Dangerous Waters

by Juliet E. McKenna

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Anskal pushed past him.

  Sick at heart, Corrain turned back to climb the ladder, ignoring the Mandarkin’s thanks. Setting his jaw, he walked down the centre of the galley, searching the benches on either side for any face that he might recognise among the terrified, cowering slaves. Fitrel hadn’t been among the corpses on the road, nor yet Reven or fat old Captain Arigo.

  But as Corrain looked with growing desperation, he saw the slaves chained to these oars were men as ragged and filthy as he had been, all bearing the old scars of long-standing captivity.

  Anskal emerged from the galley’s stern hatch. ‘I find more silver and copper than gold.’ He didn’t sound too displeased.

  ‘There will be plenty of gold in their anchorage.’ Corrain brushed aside an irritating tangle of hair. The chain dangling from his manacle caught a knotted lock teased by the wind.

  As he ripped it free, heedless of the stinging, he recalled that brash vow which he’d thrown at Talagrin’s feet. Was that why Zurenne and her daughters had died? To punish him for all the insults he’d hurled?

  Had Corrain’s impiety been the death of Hosh as well, getting the fool boy killed for the sake of his escape with Kusint? Where was the Forest youth now? Had he made his way safely back to his own people in Solura or had some hostile Forest Folk waylaid him to steal the food and coin he carried?

  Anskal was looking at the chained slaves. ‘What of these?’

  Was that compassion in the Mandarkin’s voice? Numb with exhaustion, physical and mental, sickened by his failure to find any survivors from Halferan, Corrain couldn’t find it in his heart to care. ‘Do as you think best.’

  Anskal shrugged and raised a hand. The slaves began to scream and weep, utterly terrified whether they were Archipelagan or mainland born. Some were trying to hide beneath their benches as if padded goat-hide could possibly save them from lethal wizardry.

  The sharp crack of splitting metal echoed around the inlet. The slaves’ yelps were cut short as they realised they weren’t being harmed. As the first few sprang to their feet, Corrain realised that Anskal’s magic had merely shattered their fetters, freeing their feet.

  The closest to hand looked at the Mandarkin, wonder on their faces. Some of them clasped beseeching hands, not that Corrain or Anskal could understand their desperate pleading.

  Anskal pointed at the stern ladders. As soon as they realised that they weren’t to be killed, the rowers began to run.

  Corrain stood aside, letting them flee. They’d soon lose themselves in the marshes. If they survived the quicksands and plunge pools, they could take their chances on the highways and byways. The mainland-born or those who spoke some Tormalin would probably meet with mercy. If the rest were slain out of hand for their dusky skin and incomprehensible tongue, that was surely a tragedy, but Corrain couldn’t grieve for them. Not when he was already beset by so much heartbreak.

  As Anskal came to stand beside him, Corrain realised some goodwife’s cherished perfume was trying and largely failing to mask the reek of his unwashed body. The Mandarkin had also shed his rancid leathers for an Aldabreshin tunic, bright as a bankfisher’s wing, and scarlet trews. The shore breeze tugged at the hem of a grey brocade cloak doubtless stolen from some village headman’s festival clothes press.

  Anskal was looking north and south as the anchored galley swayed at the whim of wind and water. ‘There will be more ships along the coast.’

  He had an inconvenient memory for anything Corrain said, whatever his lack of fluency in Tormalin.

  ‘Perhaps but the highest tide was two, three days ago. They’ll most likely have ridden the ebb out to sea yesterday or the day before.’

  ‘This is the sea?’ Anskal looked around the inlet. ‘I had thought it would be bigger,’ he commented, mystified.

  ‘You’ve never seen the sea?’ Corrain realised that was hardly a surprise, if Mandarkin was a country of cold mountains and northern deserts. No wonder talk of springing tides and ebbs would mean nothing to the mage.

  ‘The sea is out there.’ He pointed. ‘Salt water, open water, from horizon to horizon. Can you catch ships so far from land that you cannot even see it? If you can, what will you do with your loot?’

  He gestured at the thicket of salthorn where they’d been hiding. Anskal would know he was pointing to the dark scar beside the tangled stems. As soon as they had arrived, the mage’s sorcery had summoned up his booty from Halferan so he could cache it like a squirrel hiding nuts for the winter. Or a Mandarkin scouting party preparing the way for an invading army.

  Corrain shook his wrist to slide the manacle round and tucked the chain back up his sleeve. If nothing else remained, there was still vengeance.

  ‘Go to their anchorage now and you’ll take them all by surprise; those at anchor and those sailing home. You can have all their treasure.’

  Anskal shook his head. ‘We will see what remains on this shore.’

  He snapped his fingers and a gout of water surged up from the inlet, sparkling in the sunlight. At Anskal’s nod it fell into a waiting bucket. The Mandarkin gestured at the rowers’ benches. Scraps of goat hide and matted tufts of cotton tore themselves free. At the sweep of his hand, they plunged into the bucket. The water shimmered and glimpses of mud, reeds and surging foam visions rippled across the surface, too fast for Corrain to see.

  Anskal shrugged. ‘As you say. No ships except burned like those.’ He nodded at the blackened hulks.

  ‘So will you take us to their haven?’ More corsair dead was welcome news but Corrain wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw the Aldabreshin anchorage choked with wrecked ships and every driftwood hut and oiled wood house razed to its black stone foundations.

  That would be his oath fulfilled. Then he’d get rid of the shackle and shave his head, and after that? Once again, Corrain found he just couldn’t care.

  Anskal was walking the length of the galley to the prow platform. He laid a hand on the upcurved timbers but whatever he found didn’t satisfy him. Scowling ferociously, he returned to the stern. Pushing past Corrain, he wrapped his bony hands around the steering oar.

  His expression changed. Coming quickly to plunge his hand into the bucket, he studied the water intently. When Corrain tried to see what the sorcery showed, Anskal moved to block his view. He looked up; his eyes veiled, and said something harsh in his own tongue.

  ‘You don’t go without me!’ Corrain reached to grab hold of the Mandarkin’s cloak. Would that be enough to share in the spell?

  Blinding oblivion enveloped him with that dizzying uncertainty over which way might be up or down. As the heat of the wizardry became the oppressive humidity of the Archipelago, Corrain smelled the unmistakeable stench of the anchorage. The white magelight faded to leave him blinking in the harsh sun. He had forgotten how bright Aldabreshin skies could be.

  He breathed a little easier when he realised they stood on the headland on the southern side of the haven. They were well away from the main encampment and a good distance beyond the pens where slaves were held for the Archipelagan traders.

  That relief was short lived. Corrain swallowed a shocked gasp when he saw how many ships lay at anchor. Not merely a flotilla of unknown galleys but a whole handful of triremes besides. The settlement had swollen grotesquely with these newcomers. With every scrap of greenery stripped from the shore, the ugliness of those makeshift huts was clear.

  Corrain searched desperately for the Reef Eagle’s pennant. The galley was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the vessel was safely away on some trading voyage. Unless it had already fallen victim to Caladhrian vengeance.

  Had Hosh been slaughtered out of hand with the rest of the Reef Eagle’s slaves by some uncaring Tallat or Myrist sword? Then he was dead in Caladhria and that was some consolation. If he wasn’t decently burned, perhaps he’d have his mother for company amid Poldrion’s demons. Corrain hadn’t found Abiath’s body on the Halferan road but how could a frail widow woman hope to escape the corsairs
?

  Corrain’s eyes stung. The breeze must be carrying more dust than usual with everything so dry.

  ‘Who rules this place?’ Anskal’s eyes were darting everywhere.

  ‘The master of that boat.’ Corrain pointed without hesitation to the blind corsair’s trireme.

  Anskal flexed his bony fingers, his expression more feral than Corrain had yet seen it.

  Scarlet flames sprang up all along the trireme’s side rails. Not spreading like a normal blaze, nor even with the insidious speed of sticky fire. In that single instant, the entire boat was ablaze.

  The sight didn’t warm Corrain as much as it might have, even as the wind carried frantic yells across the haven.

  ‘You must burn them all.’ He pointed again and again. ‘Every vessel with three banks of oars. Those belong to the worst thieves and murderers. Kill them first. Then sink the rest.’

  Anskal didn’t answer. He strode forward to the water’s edge and knelt in the lapping wavelets, spreading both hands in the water. Magelight glowed murky green in the depths.

  Corrain looked apprehensively at the settlement. The distant figures were running back and forth, not knowing what to do in the face of this unexpected, unprecedented attack. That would change in a heartbeat, if they realised where the wizardry stemmed from. Would Anskal’s magic betray their presence all the way out here on the headland?

  He gripped his sword hilt. Would the overseer, Ducah, lead the charge? It would almost be worth it, to see that brute’s face again, for him to see Corrain with a blade in his hand. To know who had brought this unstoppable death and destruction to the raiders’ liar. For Corrain to kill him.

  Looking across the anchorage, Corrain saw that the blind corsair’s trireme was wholly ablaze. The last few of those trapped aboard were jumping frantically through the flames in hopes of reaching the water.

  No one ashore could have the slightest doubt that magic was attacking them. Each leaping figure, slave or corsair, was seized by a twisting tongue of crimson flame. They writhed in mid-air, arms and legs flailing, screaming in agony. The wind carried the sickly scent of burning flesh along with their cries.

  What was the Mandarkin mage doing now? That emerald glow in the depths was fading rather than strengthening.

  ‘They’re leaving!’ Corrain jabbed an urgent finger at the galleys all swarming with activity.

  Anchors were hauled from the seabed or abandoned as overseers cut their ropes. Slaves were lashed to their benches, some flourishing oar blades, others already churning the water. Corrain winced. Though he couldn’t see the blood running down the slaves’ flogged backs, his own scars throbbed in sympathy.

  ‘They’re leaving! Can’t you see?’

  The galleys closest to the mouth of the haven were making ready to abandon those vessels hampered by the need to manoeuvre around their comrades.

  The kneeling Mandarkin wasn’t listening. Corrain reached for Anskal’s shoulder. A massive blow to the chest knocked him off his feet. He lay flat on his back, more stunned with surprise than winded.

  ‘They do not leave,’ Anskal said, conversationally. ‘I do not permit it.’

  Uneasy, Corrain got slowly to his feet.

  Anskal was telling the truth. Those galleys heading for open water were making no headway at all. Their way was blocked by a swelling wave taller than Halferan’s baronial tower. Green as glass, its upper edge broke into an endless curl of foam without ever sweeping towards the shore.

  Anskal grunted with satisfaction and turned his attention to the long low houses standing on their black rock steps. ‘Where does he dwell, this ruler?’

  As long as the bastard died, that was what mattered, Corrain told himself. ‘The second one, over there.’

  A thunderclap shook the anchorage. Out of the clear blue sky, a shaft of lightning skewered the building. Every shutter and door flew outward; splinters as long as a man’s arm scything through the settlement’s panicked denizens. Those who escaped death or injury fled in all directions.

  The building’s walls collapsed inwards. Cerulean magic crackled through the great cloud of dust. Tendrils darted outwards, dappled grey and cobalt. They seized those fleeing by the ankles. The only ones to escape the sorcerous bonds were those who flung themselves down in utter surrender, to lie prostrate or curled up like a child trying to deny some nightmare.

  Those who struggled were swiftly punished. Each magic tendril cracked like a whip, snapping them up and down. Corrain winced, remembering how Ducah had once done the same to a snake. Thankfully at this distance he couldn’t see if anyone’s head had come off like the serpent’s had.

  ‘There are innocents there,’ he protested.

  Anskal shrugged. ‘They must learn.’

  ‘Learn what?’ Corrain’s unease was growing.

  Anskal stood up, shaking glittering green drops from his hand. The impossible wave holding back the ships didn’t falter.

  ‘That I rule here now.’

  ‘What?’ Corrain’s hand went to his sword hilt.

  A crack of blue light sent a shock of pain searing up his arm. He didn’t need to draw the hilt to know the blade was shattered into uselessness. He couldn’t have done so anyway. He couldn’t have closed his numbed fingers if his life depended on it.

  Anskal was smiling cheerily. ‘You promised me gold and jewels and all my wants met. I see I can have that here and slaves of my own to serve me. I will be a good master,’ he promised. ‘They will not raid your shores again, not while I rule.’

  ‘This wasn’t what we agreed.’ Corrain wondered if he could reach across for his belt knife without Anskal noticing. Perhaps if the Mandarkin turned his back. Could Corrain throw the narrow blade hard enough and true with his off hand to do more than wound the mage?

  Was taking that chance worth the certainty that he’d be dead before he drew his next breath? Worse, Corrain was forced to conclude, the knife would surely shatter or melt or vanish in a puff of smoke before it even grazed the Mandarkin.

  Was there a wizard breathing who wasn’t treacherous scum? Was there any other way he could kill the double-crossing swine? Corrain didn’t care if he died doing it, as long as he succeeded.

  ‘Among my masters, an agreement no longer stands if one finds that the other has lied.’ Anskal might have been having an amiable conversation over a flagon of ale in a tavern.

  ‘I haven’t lied.’ The denial was out before Corrain could be quite sure. He had been guilty of so much deceit over these past seasons.

  Anskal’s face hardened. ‘You said they had no magic.’

  ‘What?’ This accusation made no sense. ‘These people abominate wizards. They will kill you as soon as they can.’ The warning was out before he thought better of it.

  Anskal shrugged. ‘So you say. Why should I believe you?’

  Corrain shut his mouth and looked away. He’d never thought this day would come, but now he hoped that Ducah had survived. Saedrin send the brute the right stars to slit the Mandarkin’s throat. This very night, for preference.

  Sooner or later Anskal would have to sleep to regain the strength to work his astonishing magic. Corrain had seen that for himself.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ He couldn’t help his voice thickening with hatred. ‘Am I your slave now too?’

  Anskal looked genuinely surprised. ‘I owe you my life. I do not forget my debts.’

  ‘Then what?’ Corrain’s gorge rose at the prospect of being kept here as the mage’s lackey.

  Though if he was, he could search for Hosh—

  That feeblest of consolations was ripped away. The wizard’s magic wrapped him in white light and Corrain’s hands and face were burning. Was that some punishment from Anskal or a warning?

  He’d barely had time to ask himself that question when his feet thudded onto the ground. As the fiery light faded, the full agony of his blistered skin was nothing to the anguish that seized him.

  Anskal had sent him back to Halferan. />
  CHAPTER FORTY

  Halferan Manor, Caladhria

  24th of Aft-Summer

  THE CARRIAGE HALTED with a jerk. Zurenne looked across to Ilysh and Esnina sitting close together on the opposite seat, Lysha’s protective arm around her sister.

  ‘Whatever we see, however bad it may be, we will not give Lord Karpis the satisfaction of seeing us distressed.’

  She kept her voice low lest someone overhear beyond the carriage’s thin wooden door. They owed Lord Karpis that courtesy, for his hospitality these past dozen days.

  For his wife’s sake anyway. Kindly and practical, Lady Diress had seen them bathed, clothed and comforted without any word of enquiry or reproach over whatever had been said and done during these past few seasons.

  She’d even come from her own chamber one night, with soothing tisanes and aromatic candles when Neeny’s nightmares had overwhelmed Zurenne’s efforts to calm her.

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ Ilysh managed a fleeting smile and laid her free hand over Esnina’s tight-laced fingers.

  The little girl sat silent as she did so often now, eyes huge in her pinched face.

  ‘Where will we go, my lady, after—’ Raselle’s question faded away.

  The nearer they had drawn to Halferan, the more Zurenne had wondered if the maid would shuffle up on the seat they shared, to press close to her for comfort, as Esnina had done to Ilysh.

  She held out her hand and gave the maid’s fingers an encouraging squeeze. ‘The hunting lodge at Taw Ricks, remember?’

  As reports had come in through these past ten days from the Halferan survivors and Lord Licanin’s men, they had learned that the corsairs had overlooked that most easterly of the barony’s residences. Lord Karpis’s scouts had confirmed this too. There was nothing which Zurenne could say to stop them riding wherever they liked now, under the pretence of lending a hand with this essential survey of Halferan’s suffering.

  That said, she was grateful for his armed guards bolstering Licanin’s ranks on this journey today, even at the price of having both those noble lords riding alongside her carriage. Even if those scouting parties were reporting no sign of corsairs or their ships, there were persistent rumours of vagabond bandits lurking in the marshes.