The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  ‘Lords, but it’s cold out there, and crowded. There’s hundreds of them,’ she said, trying again to extend her visit.

  ‘You look tired,’ Hannah said. ‘Do you want to sit down for a bit?’

  Hoyt glared at her.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Erynn grinned, ‘but there’s too much to do. My mother and father would strap me silly if they caught me sitting down now.’

  ‘At least make sure you get some rest when this is over,’ Hannah said. ‘And don’t worry about the breakfast crowd. No one will be awake tomorrow, not after a night like this.’

  Erynn wiped her forehead on her sleeve. ‘How’s your shoulder, Hoyt?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he murmured into his trencher.

  ‘That must have been some fall you took, huh?’

  ‘Yes, a real nasty tumble.’ He didn’t look up.

  ‘Well,’ Erynn was running out of excuses to stay. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  ‘Another round, please,’ Alen said, loading empty tankards onto her tray.

  ‘Yes, and a moment’s peace,’ Hoyt said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Erynn pretended she hadn’t heard.

  ‘A rutting moment’s peace, please,’ Hoyt repeated, although he already regretted saying it. He wouldn’t look at Hannah, for fear that he might turn to stone.

  Erynn didn’t know what to do. Her hands shaking, she gripped the edges of her serving tray like a lifeline. Her lips quivered a moment, and she pressed them together, determined not to cry. ‘Another round of beers, all right.’

  Hoyt started, ‘Erynn, I-’ but the girl was already behind the bar.

  ‘Smooth, dipshit,’ Hannah muttered.

  ‘Should I go after her?’ Hoyt asked, frowning and tugging at his shoulder dressing.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Alen said. ‘She’ll be back; you can make amends then.’

  None of them gave the girl a second glance as she took up a tray filled with tankards and hurried into the street.

  Alen had just realised they were still waiting for their drinks when he noticed the young soldier standing in the doorway, staring them down. Erynn had been conspicuously absent since the awkward exchange with Hoyt, and now Alen realised why. ‘Oh shit,’ he said in English.

  ‘What’s that?’ Hoyt asked.

  ‘That’s my kind of profanity,’ Hannah laughed, then said, ‘what’s the matter?’

  ‘Don’t all look at once, but isn’t that whatshisname over there by the door trying to stare us into submission? The one who’s been chasing Erynn’s skirt the past Moon?’

  Hannah turned in her chair, ostensibly to order another drink. She caught Morgan’s eye and motioned to him, then turned back to the others. ‘Yes. His name’s Karel, and he looks wicked pissed off about something.’

  Hoyt understood. ‘Oh great. That’s just rutting great, just what I need: a lovesick boy angry with me because I managed to put his lovesick girlfriend’s nose out of joint.’

  ‘And he’s with the Malakasian Army,’ Alen’s said.

  ‘Yes, right, the baby corps.’ Hoyt tried to laugh it off as nothing. He flushed bright red and, tugging at his collar, said, ‘It’s too hot in here; I’m going up.’

  ‘Me too,’ Alen said.

  ‘Should I stay? Try and talk with her?’ Hannah asked.

  Alen dropped a few copper Mareks on the table. ‘I think the damage is done. Let’s go.’

  They were all upstairs when the representatives of Prince Malagon’s Welstar Palace Home Guard passed through the throng, checked the front room and then moved on towards the wharf. For a few moments, the whole of the street was silent, its collective breath held as the dangerous warriors, their black and gold leather shining even in torchlight, searched for someone. It was a cursory investigation, otherwise they might have tossed the rooms, interrogated the guests or beaten information out of the barman. Only after the soldiers had disappeared back into the city shadows did the revelry begin again.

  Redrick Shen was high up in the rigging of the frigate Bellan when Mark Jenkins destroyed Orindale’s merchant fleet, the stone bridge spanning the Medera River and most of the homes and businesses along the wharf. Like many of the Bellan’s crew, he had been transfixed by the carnage. The devastation had been awesome, and rather than flee – there was no reason to believe the Bellan would be spared – Redrick had remained aloft, clinging to the lines and riding the swells that followed the massive, unholy wave as it swallowed the centre of the city.

  He was in the shrouds now, riding northerly winds towards the archipelago and the Northeast Channel. Flanking the Bellan to port were the Souzett and the Welstar Prince, both frigates, and jewels in the Parofex Shipping Company crown. Redrick didn’t have any idea where Stahl Parofex was right now, but the Bellan, his flagship, and two other frigates had been impounded by the Malakasian Army, so maybe old Stahl was dangling from the end of a rope in the drawing room of his Orindale mansion. The ships were escorted by a handful of Malakasian naval schooners, another frigate, this one crewed by actual Malakasians, and three smaller, faster boats – two ketches and a sloop – commissioned for what purpose Redrick didn’t know. But all together and from this height, the miniature fleet, all of them under full sail, made an impressive sight.

  Redrick guessed the naval cruisers left in Orindale Harbour were Malakasia’s token navy in southern waters, there to oversee the resumption of shipping and commerce in the Falkan capital again. Everything else that could still float was bound for Pellia, via the harrowing Northeast Channel.

  Not many sailors wanted to spend much of a voyage aloft. The swells at that height, even on a quiet day, often had the heartiest of seamen hurling their stew; a gentle pitch or roll on deck could be a stomach-churning experience above the topsails. Yet Redrick spent most of the watch and much of his free time as far up in the Bellan’s rigging as he could, balancing effortlessly on his favourite perch, astride a spar rigged for a topgallant and a string of signal flags.

  When he was one hundred and fourteen Twinmoons he left Rona’s South Coast and shipped out on a cutter, working for an intrepid businessman hoping to lure seagoing commerce back into Estrad. The journey had been a disaster; they never made it beyond Markon Isle before pirates took the cutter, killed the businessman and drowned most of the crew in the waters off Southport. Redrick was spared, perhaps because of his youth, and forced to sign on with an outlaw schooner, running raids and ducking the Malakasian navy from Southport to Orindale. Over the course of thirty Twinmoons Redrick learned to sail, to screw, to fight and, when necessary, to kill. It was also where he had learned to be comfortable high above the foredeck; pirates weren’t always the best company.

  Nor did pirate careers last long. Many died young: ships were lost to the storms that tore up and down the Ravenian Sea, especially during the Twinmoon, and Malakasian naval officers were brutal and merciless. Redrick’s luck couldn’t last for ever, and when it ran out, he’d be captured and hanged by the navy like so many before him. One night he checked his pocketful of silver coins was safely stashed and his good seaboots were firmly tied to his belt, then Redrick slipped over the side and made for the lights of Southport Harbour. He swam as far as he could towards a Pragan vessel hauling nets offshore, eventually hailing the trawler through the darkness.

  That had been almost fifty Twinmoons earlier, and now, ironically, here he was, sailing as a forced conscript for the Malakasian navy. The navy had seized the Parofex frigates, famous in shipping circles for the enormous loads they could carry, and when Captain Harwick argued, he had been killed – not just killed, but eviscerated – by the little woman who seemed to be in control of the entire Malakasian military operation in the Eastlands.

  The woman had come aboard from a river barge, supervised the careful transfer of one slab of smooth granite, some kind of sculpture or something, Redrick didn’t know what, and then retired to the captain’s cabin with the great grey brick in tow. From there her orders were conveyed to the crew
by an army officer who scurried about like a fennaroot addict.

  Within a day, the battered and threadbare soldiers who’d come on board with their leader had been joined by what looked to be at least a regiment of tired infantry. They had come on a forced march from Wellham Ridge, and most looked as if they were about to collapse from fatigue and exposure. They were wet and cold and many had already fallen ill with lung infections. Those that had already died had been unceremoniously cast over the side.

  Now the Bellan, the Souzett and the Welstar Prince made their way recklessly north, chasing the Twinmoon. All three were big ships with deep drafts and whether there would be enough tide remaining for them to reach the North Sea and make the run to the mouth of the Welstar River was a gamble. Yet it was plain to Redrick that as long as the small woman was in charge, they would bully their way through on piss and anger alone.

  Redrick adjusted himself astride the spar, feet dangling above the decks as he ignored the footrope. He had found no reason to descend from the shrouds since Captain Harwick died. He didn’t wish to go near that woman if he could help it. She was undoubtedly powerful, but there was something profoundly wrong about her; anyone who could tear open the captain’s chest with a glance was someone to avoid, even if it meant spending the next Moon up here amongst the clouds.

  The Bellan pitched hard to port as she was hit by a rogue wave, a big one that was bouncing back and forth between Falkan and Praga, regardless of the tide. The Narrows north of Orindale had towering cliffs on both sides. Passage through could be quick, especially with a following wind and the tide with you, but there were odd currents and unexplained swells that came and went, whipping the sea into a boil and disappearing just as quickly. Redrick, like many who ran cargo along the Ravenian Sea, could almost pinpoint their location on a chart based entirely on the way the ship was handling through the Narrows. Now he held on with one hand, his back braced against the foremast, watching the swells rolling into whitecaps below. A bit of bread he had been eating for breakfast slipped from his lap and tumbled into the water where it disappeared in the melee. ‘Whoring Pragans,’ Redrick murmured, ‘this is getting rough. Might actually have to go back-’

  He stopped dead, his words almost hanging in the air. The woman was on deck, still in her uniform, still without a cloak. She had climbed to the quarterdeck, spoken briefly with the fennaroot-mad officer and then turned to look directly at Redrick Shen, her hair blowing about her face.

  The fennaroot addict glanced up, said something to the woman and then pointed at Redrick.

  ‘Ah, rutting horsecocks,’ he spat, ‘let ‘em come up here and get me.’ He had a filleting knife in his belt, thin but deadly-sharp. ‘Let him climb up here and bring me down himself.’

  The fennaroot officer shouted something; Redrick ignored him. It was an excuse he had used countless times: ‘Sorry, but it’s too windy! I can’t hear a thing!’

  He changed his mind when he saw that the addict wasn’t climbing the ratlines himself, but was sending Redrick’s crewmates, his friends. ‘Well, you won’t be fighting ‘em, not over this, leastways,’ he muttered, and looked back towards the quarterdeck, where the woman was still staring at him. Redrick felt a tingling sensation, and a visceral certainty that her eyes were fixed on him and if he didn’t hurry himself down there for whatever nightmarish task she had dreamed up for him, she would blast him out of the shrouds.

  When he reached the deck, Captain Harwick’s first and second mates, Harp and Spellver, were waiting with the Malakasian officers. Both looked haggard and weary, and both avoided looking at him. This was not going to end well. Redrick glanced east in hopes of catching sight of the Falkan coast. Too far to swim, he thought, too cold, anyway. He braced himself.

  ‘Good morning, sailor,’ the woman said politely. ‘My name is Major Tavon.’

  ‘Redrick Shen, ma’am,’ he replied, his hopes rising. This was more courtesy than he’d expected.

  ‘Remove your cloak and tunic, Redrick Shen,’ she ordered.

  He looked around. The wind was blowing winter up their backsides with a fury. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘And stupid, I see,’ Major Tavon said, ripping his tunic open with alarming strength.

  Redrick tried to back away, but he couldn’t; some strange power was keeping him immobile. He glared at Harp and Spellver, entreating them to help as the icy morning wormed its way inside his clothes and bit his flesh.

  Major Tavon considered his naked chest for a moment, then to Harp she said, ‘He’ll do.’ She turned back to Redrick. ‘You’ll do. Come with me.’ As she started back towards the poop deck, she cried, ‘Blackford!’, and the fennaroot addict was there in an instant, looking every bit the major’s personal slave. Up close, however, Redrick could see that his apparent obsequiousness hid fear.

  The major told the officer she was not to be disturbed, then ordered Redrick to follow her as she walked along the companionway leading aft to Captain Harwick’s cabin. Redrick, still gripped by the iron talon, followed reluctantly.

  ‘Give ‘er a good ride, Redrick,’ one of the hands called.

  ‘Take your time, boy,’ another shouted. ‘We’ll keep this tub afloat for ’ee!’

  ‘Don’t touch nothing with teeth in it, Reddy.’

  Is that what this is? Screwing? I’ve got to ride that old wagon? Demonpiss. He tried to step back, but found he couldn’t move of his own volition. Panic threatened to overtake him.

  ‘In here, sailor,’ the major called, and closed the door behind him.

  Redrick’s body ignored the cold and began to sweat. ‘Ma’am, I-’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, shithead!’

  He didn’t understand her words, but her tone was clear enough. Redrick bit back a plea and stood quietly.

  Smiling, the woman peeled off a glove, revealing a horribly infected injury on the back of her hand. ‘Do you see this?’ she asked rhetorically.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Redrick said. ‘I think that Mr Spellver would be a better person to help you with an injur-’

  ‘Do you not understand shut the fuck up?’ the woman screamed at him, spittle flying from her mouth.

  Redrick cowered, and tried to explain, ‘I don’t speak that-’

  She punched him, and the words disappeared. This was truly unfathomable: Redrick had been at sea most of his life, and he had been punched more often than he cared to admit – but no one had ever hit him as hard as this little Malakasian woman. He gasped for breath as he staggered up from the corner and checked to be sure nothing was broken. He fought the rage warming in his chest.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Major Tavon said, again showing him her bloody wrist. ‘It stinks like a corpse.’

  This time the South Coaster didn’t say anything.

  ‘So I am going to make you a gift, a token of my goodwill.’ Her eyes flashed.

  Redrick felt something inside himself slacken. He was giving up hope. ‘Ma’am, I don’t need a gift, I-’

  Major Tavon laughed in his face and repeated, ‘And stupid, too. I knew it.’ She came a step closer and took him by the throat. ‘I’m not giving you a gift, you simpleton, I am making a gift of you. I need you dead.’

  An alarm blared inside Redrick’s mind, but he could do nothing to defend himself. The woman was a monster, most likely one of those summoned from other worlds by Prince Malagon himself. She was stronger than anyone he had ever known, and she stared not at him, but into him, until the shadows in Captain Harwick’s cabin swallowed them both.

  It took only a moment and it was over.

  Captain Blackford jumped when Redrick Shen kicked open the hatch to the aft cabins. The big Ronan was carrying something and Blackford shrieked like a frightened schoolgirl when he realised it was Major Tavon. The South Coaster crossed to the port gunwale and, with one muscular arm, tossed the body over the side. It bobbed about for a bit, the filthy remains of the black and gold uniform tunic puffing up with trapped air like a great demon jellyfish, then a wave broke over
her and Major Tavon slid beneath the surface and was soon lost in the frigate’s wake.

  The soldiers and sailors on deck stood silent, expecting to be struck dead, simply for witnessing such an act. A few backed away, and one frightened corporal slipped through a forward hatch and shouted an unintelligible warning to the soldiers massed below. Then no one moved or spoke. The Bellan creaked and snapped in the wind as Redrick stalked back into Captain Harwick’s cabin.

  The hapless Captain Blackford nearly lost his breakfast when he heard the sailor’s voice echo from the companionway, calling, ‘Blackford!’

  ‘Oh goddamnit!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Gilmour pushed through the brush.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Steven said. ‘I had forgotten about these two.’ He was standing beside the partially decomposed, partially frozen remains of the two Seron warriors Mark had killed near the fjord early the previous Twinmoon. ‘Christ, they look like roadkill someone’s been keeping in the freezer.’

  Gilmour wrinkled his nose. ‘We should have burned the bodies.’

  ‘Come on; you’re not religious.’ Steven stepped around the corpses, careful not to come in contact with them.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose I am, but we should have burned them, anyway. This way, who knows what diseases they might be spreading?’

  ‘Don’t touch them,’ Steven warned, ‘they may still be moist inside and then we’ll have every hungry grettan in Falkan coming over for a midnight snack.’

  ‘I wonder why they haven’t been dragged off yet.’ Gilmour bent over the bodies, looking for evidence that they had already been nibbled by scavengers.

  ‘Nothing big enough down here to do it,’ Steven said. ‘When Mark killed them, it was still autumn; the grettans were in the mountains, except for the ones Prince Malagon sent south to find us. By the time the grettan packs came down to the Falkan plains, probably following the big herds, deer and elk, or whatever else you might have roaming around north of the border, these fellows were already frozen stiff.’

  No aroma.’