The Heir To The North

by Steven Poore

  At last, a dull smudge of land painted itself along the horizon. Yaihl shooed Cassia away from her tasks and the crew began to ready the ship for port. She had to confine herself to the small space at the bow until the shore was close enough to see the great stone wall that jutted out into the sea to enclose Galliarca’s famed port. Then Yaihl came again, this time to deliver a summons to the cabin.

  She turned away from the looming city reluctantly, ducking around the work parties to knock on the cabin door.

  “You asked to see me, sir?”

  Karak stood in the middle of the cabin, staring distractedly at the bulkhead. She would have thought him wrapped inside his own thoughts, but for the spider-crawl sensation that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. The air tasted of dust and copper. Cassia took an instinctive step backwards, pulling at the door as though it was a shield, but the sorcerer raised one hand to halt her movement. Clutching at the latch so tightly the metal dug into her palm, Cassia stayed where she was. Her heart, however, was racing for the comparative safety of the ship’s bow.

  “Hush. It is almost done.” Karak lifted his other hand and traced a web in the air before him. The web had an unnatural glow that reminded Cassia of Baum’s destructive powers, but it was completely unlike the savage fire that had killed Vescar’s men. Even as she watched, the web became translucent, stretching itself through the air like gossamer threads blown on the wind. One of the pieces came close to her skin and she shrank back. Then, abruptly, the magic was gone. A sharp gust dispersed the fine web with no sign it had ever existed. Cassia allowed herself to breathe again.

  “Sir, what was that?”

  “A small thing,” Karak said. “The winds that brought us across the ocean are free to leave us. The breeze is changing already.”

  A novice sailor she might have been, but Cassia had lived in the hills long enough to recognise a change in the weather. The wind was swinging around, bringing the taste of dry land with it. The Rabbit creaked and reared up against the waves as the sails caught the fresh winds. Sah Ulma shouted new orders, and the crew hurried across the deck and up through the rigging once more.

  While Karak rolled his shoulders and rubbed his palms together like a craftsman at the end of his job, Cassia struggled to understand what the sorcerer meant. “You caught the winds, sir?”

  “No, not caught,” Karak said. “Employed might be the better word. Perhaps. But the effect is the same. Artrevia’s winds have carried us safely across the ocean, and far sooner than Sah Ulma would have made this journey otherwise.”

  A magical breeze had carried them all the way to Galliarca. Cassia marvelled at the thought and the wonder must have been clear upon her face. Karak smiled, and dismissed his work with a single gesture.

  “How else do you think we escaped the storm that swept onto the Castaria? Artrevia is my major patron now, girl. If I must often go where the winds take me, then sometimes I may ask that those winds take me where I wish to go. Such are my privileges. And Sah Ulma’s sons must see their home again. They have been away since early spring.”

  Another dismissive gesture. “Enough talk. A task for you, girl. I would like you to accompany my goods while I pass on to my house. Your first charge.”

  “Are they magically sealed?”

  Karak laughed. “If you wish. But ensure they all arrive at the house. Intact, please.” He drew a thin coat over his robes. “Meanwhile, I must supply Sah Ulma’s payment and deal with the city’s officials.”

  He stalked past her, ducking through the door, and left her alone in the cabin. Cassia realised her mouth was hanging open, and she clamped it shut. She surveyed the half-emptied rails, and the chests that sat open beneath them. So is this what patronage comes down to? I’m to be his servant? A spark of indignation, an echo of her father’s temper, threatened to flare up and she smothered it quickly. I’ll have a roof over my head, and meals, and I even have a sword. And not just any sword. Can I complain? Really?

  To judge by the rising level of noise outside the ship was drawing closer to the docks. She set to work, folding the sorcerer’s robes down into the chests. There was a muslin bag of dried rose petals between two of the chests, and she sprinkled small handfuls over the top layers of clothing before closing the chests and slotting the bolts home.

  The rest of Karak’s goods were already stowed away. He did not travel light. Some of the chests looked too heavy for even two of the sailors to manage between them. Did he pack his entire house? Or has he stolen the contents of Hellea’s library? That idea made her smile.

  Waiting for the sailors to arrive and help, she sat cross-legged before one of the chests, scrutinising the scarred fittings of the locks and the corner braces. The designs carved into them were old, and looked naggingly familiar. They made her think of the North. Of course, it was likely Karak had been into the North at some point in his long life. He might have acquired these chests in any of the coastal towns.

  They might even be as old as this sword, Pelicos himself might have lifted this chest. She felt herself teetering on the crumbling cliff edges of history. If she looked down she might lose her balance and fall. Try not to think about it too much.

  She had a little time to gather her ideas now. To think of how to begin asking questions of Karak, and tracking down Malessar.

  Two sorcerers in one city – surely one would know how to find the other. She considered that for a moment. Something didn’t feel quite right.

  We live in seclusion and we keep apart from ourselves. We find it all too easy to fall into enmity.

  She shook her head. The thoughts would not fit together. Why would Karak come to Galliarca if Malessar already lived here? In fact, why would Karak and Malessar both visit Hellea at the same time? It sounded as though if they came upon each other they would have set fire to half of the city. And if Baum had known Karak was also in the city surely he would have mentioned it? He was a sorcerer as well, after all. If it was rare to find two sorcerers in the same city, then three must be nothing short of apocalyptic. Such coincidences never happened. Not even in stories.

  Cassia lifted one hand to her mouth.

  Stories . . .

  How do you know so much about our stories?

  We are never ourselves; we are always someone else.

  I helped rebuild the broken walls of Stromondor.

  Malessar had been at Stromondor when the city was sacked by the Hordes. Everybody knew that story. And people still lived there even now, though the sea power was a pale shade of its former self. He left the battle. He left the whole city to die. But what if he went back afterwards? What if he went back to make amends?

  Surely not. That did not fit with what Baum had told her of the man. Malessar had thrown fire into the crowds of Jedrell’s courtiers. He had seized the High King’s heart and torn it from the man’s chest and, while Jedrell breathed his last, he had seared Aliciana from existence. Such a man could never let guilt or remorse sway his thoughts.

  But still there was something that did not fit.

  If you should see this mark upon any of the cases . . .

  She traced two V-shapes into the dust between the chests. Then she sat for a long moment and considered that shape. Karak would have drawn it from the other side, she realised. They were not twinned V-shapes at all. They were mountains.

  Or the letter M.

  Her fingers were numb. She forced herself into motion, scrambling up from the deck and wiping away the scribbled letters with one foot, as though erasing them could also erase the avalanche of awful ideas flooding into her head, pushing at the sides of her skull. Fractions of thoughts, gathering together into one terrible and unwelcome revelation.

  Oh, I must be wrong. Please, I must be wrong.

  There had to be a way to be sure. She cast an anxious glance at the door, perhaps she had enough time. She bit her lip and her hand hesitated over the clasp of the first chest. I have no right. I have no right.

  She held her breath and flic
ked the clasp aside. Nothing happened. Foul demons failed to rise to drag her away to fiery hells. Sorcerous magic was conspicuous by its absence. She leaned across and flicked the other catch, lifting the lid before she could have second thoughts.

  Karak’s writing materials were inside: the table folded down into the base of the chest, and the space around it tightly packed with boxes of pens, cushioned bottles of ink, and long, slender scroll cases. Hardly breathing, and with no deliberate choice in mind, Cassia let her hand fall onto one of the scroll cases. The golden-rimmed ends were cool to the touch. It seemed to weigh so much more than it should.

  She turned it over in her hands and realised that she had no real idea of what proof she needed. Something caught her eye, a design scratched into the leather. Like an old tattoo, it had faded with time, but it was simple enough that she could make it out with little trouble.

  A stylised M.

  Cassia dropped it back into the trunk and picked up another. Again there was an M stencilled into the leather. And on the one after that too. She lowered the lid slowly and refastened the catches with trembling fingers. The chest sat accusingly before her.

  Oh dear Ceresel, what have you done to me?

  Baum’s instincts had not been wrong. Malessar had been in Hellea all along. He had indeed left the city with the turn of the season. And somehow the gods had conspired to send her, alone, with him.

  And – even worse – she had become his ward. She had allied herself with the warlock who devastated the North and destroyed Caenthell.

  Now she sat alone in the quiet of the cabin, surrounded by Karak’s effects – Malessar’s effects – and she knew that she was running out of time. The sailors would come to take these chests away, and Malessar would expect her to accompany them. To his house. Her first instinct was to run. Run as fast as her feet could carry her, until Galliarca was a distant memory. Forget about Baum and Meredith and everything she had done over the last few months. Start again.

  But this was not her home. Beyond this cabin, beyond the deck of the Rabbit, was a strange land, even more alien to her than Hellea had been. She didn’t have the first idea how to survive, how to get through her first night in this new world.

  If I go with him, I will have a roof over my head. Food and clothing. He has given me a sword. I made a bargain with him.

  There was a stubborn streak inside her that demanded she keep her side of that bargain. Bloody stupid girl. You leapt at the chance to get away from Keskor, and you sided with Baum and Meredith first. Baum is sure to follow you across the ocean eventually, and when he does you can lead him straight to Jedrell’s murderer. You got yourself into this mess – now deal with it.

  “I only wanted to tell the story,” she whispered. The solid travel chests gave no reply.

  She stood again, her legs unsteady beneath her, and wiped her eyes, taking a few moments to steady her breathing. It would do no good if Yaihl came to find her crying her eyes out. Or if Karak – Malessar – was to return unexpectedly. Questions would be asked.

  Now the story was telling her. That wasn’t right; it wasn’t fair. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. But the gate was open and the herd had wandered, as the old saying went. If there was nothing she could do about where she found herself and how she had gotten there – blind, stupid, fickle chance, Ceresel’s poison kiss – she might still turn the situation to her own benefit. It would not be easy, and it would most likely be dangerous. But she could be like Malessar’s shieldmen, hard and steadfast, weathering all storms. If she was a lamb jumping for the knife, well, she had her own blade now.

  She crossed to the door and leaned on the frame, staring out beyond the rail to the harbour. The Rabbit was being pulled by one of the port master’s pilot boats, tugged to within a few lengths of the outermost piles. Dock workers waited to catch the ropes the crew had coiled ready. They were dark, wiry men, shirtless for the most part, their skins baked by the sun into shining armoured carapaces. They wrapped rags and lengths of cloth about their heads, and their leggings were loose and flowing, tailored in fashions Cassia had never seen before coming aboard the Rabbit.

  The heat and the dry wind picking up from inland made it feel like midsummer. The winds Malessar had harnessed to bring the ship here had sheltered her from the heat. Her storyteller’s robe, thin and patched as it was, would soon become uncomfortable in this climate. She would have to find some more appropriate dress.

  Yaihl approached from the bow, shouting and gesturing at somebody above her on the hind deck. There was a fresh swagger in his stride, a bit of homecoming pride, and a fair amount of showing off. She’d seen Hetch do the same. Men are the same the world over, she thought.

  “Where’s Karak?” she asked, stepping back to allow him into the cabin.

  “Gone ashore now, little rabbit,” Yaihl said. “Gone by oar. Over the side, understand?”

  She nodded, she had seen the rowboats that cluttered the harbour. Clearly the warlock had much to attend to, and she could not help but feel disappointed and relieved in equal measures. Disappointed because she had been left behind again. And relieved for much the same reason.

  “You go with these, yes?”

  She shook her thoughts free and nodded. “Yes. I go with these. Do you want me to help lifting them?”

  Yaihl pointed to where young Genjis hovered nervously at the door. “I have help! You, help? I put box under that arm and you under this one!” The officer laughed, not unkindly.

  Cassia braced her fists against her hips in mock indignation. “I’ll fight you!”

  This time both Yaihl and Genjis laughed, but Yaihl took a small step out of her reach. Cassia tried not to smile too much.

  Be as Pelicos.

  Perhaps she could do that.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cloth! Red cloth for your shirts, young master! Six pennies a bolt! The best colour!”

  “All designs sewn! Birds that fly!”

  Cassia ignored the calls. She skipped past a small crowd of men gathered outside one of the ovens that were wedged into every small corner in the heart of the city. One hand held her leather scabbard flat against her leg to keep the sword from tangling and tripping her, and she flashed a grin at the stall holder who offered such lifelike embroidery. His birds were indeed wonderful, and if she had the coin she would not hesitate to commission a design, but the man simply could not draw any four-legged beast. His rabbits were awful.

  As with most of the narrow, twisting streets in the mede of the walled city, the afternoon sun slipped through slats and dried palm fronds latticed over the tops of the buildings. The heights of the walls differed with every pace, so the shade was unevenly distributed, illuminating small windows and odd corners that drew Cassia’s attention every time she looked up. She loved to take to the streets in the early afternoon, when much of the city retreated indoors and relaxed or dined. There was so much more space, and she danced into each patch of sunlight as though working through one of the forms. That garnered odd glances from the few passers-by on the streets – but she didn’t care at all.

  She’d picked up some Galliarcan aboard the Rabbit, and even more since then. A part of her was surprised by the speed and facility with which her language had improved. That was how she knew she’d made a ripple of sorts in the city, hearing people call her the nord lapa, or the story girl. It made her flush with barely suppressed pride.

  I haven’t even done anything yet! Just wait!

  It had taken several days to work out even a small part of the maze of alleys that made up the mede. The sheer profusion of stalls and awnings, and tumble-down buildings leaning over each other to prop themselves up, made it difficult for her to differentiate one narrowed, uneven lane from the next. She’d got lost on her first venture and hadn’t found her way back to Malessar’s dhar until late in the evening, exhausted, hungry, and on the verge of tears. Hellea had been intimidating enough; Galliarca was simply terrifying. That night she had cried herself to sle
ep, wishing she had never come to the city.

  But that had been weeks ago – a lifetime. She was as comfortable in the mede as she had ever been in any town of the North. Each day brought something new to astound and enthrall her: new spices, strange beasts brought by traders from beyond the mountains to the south, Kebrian dancers, slender golden chains dancing like rain from their outstretched arms . . .

  Oh, and the stories. The wonderful proliferation of stories.

  So much of them still went over her head – the language was so rich, and every word seemed to have three or more meanings – but there were some she already knew, and that made things easier. She could go to a different corner of Fahrian Square each night, join the edges of another crowd, and hear a tale she’d never heard before. There were storytellers from across the known world; Kebrian, Stromondorian, Hellean and Northern, and even plainsmen from Berdella. Malessar had pointed them out to her one evening on one of the few occasions he had accompanied her, naming all the men he knew, listing each man’s tendency for tragedies or heroic humour and explaining the particular tales they counted as their own, until Cassia felt her head would burst with the volume of new information. There was no way she would ever be able to remember it all.

  That night stayed fresh in her mind for more than just that reason. It was the first time, she realised afterwards, that she had not felt afraid.

  It was a peculiar revelation, one she pursued only reluctantly, as if in doing so she might break this dream. So she threw herself headlong into the city, all it could offer to her, and all she could take from it, and tried her best to ignore the dark thoughts massing at the edge of her mind, walled up with her memories of the North. Of the past. Of a different girl.