"Yes."
She turned to face him. "What with?"
"Does it matter, child?"
"Doctor, I have not been a child for several years. And it matters very much to me what was in that ointment and where it came from and why."
She looked down at the trees again, did not look up until he left.
Ariel handed the tiny glass vial to the apothecary. The woman unscrewed the top and sniffed.
"Olla milk," she said. She looked at Ariel who was cloaked and hooded, even in the heat. "But that's not all you wanted to know."
"It's contaminated."
"Ah."
"I want to know what with and where the extra ingredients came from."
"This is all you have?"
"Others have tried. That's all that's left. Can you do it?"
"Maybe."
The funeral was held in Quenelles itself. The de Courtivron funeral barge, draped in black with the family crest gleaming dully in the river haze, was followed by others crowded with representatives from all the important families. The town, a jumble of grey stone and wood and red tile, stretched along both sides of the river. On the right bank, its cold blank walls shouldering above the smaller merchants' houses, stood the de Courtivron mansion, where Monsieur de Courtivron would return to the business of trade as soon as was fitting. The river stank.
Ariel stood straight. Her mourning dress was stiff and her hands sweated inside their gloves. She felt cold and numb. She remembered one of the nights, years ago, when Bel had sneaked into her bedroom in the middle of the night and they watched the river, mysterious with lights and its all-night docking and loading, until their feet got cold on the stone floor. Then they jumped into bed top to tail and, while she scared them both to death with a story about dead fishermen rising from the river, rubbed each other's feet warm.
It did not seem like the same river. It would never be the same river.
Again, Ariel went cloaked and hooded. The apothecary was waiting for her.
"Whoever sold you this should be guillotined." She looked grim. "Do you know what it can do?"
Ariel said nothing. She refused to remember Bel lying on the forest floor. The woman motioned for her to sit.
"The olla milk is contaminated with ground carenna pod."
"As in Estalian carenna flour?"
The woman nodded. "Usually, the pods are soaked and dried and soaked and dried over and over to leach out all the poisons before being ground into flour." She tapped the vial. "This was deliberate: olla flowers grow in Araby, the carenna comes from Estalia. And I tell you something else, the carenna was added while it was still fresh. The olla isn't discoloured, which it would be if the pods had been picked more than a few hours before being added to it."
"So the carenna was added in Estalia," Ariel said slowly. She stood up. "Thank you."
Madame de Courtivron raised her goblet of thick, Tilean glass and sipped at the light wine the family always drank with lunch during the summer. Ariel watched a servant fill the glass. Without Isabel at the table, this would be the first time she, Michel and her mother would not need a second bottle opening. She was tempted to drink more than usual, so that another bottle would be needed and the ritual maintained.
"I've not seen much of you these past few days," her mother said.
Ariel finished her mouthful. "No."
"You've been busy, I hear. In Quenelles."
Ariel wondered how word had reached her mother and how much she knew. "Mother, I need to know what happened."
"We know what happened. Your sister was greedier than usual, only this time she died from it. We know all we need to. Asking questions only means others are finding out about how she died." She put her knife down, reached for a fresh bread roll. "Or is it that you want all the other families in Bretonnia to know what your sister was?"
Ariel went white.
Michel darted a look at his sister, then his mother. "Mother..."
His mother ignored him. "Well, Ariel?"
Ariel leaned back in her chair, wiped her lips with a napkin. "You may be sure," she said distinctly, shaping each word with care, "that any further questions I ask will be discreet." She dropped her napkin on the table. "And now, if you will excuse me."
In her room, Ariel leaned her forehead against the cool plaster. She had to think.
Her brother tapped on her door. "Ari?"
"Go away."
He pushed the door open. "She didn't mean it, Ari."
"She did. We both know that." She strode over to the window. Today there was no breeze to make the trees whisper. "Michel, if you're coming in then come in, don't hover by the door."
Michel sat on the bed.
"I'm going to find out," she said.
"How?"
"That red-haired man might know something. Will you help me?"
Ariel took off her jewellery and bundled up her hair in an old piece of blue serge as she had seen the servants do. The old cotton shift she had stolen from the servants' chest was a little too big. She checked herself in a mirror. The headscarf made her eyes look a deeper, darker blue than usual.
Sunlight bounced off the water, making her squint as she pulled the boat into Quenelles. The red-haired man had told her brother that the contaminated olla had come from a native of the Estalian city of Magritta who called himself Jorge. She was here to find out more. The sixty francs in her pouch should loosen enough tongues, one way or another.
After the bright sunlight, the tavern was dark. The low room smelled of sharp new wine and stale sweat. It was almost empty: most of the customers were outside, in the courtyard. A man was mopping at a puddle of wine on one of the rough wooden tables.
"M'sieur?"
"Wine's six francs a jug or one franc a cup," he said without looking up.
"No, m'sieur. I don't want wine. I'm looking for someone, a man."
"We already have one girl working here, and she doesn't have much trade. Try the waterfront."
He moved over to another table and began to clean it.
"M'sieur, I'm not looking for work but for a particular man, a Magrittan. Called Jorge."
He straightened. "Jorge? What do you want him for?"
"Do you know him?"
"No." He grinned at his own joke. "Got yourself in trouble by him, eh?"
Ariel looked at the floor and tried to remember how the servants spoke when they wanted something.
"Please, M'sieur, you look like a knowledgeable man." She raised her eyes to his. "If you know where I might find him I would be most grateful." She wondered if her servants ever despised her as much as she did this man.
He considered. "Sailor, is he?"
"Very possibly, m'sieur."
"Well then, do like I first said, try the waterfront." He leered at her. "And if you want to show your gratitude after you've found him, I'm always here."
As she picked her way through the filthy streets to the waterfront, she felt uneasy. Every so often, she glanced over her shoulder but saw nothing.
It was the middle of the day and the waterfront seethed with people: sailors free for a day while one cargo was offloaded and another brought on board; rope menders swearing at those who stood in their light; fish sellers trying to out-shout each other; women buying vegetables.
A woman in the coarse cotton and canvas of a sailor was sitting on the cobbles, leaning against a wall, her eyes closed. Ariel stepped over the woman's carry sack and stood in front of her.
"M'selle."
No response.
"M'selle?" She tapped her on the shoulder.
The sailor exploded off the ground and grabbed both her wrists. Her eyes were bloodshot. She was tall, taller than Ariel.
"Can't you see I was sleeping!" the woman roared in a thick Empire accent.
"Drunk more like," Ariel said. She was surprised that the beating of her heart did not make her voice wobble. "Let go of my arms."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I will break your legs."<
br />
The woman's face went stiff as a mask. Her hard brown hands tightened on Ariel's wrists, then let go.
"Be careful who you make such threats to." She bent to pick up her sack.
"No, wait."
The sailor turned around, hand on hip, sack slung over her shoulder.
"I'm... sorry I woke you. I need to know if you know where I can find a Magrittan called Jorge."
"What do you want Jorge for?" She looked wary.
"Do you know him?" Ariel waited for her to laugh and say no, like the man in the tavern.
"I might. Tell me why you want him first."
"I can't."
"Then I can't tell you, either." She turned and began walking.
"Wait!" It rang out cold and arrogant. One or two heads turned but the sailor kept on walking. Ariel cursed under her breath and ran after her. "I mean, please, wait. My sister used some contaminated olla. She died." The woman slowed. "I think the olla came from Jorge."
The sailor stopped and looked up and down the street. "Come in here," she said abruptly, and pulled Ariel into a tavern.
"I knew he wasn't on the voyage for the sake of it," she said to Ariel over a cup of rough red wine, "I told Helseher. But no," she gulped thirstily at her cup, waved it in the air until a wineboy filled it, "Kapitan Helseher says to me, 'it doesn't matter what else he's up to, Marya, he's a good sailor and he'll do while Franz is sick in Brionne.' And now he's gone."
"Gone? Where?"
Marya shrugged. "Back down the river. All the way to Magritta maybe. Who knows."
Ariel tried to think past her disappointment. "I don't suppose you knew his real name?" She sipped at her wine, put it aside with a grimace.
"Well now, you suppose wrong. Here. No sense wasting good wine." She reached for Ariel's cup, tipped its contents into her own. "Jorge was his name all right."
"You're sure?"
"Ought to be. I took a look at his papers one day while he was on deck. No doubt he thought they were well hidden. According to the papers he was, or is, Jorge Martinez Castelltort, Officer of the Fleet no less, under Admiral Escribano himself."
Ariel wondered how this woman had learned to read. Instead, she asked: "What would a Captain of the Magrittan fleet be doing posing as a sailor and selling poisoned olla?"
Marya shrugged, had another drink.
"It doesn't make sense," Ariel persisted.
"Doesn't seem to, does it?" Marya waved her cup again. "The Rosamund sails in four hours and I need more to drink. Won't get the chance again till Brionne."
"But it takes days to get to Brionne. Won't you be stopping along the way?"
"Weeks," Marya corrected carefully, "Three weeks in the Rosamund. Fine ship. If we do stop, it'll be work work work, no fun."
The wine boy came over. Marya paid for two jugs of wine.
"Maybe you should get yourself closer to where the Rosamund is berthed before you drink yourself senseless." "Not far. On this bank, five minutes walk. Can do that even after twice as much as this." She picked up her cup, poured, reached for Ariel's. "Stay for a cup or two."
The five minutes walk turned out to be nearer fifteen. Once, Ariel was sure someone was following her but the dockside was crowded and she could have been mistaken. A high-sided, three-masted ship stood at anchor. The Rosamund.
Two men were fastening hatches.
"Captain Helseher?" she called up.
One of them peered down at her. "He's busy. We sail in half an hour."
"It's important. Mademoiselle Marya is unconscious in a tavern."
He laughed. "It's the first time I've heard her called M'selle."
"But it's not the first time she's been senseless in a tavern, eh Rudi?" the other said. "Tell us where, girl, and we'll bring her on board."
"No. I want to speak to Captain Helseher."
A small, round man with greying hair came on deck. "I'm Helseher."
"I need to speak to you. About passage to Brionne."
"We don't carry passengers. Not normally." He squinted down. "But I'll take you for two hundred francs."
"I only have sixty here. I can get the rest if you wait."
"We sail in half an hour. With or without you."
"Would you take me as crew?"
Rudi laughed. Irritably, Helseher waved him to silence. "Don't waste my time, girl."
"But I hear you're one short. And I can sail, climb, tie knots, row."
"Wait there."
For someone so round, Helseher made easy work of swinging himself down the rope ladder to shore. "You ever sail anything this size before?"
"No. I could learn."
"Um. You drink?" "No, except with dinner." Helseher raised an eyebrow. "That is, I mean..."
"I know exactly what you mean. You're hired. It'll take you two weeks to learn the ropes, so all you'll get is food, three cups of wine a day and passage to Brionne in exchange for working so hard you'll wish you'd never been born. Acceptable? Good. Now, where's Marya?"
Marya was heavier than she looked.
"Help me get her up."
The way Marya flopped reminded Ariel of dragging Bel out of the forest.
"I said help me, dammit."
Ariel jerked at Marya.
"Careful. She's not a sack of turnips."
"Sorry."
Between them, they trundled Marya through the door.
"Wa... happening?"
"You're drunk again and it's time to sail. We..." He looked at Ariel. "What's your name, girl?"
"Ariel."
"...Ariel and I are lugging your pickled carcass to the Rosamund. So keep quiet and move your legs."
Marya stopped abruptly, leaned forward and threw up.
"Hold her steady."
Ariel did as she was told while the captain pulled a square of white cotton from his pocket and wiped at Marya's mouth. "No one should have to walk through the streets with vomit on their face."
A crowd coming out of another tavern jeered as they passed. Helseher ignored them.
Ariel's arms were aching with the strain by the time they reached the Rosamund.
"Here." They eased her down onto the stones. "You go aboard. Tell them to let down the cradle. She'll never make it up the ladder like this."
By the time Ariel scrambled to the top of the ladder, Rudi and Hugner were already unshipping the cradle. Ariel looked down at the dock. From the height of the raised foredeck, everything looked different: she could see Helseher holding Marya's hand and talking quietly; over there, behind one of the netting sheds, a boy was relieving himself into the river and, closer to the ship, a man wearing a woollen cap was... Ariel frowned and leaned as far over the rail as she dared: he was nowhere in sight. He must have dodged behind that stack of barrels.
"Let's get out of here," Helseher shouted once everyone was aboard. He turned to Ariel. "You, in my cabin."
"But what about Marya?"
"Uti knows what to do."
She followed the captain below.
"Now tell me," Helseher said when they were in his cabin, "why has a woman been following you?"
"A woman?"
"Yes," he said irritably, "all the way from the tavern."
Ariel pondered that. A woman. But it had been a man she saw earlier.
Helseher gave her a long look. "I'll get to the bottom of this when there's time. For now, get yourself on deck and do what Jean-Luc tells you."
The captain turned to the charts on his table and Ariel realized she had been dismissed. It was something she would have to get used to.
The Rosamund moved slowly into midstream, tacking around smaller fishing craft and the occasional rowing boat. Ariel watched Quenelles and all that was familiar to her slip away in their wake. Above her, a sail snapped as it caught the wind. For the next three weeks, this would be her world.
Jean-Luc turned out to be the first mate, a small-boned man who was slightly balding and never spoke more loudly than he had to. He set Ariel to coiling ropes - thick as her
arm and rough as freshly sawn wood - and stowing them in lockers. She was surprised at how cramped everything was; the Rosamund had looked to be such a big ship. She asked Jean-Luc about it.
"The Rosamund is an ocean-going vessel. Not a river boat. We've sailed her through the South Sea, the Black Gulf, even across the Middle Sea as far north as Albion."
"Don't let him get on to the subject of Albion," said a rough Empire voice behind her. "He hates everything about that island. Especially the people."
Ariel turned. "Shouldn't you be sleeping it off?"
Marya shook her head. "With something to do I'll be sober before we've gone another league."
"So take her below and show her her berth," Jean-Luc said. "Then bring her back up here and show her the ropes." He looked at Ariel. "I'll assign you to a watch tomorrow. Make sure you know what you're doing by then."
Marya laughed and took her below.
"Here."
It was dark and cramped. She was supposed to sleep between what looked like the ribs of the ship.
"Everyone sleeps here except Helseher, Jean-Luc and Gerber, the cook."
Ariel counted the bundles of clothes. There were four. "Only seven of us for a ship this size?"
"Eight. There's you, too. We'll find you a bit of sailcloth to pad out your bunk, otherwise you'll bruise when we hit weather. Not that we're likely to have any weather to speak of on a journey like this. And eight is plenty for a river run."
Ariel heard the bitterness. "Marya, if this is an ocean-going ship, why isn't it at sea?"
"It's not profitable to follow the old trade routes any more, we get taxed out of existence by people like Jorge and his friends. The Magrittans."
"But what right do they have?"
"The oldest one in the world. Might." She reached for one of the bundles of clothes and pulled out a map. She traced the outline of the Horn of Araby. There was dirt under her fingernail. "Anyone wanting to move goods from here to anywhere past the Estalian coast - Bretonnia, Marienburg, Erengrad, anywhere - has to pass here." She tapped the southern tip of Estalia. "And that's where the Magrittan fleet has been manoeuvring for the past four or five months. Nothing gets through without paying taxes. They even dared tax an Elven ship that stopped over on the horn on its way from Lustria."
Ariel absorbed the information: the resources they would need to seal off the whole of that coastal route must be enormous. How did they sustain it?
Warhammer - Red Thirst Page 19
