This time, unfortunately, the captain only smiled, his courage bolstered by the presence of his crew all around him.
“I’ve heard yer good, Monster,” he said with disdain. “But don’t pick a fight you can’t win.”
“He’s had worse odds,” Eva said with a shrug, though Raz could hear the tension in her voice. “I wouldn’t gamble on you winning this fight just yet.”
“So you ain’t willin’ to take my generous offer?” the captain asked, leering at her with a twisted smile. “Last chance.”
“Take your offer and eat it, Captain,” Eva said loudly, but she sounded more worried than annoyed now. Looking around at the other sailors still lounging and standing about the common area, she spoke to the room again. “We are looking for Garht Argoan. Is he here?”
Before her, the nameless captain’s face twisted in anger. “I’ll make sure to let him know you was lookin’ for him,” he snapped, starting to draw the cutlass with one hand and raising the other to signal his crew. “If you want to do this the hard way, then—!”
WHAM!
Several candles on a nearby table flickered and danced under the rush of Raz’s dart forward. His shoulder hit the man like a battering ram, squarely in the chest. At the same time, one clawed hand took him by the throat, the other grasping the basket grip of the sword. With a twist Raz rolled, slamming the captain into the wooden floor and drawing the blade in the same motion.
In half-a-second the captain was spread-eagled, coughing for a clear breath of air, staring down the edge of his own sword while his face looked as though he were struggling to figure out what had happened.
His crew hadn't even had time to draw their own weapons.
“Blades on the ground,” Raz said calmly, looking around at the men and women who encircled him as though this were a perfectly normal situation. “Drop them all, or your captain loses an ear.”
Whether it was solidarity, uncertainty, or simply the fact that the man wasn’t well loved by his ship’s company, not a one among the crew moved to do as Raz asked. None of them made to attack him either, though, so he thought it likely they merely needed to be galvanized into action.
With a whip and a thud, quicker than any of them could follow, the cutlass plunged down, piercing the man’s left ear and pinning it to the wood beneath it. As the captain screeched in pain, twisting and grabbing at the blade in a desperate attempt to wrench it free, Raz straightened to stand over him.
“I’ll say it one more time,” he told the throng before him, reaching up to draw his own gladius slowly from the borrowed scabbard over his shoulder. “Blades on the ground. Now.”
This time the hesitation was only brief. There was a dull clang as an axe and iron shield hit the timber slats of the inn’s sticky floor, then another as a pair of daggers fell. After that, it was only half-a-minute or so before the forty members of the ship’s crew stood unarmed. To a one they stared at him in stupefied awe, eyes only moving away to glance nervously at the gladius in his right hand, or to grimace at their captain, still writhing and howling at Raz’s feet.
Then the clapping started.
Raz looked around, baring his teeth in the direction of the sound, suspecting mockery. When he caught sight of the source, though, he nearly choked in surprise.
A group stood on the stairway at the back of the room, apparently having descended from the floor above to see what the commotion was about. In their midst, a broad man was bringing his hands together in slow applause, grinning as though he’d never seen anything so entertaining. The stranger was balding, the monk’s ring of long, scraggly hair about his head a greying brown, just like the heavy beard that was braided and plaited halfway down his wide chest. He had deep, twinkling blue eyes surrounded by laugh-lines, squinted now in mirth as he clapped. He was dressed, in large part, much like any of the other sailors scattered about the room. A thin leather vest was pulled over his baggy cotton shirt, blotched yellow with old sweat and age, and his wool leggings had been tucked into the wide brim of his black boots. At his side, a war-hammer was looped into his belt, one head flat and the other a single, wicked-looking spike. Raz might have thought this an odd weapon of choice for a seafarer, except for one other detail that made the man stand out clear from the crowd.
Across his face, in three diagonal lines, red war-paint had been streaked with skilled, ritualistic practice.
Behind him, Raz heard Syrah hiss in alarm.
“Well fought, Dahgün,” Garht Argoan said, his grasp of the Common Tongue marred only by the thick accent of the mountain clans. “As to be expected of the slayer of Gûlraht Baoill.”
CHAPTER 17
‘The Sylgid,’ it transpired, was the name of the benevolent spirit of water the mountain clans prayed to for safe passage when crossing the frozen rivers and lakes of their treacherous homelands. Syrah had explained this quietly to Raz as they’d allowed themselves to be escorted by Argoan’s crew through the common area and up the stairs, leaving the still-unnamed captain of the other ship to be freed by his own once they were gone. She told Raz she’d thought it must have been some odd coincidence, at first.
Now, obviously, not so much.
“Please, sit,” Argoan told them as he moved around the end of a wide, oval table, pulling out a bench for himself as he did.
The Highest Mast had at least three levels, it turned out. Another set of stairs, a bit shorter than the first, led to another floor, but Argoan had ignored these after he’d led them up from the common area. Instead, they were now in a back corner of the second story, which was even larger than the room below. All around them a haphazard assortment of tables, benches, and chairs took up every square foot of the space, many of them occupied by sailors and mercenaries sharing food and drink as more tavern wenches moved about the room, taking orders and carrying away empty tankards and dishes. As the mountain man sat, several of his men rousted a few of the closest tables, suggesting—with feigned politeness—that the current occupants would do best to vacate.
No one had to be asked twice.
Eva sat as soon as Argoan extended the invitation, giving Raz and Syrah little choice but to follow suit. As soon as they’d done so, the crew of the Sylgid took their own seats, filling the tables all around them until Raz, Syrah, Argoan, and Eva were well and truly surrounded by a wall of roughened seafarers, ensuring their privacy. Seeing this, a couple of the serving girls started to move in their direction, but scurried away again when several of the sailors gave them cold glares.
For several seconds, Argoan sat and waited, looking between Raz and Syrah, clearly expecting them to speak first.
Syrah obliged.
“Strange to find an Amreht courting the sea, Captain,” she said evenly, meeting his eyes despite the fact that her hands were balled into fists under the table. “I admit: you’ve taken us by surprise.”
Argoan nodded slowly. He was watching Syrah intently, as though trying to size her up, but when he spoke his voice was cordial, almost friendly. “My apologies for that. I suspected you would be… uh… less inclined to consider my offer if you were aware of my lineage.”
To Raz’s right, Eva looked around in confusion. “What are they talking about?” she whispered to him.
In response, Raz shook his head ever so slightly, trying to say he would explain later. Eva, fortunately, seemed to get the hint, and said nothing more.
“I’m not sure I’m inclined either way,” Syrah was saying, frowning as she did. “You’ll forgive me, but Raz and I were already suspicious that you would so generously offer us a place aboard your ship. In light of these new circumstances—” her good eye lingered on the paint streaked across his face “—you can appreciate that our concerns are not alleviated.”
“At all,” Raz added, narrowing his eyes at Garht Argoan. He wondered, perhaps, if the captain would sneer at them and say they shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He thought the man might grow angry, maybe even command his men to throw them from the tav
ern.
Instead, Argoan just grimaced unhappily.
“I am not surprised,” he said with a slow shake of his head, sitting up on his bench and sighing. “Not in the least bit, in fact. I imagine it would be hard to trust most anyone with my features at the moment. I had considered, in fact, having my first mate pretend to be me—” he indicated a tall, strong woman with dreaded hair and a chunk missing from her nose standing over his left shoulder “—but suspected Evalyn wouldn’t know to play along.” He looked to the surgeon. “Apologies, my friend. The politics of our lands are a bit more strife-ridden at the moment than I fear you might be aware of.”
Eva said nothing, though her brow furrowed in an obvious sign that she still didn’t have a grasp on what was going on.
“Why extend the offer at all, then?” Syrah pressed him, leaning forward. “If you knew Raz and I wouldn’t trust you, why bother?”
“Oh, it’s not complicated, really,” Argoan said, crossing his arms over his broad chest and shrugging. “Simply put: I owe you a debt.”
It was Raz’s turn to frown. “A debt?” he asked, confused.
Argoan nodded. “The both of you. As individuals, and as a pair.”
Raz still didn’t follow. He was just about to suggest—none-too-gently—that the man speak plainly, when Syrah made a small sound of realization.
“The Amreht,” she said, like she was putting together the pieces of a puzzle. “Baoill’s conquest of your tribe…”
“Was brutal,” Argoan finished with a nod as the woman trailed off. “Yes, in so many words. I’m all too aware of the horrors the Kayle perpetrated on your valley towns, believe me. I would not belittle that. But I don’t know if you are aware of how he went about conscripting the other clans for his army.”
“He held families hostage,” Syrah said at once. “I heard as much straight from the mouth of Kareth Grahst.”
“After he’d already brought them to knee, yes,” the captain said, and he sounded now as though he were having a hard time keeping himself in check. “But to break them in the first place… Baoill allowed no law or tradition to stand in his way. He butchered any chieftain who didn’t pledge their allegiance to him in advance, which was nearly all among the Amreht. Their loved ones were treated no better, often given over to the army as spoils of war. Wives and sisters and daughters were made into battlewives, sons and brothers into camp slaves. There was no mercy, no decency.”
Argoan brought his gloved hands together, winding his fingers about one another to stare at them. His eyes were distant as he continued. “My own brother was a minor chieftain in the northern reaches of the Vietalis. Mercifully, he hadn't yet taken a woman to wife, but our sisters…”
He paused again, clearly struggling to find the words. Eventually he looked up, meeting Syrah’s eye directly. “I left the Amreht of my own volition some thirty winters past. The way of the mountain clans was not in my blood, I fear. Still… I have returned, many times. Every few years if I can manage it. My family did not hate me, did not shun me. They welcomed me back each time. We are not all the monsters the Sigûrth have become.”
At that, Syrah shuddered and looked away from the man, and Raz thought the captain seemed rather saddened as his gaze traveled across the woman’s face. Raz wondered, briefly, if any of his sisters had survived the war, and what state they were in, now…
There was a moment of silence, then Argoan took a deep breath, sitting back again and forcing a smile. “I was thrilled, you see, when Evalyn told me you sought passage from the North. I’d heard of you before, Syrah Brahnt. Stories and rumors whispered throughout my village, telling of a woman who was brokering a peace with old Emreht Grahst. I wasn’t surprised when I heard tales in the smaller ports north of here that you’d had a hand in tearing Baoill from his throne, though the company you were said to keep was more astonishing.” He looked around at Raz. “I am less familiar with you, Master Arro. I heard your name come out of Azbar, I believe, but I confess not to have paid it much mind.”
“I don’t take offense,” Raz said with a shrug. “I’m pleased to hear of anyone who didn’t heed Quin Tern’s call.”
Garht Argoan glowered in distaste. “I never understood man’s insatiable desire for violence. It’s among the reasons I left the clans, truth be told. The Arena was never a point of interest for me.”
At that, Raz couldn’t help but crack a half-hearted smile.
“Have I said something amusing?” Argoan asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“No,” Raz said, attempting to regain his solemn composure. “It’s just…” He glanced at Syrah briefly. “I suddenly realize that you remind me of someone. A friend of ours. A man named Carro al’Dor.”
He could tell, by the quiet “oh” of surprise from Syrah, that she hadn't been expecting that. It was Argoan, though, who looked the most astounded.
“The Peacekeeper?” he said, sounding as though he didn’t know whether to be confused or pleased. “I… I believe you’ve paid me a great compliment with that, Dahgün.”
“I have,” Raz said coolly. “So make sure you don’t prove me wrong.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Syrah hide a smile.
Argoan nodded at once, then continued. “As I was saying, yours is a name I’m much less familiar with. Only after I’d heard of the ‘Dragon’ that had felled the Kayle did I ask around. Needless to say, your reputation precedes you.”
“Clearly not enough,” Eva said dryly, speaking to the table for the first time. “Otherwise, your colleague downstairs might still have both his ears intact.”
“Wylsh is a fool.” Argoan spoke with distinct annoyance. “He won the Drake through mutiny and murder, and has held onto it with violence and fear.” He glanced at Raz. “One can only hope the lesson you taught him will set, for once.”
“Doubtful,” Raz said bitterly. “I’ve known too many of his kind, in my life. He’ll seek revenge before he seeks wisdom.”
“All the more reason to take you away from these shores as soon as possible. The Sylgid is ready to depart. We were only waiting for you. We can set sail at first light.”
“No one has agreed to come with you,” Syrah said quickly, giving the man a sharp look. “You assume much, Captain.”
“I assume,” Argoan said firmly, “that you have little choice. If you had other options, I can’t imagine you’d have come all this way in the first place.” His brow knit in something like concern as he looked between Raz and Syrah. “You have considered this, haven’t you? Perce is a wondrous land, in its own ways, but not necessarily a kind one.” His eyes lingered on Raz. “Especially to you. I’m about as averse to the trafficking of flesh as I am to the violence of a place like the Arena, but I am in the minority. Your race are property in Perce. Do you know this?”
“All too well,” Raz replied stiffly. “It has been a topic we’ve circled around for nearly a month now.”
“And yet you still wish to go?”
“I’m confused as to whether your interest is in granting us passage, or convincing us it's a fool’s errand?” Syrah said slowly.
“My interest is in paying a debt, Priestess,” Argoan told her, and for the first time he sounded as though his patience was being stretched. “It would be a poor fashion of doing so if I dumped you on Percian shores without ensuring you have at least the slightest idea of the hellhole you could be walking into.”
“And yet, as you say,” Raz interrupted before the exchange got too heated, “we have little choice.”
Argoan nodded, his entwined fingers tightening. “I have no desire to sway you one way or the other. I am merely providing a solution, but an imperfect one. You need to escape the North, and the Mahsadën of the fringe cities. It will take two months to reach Perce, and that’s only if the Gods bless us with fair weather all the way. At the very least that gives time for your trail to cool, and for you both to come up with a plan on what to do next. Evalyn’s letter said your original goal was th
e West Isles, or the Imperium?” He glanced at Eva, who nodded in confirmation. “There are ships which make that crossing from the Seven Cities. I’m not saying it will be without its own troubles, but I imagine you will have an easier time getting across Perce than you would the South. Your name might be known, Dahgün, but your face is less so.”
Raz scowled at that. “My face?” he started in disbelief. “The details of my features are hardly important, don’t you think?”
Argoan looked at him blankly. “How so?”
“I’m not too difficult to make out in a crowd,” Raz grumbled, wondering if the captain was pulling his leg. “No matter what we do, how long do you think it would take for the Percian to discover me if I’m the only… if I’m…”
His argument lingered and died, the words fading when he realized what Argoan was getting at. It struck him like he’d been dunked into a vat of cold water, a fact he had been aware of, but hadn't yet truly come to terms with.
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