The man didn’t even see Maarkov as he came to the port side of the ship and examined the lantern, peering at it in the darkness. Likely the light had ruined his night vision, and he was now focusing on the lantern itself. He never knew that Maarkov was there.
Maarkov flipped the dagger in his right hand, grabbing it by the blade, and threw it overhand at the man. He heard the sailor let out a surprised grunt, followed by a gurgle as the dagger sank into his throat with a wet thunk. Maarkov rushed toward the body as it went limp, staying on his toes so as not to make any noise, and caught the man before he could clatter to the deck of the ship. He laid him gently to the deck, pulled his dagger from the man’s throat, and turned to take in his surroundings.
This craft had neither forecastle, nor quarters at the aft. It was a small, simple craft, and what few rooms it had besides cargo space would be below decks toward the aft of the ship. Hells, there wasn’t even a wheelhouse, just a simple tiller with an overlarge handling mechanism. Maarkov smiled, and moved for the cargo hold.
He was surprised as someone came loudly up the steps, a bottle of liquor in one hand and a pair of cups in the other. His eyes fell on Maarkov and widened in fear, but Maarkov was too old to hesitate, too old to care. His sword whipped from the scabbard at his side, quicker than a striking snake, and opened the man’s throat before he could utter a cry. It was a precise strike, no deeper than it needed to be, and the blood that sprayed from the wound was minimal. Before he could topple backward, Maarkov moved forward and pulled him onto the deck with a contemptuous movement. He left him there, moving down the stairs and into the hold.
The cargo hold of the small craft wasn’t big enough to hold much but the goods from perhaps one or two carts, and stacked so that there was only enough room to squeeze between them. It was empty now, save for a few dried food goods and some extra lengths of rope and other sailing implements. Maarkov shot one quick look around the hold, and then moved toward the aft of the vessel.
There was one narrow hallway here, with three doors on each side. Actually, they weren’t precisely doors, just openings with bits of sailcloth hung up to serve as entrance flaps. Each room was comparable to the others, with a low cot built into the wall and a table that folded similarly to the wall in order to save space. There was nothing else, and the rooms were uninhabited.
Maarkov sighed. He’d hoped there would be at least one person aboard who could have given him an interesting fight. Maaz, however, had chosen the time when the other members of the crew would be in town, drinking and carousing before setting off the next day. It made sense, but Maarkov had stopped caring if they would be discovered long ago. The only thing that gave him any real pleasure anymore was fighting. At least that was an honest struggle.
He moved back up onto the deck to find Maaz already aboard, directing his strega to drag the bodies of the two men down the stairs and into the cargo hold. That strange Hunter being crouched beside him, watching the strega with what Maarkov was sure was a contemptuous posture. The strega were bad enough without having that thing along.
“Good work, brother mine,” Maaz hissed quietly.
Maarkov shrugged, sliding his sword and dagger back into their sheaths.
“Do you really think this is the best course of action? Maaz, they’re right there in town. We should kill them, take the armlet, and be headed back to Shundov before anyone can guess what is going on.”
“Yes,” Maaz replied, drawing the word out, “In a town full of mercenary Sevenlanders, we shall just waltz into their inn, kill everyone inside and burn it to the ground before anyone does anything to react. There is a reason that I make the decisions, brother.”
“You really think your plan will work,” Maarkov said, making it more a statement than a question.
“Yes, brother mine, otherwise we wouldn’t be borrowing this charming little vessel to head upriver, now would we? There is only one way they can go from here, brother, and I intend to make some preparations before they get there. Once we get off the river, the Hunter can find their trail again with relatively little effort. Now, kindly cast us off, would you? Just steer us upriver, dear brother.”
“I’m no sailor, Maaz. I’m a sword arm.”
“All you have to do is point us in the right direction and make certain that we don’t hit anything,” Maaz spat, “How hard can it be, brother?”
Maarkov entertained thoughts of running his brother through again, but dismissed it. It would be much easier just to get this thing over with. So he walked over to the lines securing the little boat to the dock, and slashed through them with his sword. He pushed the boat away from the dock with a long pole that lay on the deck, and then turned to the tiller.
“Try not to disturb me for a bit, brother,” Maaz called over his shoulder as he too went down into the cargo hold. Maarkov spat in the general direction of his brother’s parting back. After a moment, the two strega stalked silently back up the stairs and out onto the deck, each taking up oars from either side of the boat and starting a slow rhythm, pushing them upriver. Maarkov felt odd being alone up here with those two things, but he kept his disgust at bay by watching the low lights of Billingsley pass by.
Just a little longer, he told himself, and this will all be over.
****
“The most dangerous part is a few leagues upriver, once we pass into Farra-Jerra,” the captain of the Midwife told D’Jenn, Dormael, and Allen, “There are a lot of tributaries there wide enough for pirates to anchor in. We’re slow in the water, but larger than any pirating vessel we’ll see on the river, so it should be easy enough to pick a few of the buggers off before they come aboard, if you have bows.”
D’Jenn looked to Allen, who nodded and said, “I have a couple I can pass around.”
“Good,” the captain, a middle aged balding man named Binnael, said, “That will be your best bet.”
The companions had loaded their goods in the hold and were watching the workmen load the last of the cargo into the boat, waiting for the crew to cast off and the journey to get underway. Dormael had worn his cotton shirt this morning underneath his leather armor, and the fabric was decidedly cooler than the wool he’d worn all winter. The sun was shining, the sky was pink with the light of dawn, and the day had the look of a clear, spring morning. All in all, it was a good day to start a voyage, if Dormael had ever seen one.
Dormael leaned on his spear and watched the dockworkers struggling up the gangplank with a medium sized crate suspended on a carrying apparatus that required four men to lift it simultaneously. The men were red faced and sweating, though the morning was still cool since the sun hadn’t baked the evening chill from the land. It was odd, but Dormael couldn’t guess why.
“I thought you were just carrying furniture,” Dormael said, watching the men struggle with the crate.
“Aye,” Binnael said, “And some pottery – jugs or some such.”
Something in the man’s tone set Dormael’s hair on end, and he looked down at his side to see Bethany regarding Binnael suspiciously. Wouldn’t Binnael know exactly what he was carrying? Furrowing his brow, he turned his gaze back to the workmen as they moved the crate onto the deck, jostling to get it in position so that they could lift it into the pulley system to be lowered into the cargo hold.
“Seems a little heavy,” Allen commented as he watched.
As if his words were the catalyst, one of the workmen suddenly tripped on a rope that lay uncoiled on the deck and lost his balance. The rest of the men began jockeying as best they could; shuffling their feet and trying to keep the crate up, but it was no good. The tripped man suddenly stepped over the edge of the cargo opening, and toppled into it with a scream of surprise. The crate followed him, though the other three men were able to keep their feet and stay on deck. There was a crash and clamor below as everything smashed into the belly of the ship.
Dormael rushed to the edge of the cargo door, fearful for the man who’d fallen. If there had been anything stacked b
eneath him, then he could possibly have fallen on something and broken his neck. Even without the hazard of falling into something, it was still a nasty spill.
His mouth fell open and realization hit him when he saw the aftermath of the accident. The heavy crate, the captain’s strange attitude, and the way that no other mercenary company had wanted the job suddenly struck home. The man lay on the deck below, stunned but moving, and the remains of the crate hadn’t landed atop him. Broken pots lay shattered in the remains of the broken crate, among hay and sawdust that had been used for packaging.
And gold.
More gold than Dormael had ever seen was spilled all over the deck, dumped into the wreckage from the broken pots. The workmen stared down in hungry surprise at the fortune, and then turned their gazes back to the docks. Dormael followed the direction of their eyes, to where six more crates identical to this one were stacked and waiting to be loaded.
Binnael was regarding the entire debacle with red-faced anger, and as Dormael met his eyes the man looked away with a sheepish but haughty expression on his face. D’Jenn, Allen, and Shawna all rushed up to the side of the cargo door, and gasped at what they saw below, realization and trepidation dawning on their own faces.
“Easy run, eh?” Dormael commented to Allen, who still hadn’t taken his eyes from the gold.
“Guess we know now why no one else wanted the job,” Allen said angrily.
D’Jenn only regarded the scene with cold anger in his eyes before spitting a curse and stalking away in Binnael’s direction. Bethany watched everything going on curiously, and Dormael covered her ears as he heard D’Jenn start to curse loudly at the ship’s captain. Shawna shook her head and walked away to lounge on the railing and gaze out over the water.
“Nothing is ever just easy, is it brother?” Allen grumbled.
“No,” Dormael said, “It only gets harder. It always gets Gods damned harder.”
****
Chapter Twenty Six
A Slug in a Mud Pit
“Who else knows about this?” Allen asked Binnael. Allen’s face was a stony mask, his anger directed at the captain of the Midwife. Binnael sat at his desk in the cramped quarters beneath the wheelhouse of the ship, abashed but not exactly squirming under the scrutiny of Allen, Dormael, and D’Jenn. Allen was playing the leader of their “mercenary company”, and Binnael regarding him with red-faced indignation.
“No one was supposed to,” Binnael answered, “In any case, I trust you will keep your mouths shut about it.”
Allen laughed mirthlessly, “Oh yes, you can be assured of that, captain. The problem is that someone knew, because none of the other companies wanted to take this job. Someone has put the word out about your little shipment. We’re all stuck in this together, and my men will die right alongside yours, so why don’t you just tell us what we’re dealing with here, eh?”
Binnael snorted and looked to the side, his eyes falling to his cluttered desk before he spoke, “The money belongs to Mansar Nero.”
“Mansar Nero,” D’Jenn said, making it a disbelieving statement.
“Yes,” Binnael answered, looking as if he were about to sick up.
“As in Mansar Nero from Mistfall? Why would cases of his gold be this far north, in some backwater village on the banks of the Ishamael?” Dormael asked.
“It’s a payment,” Binnael said.
“That’s quite a payment,” D’Jenn commented.
“It’s the brothels, isn’t it?” Allen asked, “Nero runs the pleasure houses, and the girls.”
“Still,” Dormael said, “That much gold…even three brothels running at top capacity all year couldn’t pull that much gold, not and pay the girls. So where did the rest of it come from? And who are we paying?”
Binnael grew irritated at the line of questioning, “That’s no affair of yours. You lot signed a contract.”
“Yes we did,” Allen said, “for furniture, not gold. You’ll need a small army to keep that much money safe on the river.”
“Well, if everything had gone according to plan then none of us would be here, but what we have is you and what you have is a contract. So get out of my office and watch the Gods damned waters,” Binnael spat. At that, the balding captain sat back in his wooden chair, crossed his arms and regarded the three of them darkly. Dormael almost wanted to awaken his Kai and roast the bastard on the spot, but he held himself back.
“This isn’t over,” Allen said, pointing a finger at Binnael before grabbing Dormael by the arm and pulling him along out of the captain’s quarters. D’Jenn stalked out after them.
Once they were outside, the sailors went about their business, pointedly not looking at Dormael and his friends. Allen crossed his arms and grumbled under his breath about the situation, and D’Jenn walked to the edge of the deck to stare out at the quiet waters of the river.
“You remember how to use a short bow, Dormael?” Allen asked.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been hunting, but I’m still a fair shot,” Dormael replied.
“Good. You head on up to the fore of the boat and keep a watch out. I’ll bring you a bow and a quiver. I’m going to head up to the rigging and do the same. I’ll put the others at the starboard and port sides.”
“We’re still going to take this job?” Dormael asked.
“We have to. We signed a contract, and if we go back on it we’ll be blacklisted forever. That kind of thing gets around, and I won’t have it said that Allen Harlun goes back on his word. We are, however, going to get paid well when we make it to Jerrantis, I promise you. I’ll kill the bald bastard in there myself if he doesn’t come off with coin for trying to cheat us.”
With that, Allen stalked away, headed for the cargo hold, where their equipment was stacked in a few chests and locked up for safe keeping. Dormael shook his head, dumbfounded at their horrible luck. Adjusting his armor, he walked toward the forward part of the river vessel and prepared to settle in for a long watch.
****
The river Ishamael was a wide, deep, and slow-moving river this far north. Dormael lounged idly against the railing at the bow of the ship, staring out at the calm waters. His spear was laid beside him in easy reach, and Allen had brought him a short bow, which lay near it with a full quiver of arrows.
The Midwife bobbed lazily in the water before a south wind that blew her steadily upriver, though the captain had his men rowing in shifts. Still, the old cog moved slowly, and Dormael found it hard not to grow irritated at their sluggish pace. At least the sun was shining and the day was warm.
Binnael had spent the rest of the day in his quarters, doubtless to keep out of Allen’s sight. Dormael’s brother had been stomping around the deck in anger ever since they’d gotten underway, and had finally climbed into the rigging with a bow. No one had bothered him since, which Dormael thought was probably smart. Allen had a temper like an angry bull.
The sailors all went about their business without paying the argument over the cargo any mind. Commands were yelled, lines were secured, and oars dipped rhythmically into the water without any comment or complaint. It would have been soothing if Dormael didn’t feel as if their leisurely sail would be overtaken by screaming pirates any minute.
The river was inhabited regularly by other trading vessels and small fishing boats, and Dormael kept a close watch upon them; though he knew that no pirates would attempt a boarding in an area of the river that was well in sight of other boats. It wouldn’t happen until they passed into Farra-Jerra, and the bogs that dominated the southern region of its tribelands. Dormael didn’t relish heading into the bogs, but Binnael had assured them – during their argument over the cargo – that he knew the safest routes through the bogs, and that they needn’t worry. Still, that didn’t lessen Dormael’s uneasiness.
The day passed uneventfully, and Bethany came skipping over to him with his supper as night fell over the river. She bore two biscuits and a large bowl of stew in her little arms, and she sighed as Dorm
ael reached up and took them from her. He was tired of eating stew. This was the third night in a row that he’d dined on the stuff, but he supposed it was better than hard tack and dried beef, so he ate without complaint.
“D’Jenn says that we’ll be heading into the moors soon,” Bethany said, “What are moors?”
Dormael smiled as he laid his supper aside and leaned back against the railing again, “They’re wetlands, dear, mostly. D’Jenn calls them moors, but most people who live near the region just call them ‘the bogs’.”
“Well,” Bethany said, gesturing him to go on, “what are they?”
Dormael scratched his cheek, trying to come up with a good explanation. He’d never been a very astute student in some subjects, and natural studies had been one of his worst. It was right behind mathematics and alchemy on his least favorite subjects list during his First Four.
He patted the deck next to him and gestured the girl to sit, and she obliged him, leaning into him as he cleared his throat to begin.
“The bogs,” he said, “are a nasty, stinking place. They’re full of water all year. But it’s strange – in some places you’ll find deep pools, almost lakes, where water collects and grows stagnant. But in other places, there is a sort of soft ground. They’re dangerous to travel through on foot, because you can be walking along one second on muddy ground and the next thing you know you can plunge into a deep pool, or fall into a mud pit. The mud pits are the more dangerous, because they’re sort of like quicksand.”
“What’s quicksand?” she asked.
Dormael laughed, “It’s a pit of water and sand that has a current of sorts. It pulls you under the surface, and it’s almost impossible to get out of one by yourself.”
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 83
