by Anthony Ryan
“Lord Mustor,” Derla turned to her left, “your bet, if you please.”
“Two golds.” Mustor tossed the coins into the pot. Derla noted how his puzzlement had transformed into one of his contemplative frowns, presumably as he pondered One Eye’s words. Seeing me clearly for the first time, she thought. I wonder if he likes the view so much now.
The Alpiran folded, turning his cards over with a careful lack of expression, followed immediately by the Nilsaelin, leaving Mustor and One Eye to contest the pot.
“Stick.” One Eye placed both hands flat on the table, leaning forward to cast a questioning glance at Mustor. The Cumbraelin’s eyes continued to linger on Derla for a moment before he switched his gaze to his opponent. He could raise the bet and force One Eye to either match it or fold. Either option might be taken as an insult by this singular king. It occurred to Derla for the first time that Mustor might not fully understand who One Eye was. It seemed impossible that his forays into the seedier corners of Varinshold had left him ignorant of the name, but did he truly understand the danger this man posed?
Mustor lowered his gaze to the revealed cards, brows bunching. Derla knew this to be for show; drunk or sober, this man could calculate even the most complex odds in a matter of seconds. “Call me a poor sport, good sir,” he said, offering One Eye an apologetic smile as he added another two golds to the pot. “But I believe a raise is in order.”
One Eye retreated fully into shadow once more, turning his cards over to reveal a hand with a collective value of less than twelve points. “Fold,” he said. “You intimated to the good captain that luck was not a factor here. However, there was an equal chance that I held three of the Noble Suit, was there not?”
“Actually, no.” Mustor flipped his cards; the Queen of Roses, the Prince of Snakes and the Lord of Blades plus three low value cards from the minor suits.
A moment’s silence as the two mismatched glimmers blinked in the gloom. “How pleased I am to find your reputation isn’t exaggerated, my lord,” One Eye said, raising a hand and clicking his fingers. “Wine, I think.”
A trio of serving women appeared out of the shadows bearing bottles and goblets. From the swiftness of their arrival it was clear they had been awaiting this summons. “A Cumbraelin vintage, naturally,” One Eye said as the women set a goblet down beside each player. “A subject on which I hear you’re something of an expert, Lord Mustor.”
“I’ve always felt a man should embrace his passions wholeheartedly,” Mustor said, nodding his thanks at the woman filling his goblet. When she set the bottle down and disappeared back into the gloom he kept his hands clasped together, making no move to drink it. The other players were not so restrained, the Alpiran taking a small but appreciative sip whilst the Nilsaelin and the captain indulged in a generous gulp or two. Well, thought Derla as she strove to keep the dismay from her face, at least the game will be shorter than expected.
“A fine and commendable attitude,” One Eye told Mustor, lifting his own goblet. “And what is your wholehearted opinion of this offering, might I ask?”
Derla’s gaze locked with Mustor’s and she gave a near imperceptible shake of her head. He forced a smile and began to reply, then stopped as he saw something beyond Derla’s shoulder. She didn’t need to turn to see what it was, for she saw it beyond his shoulder, a slender blade gleaming in the shadows, one of several. Beside her the Meldenean captain gave a short cough.
“A moment, if you will,” Mustor said, lifting the goblet and raising it to his nose. “Levlin Vale,” he said after a prolonged sniff during which both the Alpiran and the Nilsaelin had also begun to cough. “From south-western Cumbrael. A lovely stretch of country, I should say.” He sniffed again then winced as the captain coughed once more, louder this time. The Meldenean put his hand to his mouth and Derla saw a pinkish froth on his fingertips.
“This is a ten year old vintage,” Mustor went on, “the grapes picked when their ripeness was peaking. A difficult thing to judge, so I’d say this comes from Lord Ester’s holdings. Now, there’s a man who knows his trade.”
“All correct so far,” One Eye conceded, sniffing his own goblet. “And the taste, my lord? Tell me, what secrets can you divine from the taste?”
The captain, who had been staring at his pink stained fingers, abruptly convulsed, doubling over with such force his forehead collided with the table.
“Excuse me a moment,” One Eye told Mustor, turning to the now violently retching Meldenean. “By the way, Captain Alrath, I believe it’s time we ended our association. Your decision to raise prices yet again was truly unfortunate. For you and your crew, not to mention your guests.”
The captain reared back, face crimson and eyes bulging as blood flowed thick from his shuddering lips. Beside Mustor the Alpiran surged to his feet, blood stained gold teeth bared in a grimace as he drew a thin-bladed knife from the folds of his silks. Something flickered in the darkness behind him and he arched his back, the knife dropping from spasming fingers as an inch of steel erupted from his throat. The odorous Nilsaelin slumped forward, twitching as a crimson torrent streamed from his nose and mouth.
“Your pardon, sir,” Mustor said, setting his goblet down with a poise Derla would have thought beyond him. “But I suspect the taste may be somewhat bitter.”
Chapter 11
One Eye laughed, a strangely melodious sound, rich in genuine humour. “Oh well,” he said, laughter fading as he rose to his feet. “Trust a drunkard to spoil my fun.”
Captain Alrath roared, his reddened features devoid of all reason as he launched himself at One Eye, hands latching onto his throat. Derla rolled free of her seat as the table went over, scattering coins and cards. She sank to all fours, scurrying away, glancing back just long enough to see the captain bear One Eye to the deck, furious gibberish spouting from his mouth along with a bloody torrent as he tried to throttle his murderer. A flurry of blades flashed out of the gloom and the captain stiffened, blood pouring from the numerous wounds in his back, but still he held on, repeatedly slamming One Eye’s head to the boards. Derla tore her gaze away and crawled on.
From the sound of it the entire ship was in uproar, filled with a nightmarish cacophony of men and women screaming in pain or terror, clashing blades and splintered furniture all punctuated by the occasional snap and thud of a loosed crossbow bolt. It was dreadfully clear to her that One Eye intended no witnesses to escape the night’s events.
She covered only a few yards before a hand reached down to snare the laces on the rear of her bodice, holding her in place. “Kwo Sha sends his regards,” a male voice informed her, the tone heavy with anticipation.
Derla wasted no time by looking up at her assailant, jerking her head aside as the knife came down, leaving a small cut on her ear before sinking into the deck boards. She twisted her neck and clamped her teeth on the hand holding the knife, biting deep into the flesh behind the thumb. Blood flooded her mouth as the assailant voiced a high-pitched curse. She felt the grip loosen on her bodice and opened her mouth, releasing the hand and drawing her own knife from the small of her back. She lashed out at the attacker’s legs but he was quick, dancing clear so that the blade caught only an inch of boot leather.
Derla rose to a crouch, raising her gaze to find the Stitcher staring down at her, clutching his maimed hand to his chest, thin face white with pain and fury. “Was just going to bleed you,” he hissed. “Now I think I’ll fuck you to de-”
The bottle exploded against the side of the Stitcher’s head in a dark blossom of wine and shattered glass. Despite appearances, Mustor had a strong arm and the outlaw dropped like a stone, lying senseless and still on the deck save for the occasional twitch. But he wasn’t still enough for Derla’s liking.
“My thanks, my lord,” she said, sinking her knife into the base of the Stitcher’s skull, drawing it clear and wiping the blade on his jerkin. “I think it’s time we left, don’t you? You’d best keep hold of that,” she added, nodding to the jagg
ed neck of the bottle still clutched in Mustor’s hand.
She led him towards the stern of the ship, skipping over the dead and dying and dodging around the frenzied knots of combat. In the gloom it was hard to make out the various factions, Meldeneans and unaffiliated outlaws fought each other in their drunken confusion whilst One Eye’s sober minions killed indiscriminately. Derla saw a man drag a bare chested whore from her hiding place and forced herself to turn away when he pulled the woman’s head back by the hair, laying his dirk against her exposed neck. Mustor, it transpired, had more chivalrous instincts. He lunged forward, jabbing his broken bottle into the man’s eyes and sending him screaming to his knees. The whore gaped up at her saviour for a few seconds then scrambled to her feet and fled into the shadows, yelping like a startled dog.
“Come on!” Derla grabbed Mustor’s hand and dragged him away. “No more heroics, if you don’t mind. I need to get you out of here unharmed.”
“On whose orders?” he asked. “You are here at someone’s instruction, I assume.”
“A question you are more than capable of answering for yourself, I’m sure.”
Derla saw a figure loom up before them, dim light catching a short vertical gleam from the constricted arms of a steel crossbow. She shoved Mustor against the bulkhead, displaced air caressing her cheek as the crossbow bolt buried itself in a beam two inches away. She whirled and charged the crossbow man. He had another bolt between his teeth and the stock braced against his midriff as he drew back the string. His eyes widened at the speed of her attack and he dropped the crossbow, reaching for the hatchet in his belt just as Derla’s knife slashed across his throat. She left him drowning in his own blood and beckoned urgently to Mustor.
“Here,” she said, moving to an open porthole. Leaning out to survey the surrounding waters she was relieved to find the encroaching cluster of boats undisturbed. “It’s a fair drop, but better than the alternative.”
Mustor glanced at the porthole, staying still as he turned to her with a dark, distrustful gaze. “Who was Livera?” he demanded. “Is she the reason you latched yourself onto me?”
“Do you want to fucking die here, you stupid drunken bastard?”
He retreated a step at her shouting fury, blinking at the spittle landing on his face. “No,” he said, wiping a finger across an eyelid. “I suppose I don’t.”
“Good.” She stepped back, nodding at the porthole. “After you, my lord.”
He grimaced and clambered into the opening where he hesitated. “That is quite the fall…”
Derla’s foot slammed into Mustor’s posterior with sufficient force to send him on his way. She quickly clambered through the opening, launching herself clear with a hard shove of her legs. She had the ill luck to descend at the join between two boats, spraining her ankle on the timbers before plummeting into the sea. She sank quickly as the water soaked her dress. Light as it was the additional weight was still enough to drag her down. Derla fought the water’s pull, arms and legs flailing as she struggled to the surface, managing to get an arm clear before the water reasserted its grip. A hand caught hers just before it slipped back, gripping tight and pulling hard.
Derla’s head came free of the water and she found herself face-to-face with Mustor. “I trust they’re paying you well for all this,” he said, reaching down to grip her beneath the shoulders and haul her into the boat.
Derla allowed herself only a moment for the requisite gasping and retching before struggling to her feet. “There,” she said, pointing to the boat they had left at the edge of the cluster a dozen yards away. They covered the intervening distance in a series of stumbling, frantic leaps, Derla taking hold of the oars whilst Mustor cast off the lines. She pulled hard, Mustor angling the tiller to aim the prow at the twinkling lamplight of the Varinshold quayside. They managed only a few yards before a hail of crossbow bolts descended into the surrounding water like steel rain.
“It’s a little rude to leave without at least thanking your host, don’t you think?” a voice called from the ship.
Derla lowered the oars, her gaze quickly finding One Eye standing on the rail of the Margentis’s upper deck. A dozen men were arrayed on either side of him, all armed with crossbows. One Eye held something in his hand, something large and round that leaked dark fluid over the flanks of the Margentis as he swung it back and forth. “Captain Alrath is mightily offended, I must say.” He raised the severed head level with his own, leaning close as if listening to a conspiratorial whisper. “Really?” he asked, turning back to Derla and Mustor with brows raised in regretful surprise. “Seems a harsh punishment to me, but you are the captain.”
He tossed Alrath’s head away, raising a dull thud as it landed somewhere amongst the encroaching boats. One Eye reached for a rope and launched himself from the rail, swinging out wide before letting go. He performed a perfect somersault then landed on a boat at the edge of the cluster, accepting their non-existent applause with a modest bow. “Thank you. I have learned a great deal of new tricks recently, and find I can’t resist showing off.”
He straightened, all humour slipping from his blood-spattered face as he regarded them, features twitching a little. He didn’t just lose an eye, Derla realised. He also lost his mind.
“If you kill this man,” she said, voice as steady as she could make it, pointing at Mustor, “King Janus will tear the quarter apart to find you. His torturers will ensure your death lasts for days.”
One Eye smiled, though she noticed his twitch become momentarily more agitated. “At this moment there is only one king that need concern you,” he said in a strange voice that jarred on the ear. It sounded to her like a mix of accents all spoken at once. Surely another symptom of his madness. “Kwo Sha has paid me well for your death,” One Eye continued. “I was going to fulfil the contract later in the month, but fortunately you saw fit to make yourself so readily available on the very night I had arranged my coronation. As for him.” One Eye turned to Mustor, his face twitching with fresh energy. “He has to die…” One Eye’s voice trailed off and the twitch abruptly faded. When he spoke again the curious mix of accents was gone. “Not sure why exactly… But he does.” He turned and began to raise a hand to the crossbowmen on the ship.
“Frentis,” Derla said.
One Eye froze, then slowly lowered his hand. When he turned back to her his entire face seemed to be twitching, the flesh bunching and lips curling almost as if it was trying to turn itself into something else. “Frentis,” he said, in his usual voice, slurred somewhat by the constant curl of his lips.
“I know where he went,” Derla said. She gripped the oars, raising the handles so the blades dipped into the water.
“That buys your life,” One Eye said, spittle now leaking from his lips. “Not his,” he added, the mangled tones returning as he jerked his head at Mustor. His body had begun to shudder now. It looked to Derla as if he were trying to contain something, perhaps clamp down on his madness long enough to learn what she knew.
“Both of us,” Derla said, giving a slow pull on the oars, drawing the boat away from the ship. “Or you may as well tell your men to loose those bolts, because if this man dies tonight I’ll cut my own throat before I’ll tell you a thing.” Another pull on the oars, One Eye’s shuddering form receding further.
“Self-sacrifice is not in a whore’s nature,” he said in his mangled voice.
“I already died,” Derla called back. She pulled the oars again, harder this time.
“Where?” One Eye demanded, his normal tones now fully reasserted. Also, the shudder had disappeared from his body. “Tell me where. You know you can’t hide in this city. Not from me.”
Derla gave a full-strength pull on the oars, the boat slipping smoothly through the placid harbour waters. They weren’t quite clear of the reach of the crossbows yet, but few archers could be sure of hitting the mark at such range.
“The Sixth Order!” she called back, her voice breaking and an unexpected wetness blurring
her vision. She dragged air into her lungs and shouted it out, “He’s with the Sixth Order! Good luck getting to him there, you mad fucker!”
She started rowing again, with furious energy now, pulling hard until the Margentis had shrunk back to a toad-like lump and One Eye was just a speck. She kept at it, chest, arms and legs burning from the effort, breath coming in ragged sobs.
“I think you can stop now,” Mustor said, reaching out to grip her shoulders. “We’re clear.”
Derla dragged the oars through the rowlocks, letting them fall from her hands. She sagged, borne down by exhaustion and a sick, fiery ball burning in her stomach. Guilt was an unfamiliar emotion.
“You asked who Livera was,” she said in a murmur after the sobs had finally ended. “She was the woman I loved. I suspect the only soul in this world I’ll ever love. She died, and so did I. The king took me into his service and… and I thought I might live again, carry the gift of her life with me like the catechisms say. But now… Now I have betrayed her.”
“You saved my life.” Mustor’s hand cupped her chin, raising her face. He smiled, thumbing away her tears. “Albeit at the king’s order. But that does not dim my gratitude. Nor will it ever, Derla. Whatever service you require of me, I’ll give it, to the end of my days. I swear it by the Ten Books and the Father’s love.”
Derla sniffed, nodding and gently pushing his hand away. “We both appear to have become uncharacteristically devotional tonight, my lord,” she said, reaching for the oars and angling the boat towards an open stretch of quay. The dockside was loud with the familiar chorus of drink, argument and lust that wouldn’t fade until the smallest hours of the morning. She felt it to be as good a welcome as she deserved.
“Do you know,” Mustor said, working his lips together, a frown of realisation creasing his forehead. “I believe it’s been more than a full day since I had a drink.”
“An impressive achievement.”
