Dangerous Waters

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Where, if Hosh didn’t miss his guess, the stars of the Hoe would also have shifted, by Aldabreshin reckoning anyway. With the Hoe below the horizon and warning of wasted effort, Hosh reckoned he could see more than one raider in the crowd who would have disputed this reading of the heavens. No one voiced open disagreement though. Not with Grewa.

  The envoy smiled serenely, apparently oblivious to those scowls. ‘Grewa will lead us north on the first tide after the Pearl slips from view.’

  Four days until dark of the Lesser Moon. Until Hosh was chained to his oar in the Reef Eagle again. He sighed.

  ‘Hosh.’ A hand clapped him on the shoulder as the crowd began to disperse. It was Nifai, the overseer.

  Hosh knew he owed the man a considerable debt. Nifai left him in no doubt that he fully intended to claim his due.

  After the chaos of Corrain’s escape, the Reef Eagle’s whip master was ready to flog every slave senseless, whether or not they’d been ashore. When he’d recognised Hosh as Corrain’s broken-faced shadow, he’d drawn a blade to cut his throat there and then.

  Hosh had thrown himself at Nifai’s feet, snivelling piteously as he spewed desperate lies. He’d only followed Corrain for fear of being murdered by the brute. But Hosh had outsmarted the dull-witted mainlander. He’d learned the Aldabreshin tongue.

  Hadn’t he promised to help Nifai in his trading? Would he have made that offer if he’d been planning to flee? Truly, he was glad that Corrain was gone.

  Trimon be thanked, Hosh had already heard a few choice titbits of news before uproar flared around the cooking fires. Those must have tilted the balance in his favour. So now he was Nifai’s pet.

  The overseer was nodding with careful approval. ‘Grewa is a wise leader and reads the heavens with great wisdom. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Without doubt,’ Hosh concurred. He also knew Nifai would want to know anything Hosh heard to the contrary.

  Well, Hosh’s mam had always said that Misaen made folk with two ears and two eyes and just the one mouth. So listen and look for four breaths before you think of drawing one to speak. That was proving good advice.

  Did Nifai truly believe in Grewa’s interpretation of the sky? Had the man believed him, back on Khusro Rina’s trading beach? Hosh wasn’t sure. But the overseer had defied the whip master. The tail only follows the loal, so Nifai had said. It has no wits of its own. Hosh had followed Corrain without sharing in his scheming.

  A loal was one of those dog-faced beasts with man-like hands and long furry tails. Hosh had seen one caged on the trading strand. He’d fallen behind to get a better look, so a gap had opened up between him and Kusint, filled with thronging Aldabreshi. That was why Hosh had been taken wholly unawares when Corrain attacked their unwanted oar mate.

  Amid the Archipelagans recoiling from the chaos engulfing the cooking circle, Hosh had been seized by panic. He’d lost sight of Corrain entirely. Which way to go? Which way was inland? Which way lay the shore?

  Before he could decide where to run, men with staves had waded into the mêlée. Hosh guessed they had the warlord’s sanction for subduing a riot at the cost of broken bones or cracked skulls. Whether the stars were shining kindly upon him, or Ostrin or Trimon or some other god from home, he had made it back to the beach.

  Nifai’s grip tightened on Hosh’s shoulder. ‘When the rains close the sea lanes to the north, we will double our wealth in trade with the western domains. Grewa will see our losses made good.’

  It hadn’t been losing a couple of slaves that had so enraged the whip master. Hosh had learned later how heavy the penalties were for disturbing the Rina domain’s peace.

  The blind corsair had paid a crippling price in metal looted from the mainland. All his galleys were ordered to quit the trading beach at once. The only reason the whip master hadn’t reached for his scourge was because the slaves were needed to row. Fail to reach the sanctioned sea lanes fast enough and the Reef Eagle and all aboard it would be forfeit to Khusro Rina. They would be the warlord’s slaves, from the galley master down.

  Hosh stood patiently as the overseer’s eyes grew distant, contemplating his likely gains.

  ‘There will be new mainlander slaves from these next raids.’ Nifai gave Hosh one last pat on the shoulder. ‘You will tell me what you learn.’

  Heartsick at the prospect, Hosh nodded nevertheless. He had no other choice.

  Nifai’s gaze sharpened as he saw Grewa’s envoy head for the ironwood trees. ‘You may go.’ Dismissing Hosh, he sauntered over to contrive a casual encounter with Ducah, who’d also come to hear the envoy’s pronouncements. The bare-chested corsair was frowning ominously.

  Hosh definitely wanted to keep well out of that vicious brute’s way. He weighed his shells in his cupped hands. He had enough to be going on with. He joined the slaves dragging their feet back to the corsairs’ encampment. Unnoticed amid the crowd, he made it to spurious safety in the shadow of the Reef Eagle’s master’s pavilion.

  ‘Hosh.’ A woman was sitting on the back steps.

  ‘Imais.’ He offered her a tentative smile.

  She was one of the more approachable of the women. Mixed blood by the shade of her skin but Aldabreshin by her speech and from some distant domain. Her dialect was very different to that of these northern reaches so she spoke slowly and sparingly to him, to be sure he understood.

  Corrain had insisted that the pavilion women whored themselves but Hosh had never seen Imais seek some corsair’s attention. It was easy enough to see which girls were ready to spread their legs. They relaxed on the shaded steps running across the front of the pavilion, draped in silk and drinking wine.

  Latterly Hosh had concluded that Corrain didn’t always know what he was talking about. Since he’d learned the Archipelagan tongue, since he’d been here alone, he’d learned more about the other slaves than he ever had under Corrain’s thumb.

  Most of the Aldabreshin slaves had been born to slave parents, granted, but a good number had been left without home or family after storm or disease ravaged their island home. Surrendering their freedom in return for shelter and food seemed entirely customary in such circumstances, as incomprehensible as Hosh found it.

  Even the younger ones had travelled or been traded across any number of domains. Some, to Hosh’s horror, reckoned this blighted isle offered a far better life than whatever brutality they had endured thus far. Those were the keenest to shed an oar’s chains for a raider’s curved blade, to swear their allegiance to the blind corsair.

  He saw Imais was studying a tall glass jar with a spray of vizail blossoms hanging upside down inside it. ‘What have you got there?’

  As she turned it, Hosh saw something move. ‘Is that a mouse?’ He moved closer and saw there was indeed a small rodent clinging unhappily to the stems.

  ‘Mouse and scorpion.’ Imais held the jar out so he could see.

  Even though the top was secured with tightly tied cloth, Hosh shuddered. He’d never imagined there could be such vile things as scorpions before he’d come to this island. Back home he’d thought spiders were bad enough.

  ‘Vizail wilts.’ Imais gestured at the jar and then up at the sky.

  Hosh nodded his understanding. The Vizail Blossom constellation currently held the most portentous position on the eastern horizon, gradually drifting away until the Bowl appeared.

  Imais nodded at the jar. ‘Last day, we see which is alive. Mouse or scorpion.’

  Hosh wondered what meaning would be read into that omen. Would it be something he should pass on to Nifai?

  Every corsair conversation that wasn’t about the practicalities of managing ships and slaves eventually turned to portents. The Archipelagans scrutinised everything from the spread of jetsam cast up on the shore to the way that goat bones cracked, cast into the fire at the end of a feast.

  Men scratched circles on the ground as soon as the setting sun kissed the horizon. They hurried to turn their backs before casting peeled twigs over one shoulder. The
y barely let them settle before reading their alignments. Any lit candle was watched for the hue and vagaries of its flame. Hosh had seen candles set in triangles and circles, sometimes with shards of coloured glass cast between them, every reflection studied.

  Imais put the jar carefully down and reached for a shallow bowl. It held a thick waxy leaf with a small ember in its hollow. She sprinkled a little powder onto the charcoal and inhaled the sweet-smelling smoke. ‘We share?’ she offered.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Hosh smiled apologetically.

  He had tried the dream smoke once, when he’d been returned to this accursed island. When he’d been driven to utter despair by his fear and loneliness. Corrain had always forbidden it, offered in their early days here. He told Hosh he knew of strong men dying from their first sniff of the disgusting barbarian vice. Yes, and he’d insisted that Archipelagans shunned any form of liquor or narcotic. So much for that.

  Hosh had decided he didn’t care. Since he was going to die, he might as well do so insensible. Alas, he’d discovered that while the dream smoke had soothed his cares, it hadn’t killed him. Worse, the after-effects of inhaling it left his face throbbing with as much pain as when his nose and cheek had first been broken. The passing relief of the sweet-scented daze wasn’t worth that, not again. Not when the daze would pass and he’d wake to this same relentless misery.

  ‘No ships back?’ Imais blew on her ember to stir a little more smoke.

  ‘No ships back,’ Hosh confirmed.

  The woman shrugged and sprinkled more resinous powder on her coal. ‘You bring shells?’

  ‘I do.’ Hosh sat down in the shade and spread his rag on the ground. He used a handy stone to smash the white shards into smaller pieces. A little more work and he’d have a useful heap of coarse, clean sand.

  Offer to scour a kitchen’s pots with it, once the Reef Eagle’s master and his men had been served the choicest dishes, and Hosh could hope for some food from the women. That task and any others he could find to earn their goodwill would take him till midnight. By then slaves and raiders alike should have sought some rest in the cool of the night. Hosh could find a quiet corner and risk some sleep himself.

  The door behind Imais opened and two more of the pavilion women emerged to share her smoke. Hosh concentrated on pounding his shells.

  You can’t roll a rune without one showing reversed. That’s what his mam always said. Hosh did miss her so. Skulking behind the pavilion might be safer than mingling with the other slaves but seeing these women with their work-roughened hands and age-thickened bodies as they snatched their brief respite did remind him—

  Hosh sniffed crossly. An aggravating trickle of mucus was sliding from his nose. He threw his head back to try and stem it. As he did so, he caught sight of the jar with the wretched mouse clinging to the vizail stems.

  Did the poor creature realise that venomous peril lurked beneath the blossoms? Would it starve first or be stung to death? Was there any way it could survive being trapped in there? Poor little mouse.

  Hosh ground the crushed shells with his stone. He sniffed harder but couldn’t stem his miserable tears.

  He was trapped as surely as that mouse. Even if he escaped the myriad things that could kill him, he would eventually die here alone. His beloved mam would never know what had become of him. None of these godless barbarians would give his body a decent burning. He’d suffer the torments of Poldrion’s demons until the last of his bones crumbled to dust.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Tresia Estuary, Caladhria

  9th of For-Summer

  CORRAIN AWOKE WITH a start. He had dreamed he was back in chains, the stink of the galley seeping into his sleep. No, he was enjoying the dubious privilege of the galley master’s bunk in the cramped stern cabin.

  He swung his feet to the planking and stretched his arms to ease the stiffness in his shoulders. Feeling the tug of the healing burns on his arms, he found the jar of ointment which Hosh’s old mum had given him and Kusint to share. They didn’t want those scars to heal stiff, she had warned. Corrain worked the pungent salve into the tender skin.

  How long had he slept? He’d come below deck just after midnight, as far as he could reckon it. Rousing Kusint to take his place up by the steersman’s oar, he’d rolled into the musty bunk and been asleep within moments.

  Was it morning? With the door securely wedged shut, the fetid gloom gave Corrain no clue. He didn’t feel particularly rested. That meant nothing. This voyage was proving as exhausting as any he’d ever made chained to a rower’s bench.

  The galley wasn’t moving. Anger burned through Corrain’s weariness. If they were to reach Solura this side of Solstice they must row from dawn to dusk and on into the night if the moons permitted it. Belting on his sword, he stooped to pull the wooden wedge out from under the door and went into the hold.

  The stern hatch was open, bright sunlight showing him two rowers sharing a cup of water in the shadows of the main hold. Ignoring them, Corrain climbed the ladder. Where was Kusint?

  The Forest lad was sitting in the galley master’s chair up on the stern platform. He was fiddling with one of the Aldabreshin compasses which they’d found in the galley master’s cabin. It was a dauntingly complex instrument compared to a straightforward Caladhrian roundel with a needle indicating north. A circular brass plate as big as Corrain’s splayed hand was engraved with a web of lines and numerals. A second pierced disc overlaid that with more interlaced circles while two brass pointers swivelled around the whole thing, all joined together by a central pivot.

  ‘Why aren’t we under way?’ Corrain demanded.

  Kusint took a breath before answering. ‘See here? I know where all the heavenly jewels and constellations are at this very moment.’ He held up the gleaming device, apparently expecting its display to mean something to Corrain.

  ‘Why aren’t we under way?’ He repeated with some heat. It wasn’t quite as bad as he’d feared; the sun was low in the sky and the morning cool had yet to lift, which was far better for rowing than the oppressive heat which would soon be building. ‘We’re wasting the best part of the day!’

  ‘You need to persuade the men that taking the westward course is wise.’ Kusint’s gaze warned him that something was awry on the rowing deck. Not for the first time.

  Corrain turned to look at the benches. A few of the laggards glared back at him. Others were looking studiously away, over the bulwarks towards the open seas on one side, at the green coast of Caladhria on the other.

  A handful huddled together in a manner which Corrain had come to know all too well. He walked towards them, staying up on the raised planking, one hand on his sword hilt.

  A rower lay on the deck below a bench, curled around a corsair dagger driven straight into his heart. There wasn’t much blood. From his unmarked hands, Corrain judged the man had been taken so completely by surprise that he hadn’t had a chance to fight back.

  ‘What happened here?’ he asked dispassionately.

  The knot of slaves looked up at him, Archipelagan born, dark of hair and skin. How many could understand him? It was hard to say. Not for the first time, Corrain wished fruitlessly for Hosh who could have translated his threats and promises.

  Imposing his will on the rowers had proved an unforeseen challenge. All Corrain could do was cajole and browbeat and hope to the gods he didn’t believe in that none of the freed slaves would actually force him to draw his sword.

  It had been a shock. Restored to his rank of captain in Halferan, if only unofficially by the likes of Reven and Fitrel, Corrain had readily slipped back into the habit of command. But the Halferans were willing to obey him, albeit with grumbles.

  After casting off their chains, the galley’s former slaves chafed at even the slightest order. Tempers were as raw and tender as their shackle welts at wrist and ankle. Bloody arguments flared, with few of those involved paying any heed if Corrain or Kusint tried to mediate. None of the rowers would surrender the blade
s which they had seized from the dead corsairs.

  ‘What happened here?’ Corrain repeated himself slowly and clearly in formal Tormalin. He knew full well that some of these slaves had picked up a little of that tongue in the course of their misadventures. But this handful merely shrugged, their faces calculatedly uninformative.

  ‘Are you dumb beasts or free men?’ Corrain demanded with barely restrained anger. ‘Have you been chained for so long that you can only behave like the animals the Aldabreshi called you?’

  ‘Enough!’ Kusint’s voice carried the length of the galley. ‘Have you no respect for your equals, Corrain? Have you forgotten your own sufferings as a slave? Do you propose to use an overseer’s whip to loosen their tongues, while you bear such scars on your own flesh?’

  ‘Never!’ Corrain was shocked into furious denial. ‘How can you think that?’

  But as he brandished his broken manacle, he saw the other rowers looking up from their benches. For some, that very fear lurked in their hollow eyes. Others looked at him with veiled menace, warning of dire consequences if they even suspected he would try it.

  Corrain looked back at the corpse. ‘Get rid of that before it starts to stink.’

  The men standing around grabbed arms and legs and hauled the body over to the bulwark. Heaving it over to throw it clear of the oars was something of a struggle.

  Corrain had been appalled to realise he and Hosh and Kusint had fared significantly better than these unfortunates when they’d been chained aboard the Reef Eagle. Whoever this galley master had been, he’d expected his slaves to row on an Aldabreshin stodge of steamed grain mixed with rancid shreds of meat and a few crudely chopped potherbs. The stuff had either been prepared or stored so imperfectly that it was full of weevils. Dead rats had been floating in the water in the casks in the hold.