and making a few final adjustments.
“Here,” he said when he had left the confines of his cabin, the fresh parchment in hand. “That boy of yours is a little younger than I thought he’d be.”
“High time he started to make himself useful,” Durville replied, somewhat distracted as he read over the list. “It took you three hours to come up with this stupid idea?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You’ve got both Ondel brothers and a Hasseter in the same shift.”
“So?”
“You spent half a year in Cantrid and never heard of them?”
“I can’t say I have.”
Durville just shook his head. “They’ll kill each other. Let me work this out. Maybe you should go entertain our lady,” he added, jerking his thumb towards the stern, where Elargwyd was sitting on the bench built into the rail, staring out at the trail of swirling white water behind them, her chin in her hand.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, turning away from her slightly as she glanced over at him and smiled. “Who let her out?”
“You’re the one who said she wasn’t to be locked up,” Durville reminded him as he headed below to make his changes.
“I hope you are enjoying the afternoon air, ma’am,” Arran said when it was clear he had to walk over to her or risk being irreparably rude. “The weather is likely to stay fair for some time.”
“Yes,” she said. “I should almost guarantee it.”
“I’m sure we would be indebted to you,” he replied. Neneckt were well known for their ability to influence the weather, if not entirely control it. They could make a tidy living in the farming villages by squeezing a bit of rain from the clear sky in the dry season or holding off hail and freezing sleet until after the crops could come in.
“I think it is in both of our interests to have a safe journey, Mister Swinn,” Elargwyd said. “If I am to travel by ship, I prefer it to be a pleasant experience. I have no doubt that you will take very good care of me, and I am quite happy to return the favor. We all do have our parts to play, after all.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I am, perhaps, rather curious about Roydin Balard’s part in all this,” she continued in an offhand way. “I noticed his mark on the cart that joined us before we departed.”
“You noticed it from your cabin, ma’am?” Arran asked. “The one with no windows?”
Her rouged lips parted as she laughed, revealing a neat row of pearly teeth that were just a little sharper than they ought to be. “You told me to stay out of the way, sir. I didn’t know that meant I was confined to my quarters.”
“Of course not. Roydin has asked me to carry some cargo, that’s all. Does that concern you?”
“Everything about Roydin concerns me,” she replied, looking down at her hands and picking a piece of lint from the edge of her fingernail. “We are old friends, you could say.”
“Then I’m sure you already know all about what’s in those boxes.”
“Friends don’t tell each other everything.”
“Neither do they pry into other people’s business.”
“Curiosity is an affliction of all races, Mister Swinn,” Elargwyd said. “But restraint is not a virtue monopolized by your kind. I have no intention of snooping, but that doesn’t mean I can’t ask.”
“Certainly, ma’am. But I cannot tell you what I don’t know. If you don’t mind me changing the subject, I would request that tonight you do, in fact, stay in your cabin, unless you hear the warning bell. Should that happen, you ought to proceed to the lockroom and wait there until given the signal that all is clear. I will have someone show you where it is before the sun sets.”
“Won’t you show me now? I shouldn’t like to be forgotten in the rush.”
Arran hesitated, then grabbed the nearest man he saw and pushed him towards her. “Show the lady how to get to the lockroom,” he ordered the sailor, who looked a little bit like he had been stricken dumb when he realized just what he was facing. “It’s all right. Just take her down and make sure she knows what to do. She won’t bite. Probably.”
Elargwyd laughed again, showing those teeth, which didn’t do much to help the poor man’s nerves as he silently led her away.
An odd creaking noise made him look upward at the orderly tangle of rigging and sails, and he sighed. “That damn yardarm,” he muttered as he took off his coat and threw it on the bench. “Durville,” he called. “Give me three men, the carpenter, and a nice sharp plane.”
An hour before sundown, he was feeling better about nearly everything. The shortened yard and adjustments to the rigging had been straightened out, the watch drills had been reasonably successful, and Elargwyd
hadn’t shown her face again.
There was a small convoy way off to larboard, their bright lights already shining at the tip of every spar. They were too far away to communicate, and they were headed in the opposite direction, intending to round Cape Hart to the north of Cantrid and continue on Port Chardon, where mutton, milk, cheese, and beef were served up to feed the hungry throngs of Paderborn.
Arran stared at the lanterns as they dipped below the horizon as the ships made their northward turn, winking like stars while they hovered just at the line of the waves before disappearing entirely.
It was some of the best work available, for those who liked that sort of thing. It was safe, plodding, and predictable, well funded by conglomerations of merchants who all pitched in a share. The slow and sturdy tubs were armed with iron and fed with a fresh portion of the livestock and other vittles they carried, which was an added bonus for the highly-paid crews who signed contracts guaranteeing steady employment for years at a time.
Arran had always told himself that he would get bored with the monotony of such good living, but the truth was that the large ventures had no need of little ships like his, and would pass him over in a heartbeat if he dared to apply. So it was a good thing he was so content accepting scraps to complete other men’s errands and ferrying fastidious passengers to and fro for pennies, he thought sourly. There was always plenty of security in that.
“I think it’s time we light up, Durville,” he called, turning away from the last of the convoy. The master looked up from his work and waved an acknowledgement before giving the order.
Arran watched as the lanterns were lit and hauled up to their places, the thick glass panels melting the fire into a soft luminescence that bathed the deck in a gentle glow. It was just enough to cast shadows, but not bright enough to destroy the night vision of the five sturdy lookouts as they scanned the waves for the slightest disruption or irregularity.
There were other ills besides the Siheldi that could beset a ship at night. A traveling whale could hardly be blamed for blundering into a ship’s hull, but the resulting collision often left the fish badly injured and the vessel’s masts wrenched apart in their fittings from the unexpected check on its motion, an expensive and time-consuming fix.
And for a sailor taking a few moments to neglect his duty, night was also the time to catch blue oilfish, a rare but highly prized delicacy of the upper classes worth its weight in silver. The slight rainbow gleam left by the wake of the elusive animal lasted for hours in placid water, and the tempting trail had led many a voyage more than a little off course as every man suddenly believed himself an expert fisher. Arran had never countenanced that sort of thing, mostly because success was too rare to justify the detour, and had resolved to keep a close eye on any foolish entrepreneur who made his way into the tops.
When the task of lighting the lamps had been completed, Arran gave Durville another nod. The bell rang out and the hands were dismissed to their supper with a cheer, the last bit of leisure they would have before the night and its perils overtook them.
“Here’s to tomorrow,” he said, tapping his glass against Durville’s after filling them both with brandy. He had never really liked the toast – it was a little too presumptive for his liking – but it was traditional, and he said it without thinking as they both automatically glanced out the wavy glass of the stern lights, the last of the setting sun glinting off the peaks of the calm and unthreatening waves.
“I think we’ll do all right, gods willing,” Durville said. “Ain’t no crack and flash to our boys yet, but we aren’t too far from land. Did you see Mackrin’s tubs shuffling up to Port Chardon? They’ll be a tastier target than us tonight.”
“Hope so,” Arran said. “I’ll take the second watch, just to be sure things don’t get sloppy. That’ll give you a little more sleep after all you did today.”
“And leave me to attend supper with the lady? How kind.”
“We all have our parts to play,” he said, echoing her words with a wry smile.
He only had time for a quick bite if he wanted to get any sleep before he was woken for his watch, but it was still an enjoyable meal. For one thing, he had the luxury of taking it alone without the need for tortured small talk with men he hardly knew.
For another, a short journey meant fresh food the whole way. There was soft bread and tangy butter, good cheese, fruit and vegetables that hadn’t wilted, and no need yet for the puckering salted pork and rock-hard, twice-baked biscuits that made up the menu on longer voyages when the best fare spoiled in the warm, humid air of the storerooms.
He had his own little oil lamp set on the table by his elbow as he ate: a shallow, flat dish with a special wick that detected the minutest of changes in the air. The flame went greenish when there were Siheldi about – or at least that’s what the merchants told everyone.
Each of the lookouts was equipped with one, which they watched religiously in between every sweep of the horizon, but he couldn’t really remember a time that the flame had raised the alarm before the first of the screams. Nonetheless, Arran kept glancing at it every time he raised his fork to his mouth, but the flame kept burning purely golden, and he was able to finish his meal in peace.
He was able to sleep well, too, for a little while, as part of his subconscious mind kept track of the bells as they rung muted every half of the hour. Eight bells would strike again at midnight, which was when his shift began. But it was at six bells that he woke, pulled on his boots, and tiptoed as quietly as possible out of his cabin and down into the hold.
He couldn’t help himself. He had said over and over that he wouldn’t do it, that he would leave Roydin’s mysterious crates alone until they were out of his care. He would be furious with anyone else who defied the order, even Durville, but he told himself that as captain of the ship, he had a responsibility to ensure that he wasn’t carrying anything dangerous or detrimental to the rest of his crew. That was reasonable, wasn’t it? That was little more than his duty.
The boxes were close to the front of the storeroom, since they had come aboard last, and were easily accessible without too much rearrangement of anything else. Arran winced as the crowbar hanging on a wall hook made a ringing noise as he took it down. He paused for a moment, listening, before beginning to study the simplest way to open the top crate.
It was nailed shut, so the lever would be necessary. But would it be wise? He would probably end up splintering the wood, and then there would be no way to close it again without leaving evidence of tampering. Maybe it wasn’t really worth it after all.
“I am surprised that you would consider such a crude method to begin with, Mister Swinn,” Elargwyd said from the shadows behind him. He whirled around, entirely taken by surprise, and instinctively swung the metal bar at her head, only realizing halfway through the arc that he shouldn’t have done so.
He expected to hear the crack of her skull and feel a sickening wave of remorse, not a sharp jolt running up his arm as she caught the crowbar inches from her face. Her grip was strong and unshakable as she wrested the weapon from his fingers and laid it carefully on the floor in one swift motion that didn’t make a single sound.
“I’m – I’m sorry,” he stammered before he could collect himself. “What the hell are you doing here?” he added sharply a moment later.
“I could ask the same of you, but I already know,” she replied, stepping up to the crate and running her fingers over the nail heads. “Let’s skip the play acting, shall we? We both want to know what’s in here, and I can do a better job of finding out than you can.”
“Why should I trust you?” he asked, taking a half step towards the abandoned crowbar, but she glanced over her shoulder at him with her eyebrows raised in amusement, and he froze.
“Have I given you reason not to?”
“Not as such,” he admitted.
“Then let us indulge our curiosity. We never have to speak of it again,” she said pressing her fingertip down on one of
the nails, which then popped free from its hole as soon as she released it.
“How did you do that?” he asked, more fascinated than angry.
She pulled the nail out from the wood and dropped it in his hand with a smile. The flat top, where she had touched it, looked like it had been melted in a very hot flame, but it was completely cool as it lay on his palm. She soon added several more. “Do you really want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Allow me,” he offered as she started to lift the lid. She stepped back and took the nails from him to free up his hands, saying nothing as he readied himself to lift the heavy planking. She probably didn’t need the help, he realized, if she was strong enough to stop his blow cold, but at least he would be the first one to see inside from his position.
“Holy saints preserve us,” he whispered as he peered into the container and Elargwyd raised her lamp to shed light onto its contents.
“Interesting,” she said mildly when she looked over his shoulder.
“Interesting? This is – this can’t possibly be real,” he said, lowering the lid onto the floor and reaching in to grab one of the thin iron sheets inside. Red iron – reddish iron, he corrected himself, because it couldn’t be the genuine article. The box was full of it. The rest of the boxes must be full of it. And on the edge of each sheet was the mark of the Guild of Miners, stamped into the metal as clear as day.
“It’s fake,” she agreed, taking the sheet from him and peering closely at the stamp. “I would have felt it if it was genuine.”
“You would?” Arran asked nervously, glancing down at the chain around his neck.
“This much? I could have sensed it a mile away. No, it must be wrong. But this is a very convincing mark. Very convincing indeed. It would fool many buyers.”
Dark the Night Descending (The Paderborn Chronicles Book 1) Page 3
