There was none of the sweating and cursing, none of the sheer brute struggle to force the ship through the waves she had witnessed aboard the Rosamund or the Genevieve. Standing on deck, her cropped hair shining white in the sun, her arms and legs brown and corded with muscle, Ariel watched the way the elves sailed their ship and understood why they were the best mariners in the world: the elves knew the sea and loved it. There was no fear.
Send, wearing neither his cap nor the clothes padded to disguise his slenderness, was unmistakably an elf. But it seemed to Ariel that he took care to avoid the other elves.
"Will we be harbouring in the Magrittan elf quarter?" she asked him.
"No. That option is no longer open to us." He looked out across the ocean. "For years we have sailed these waters carrying goods from the New World to Erengrad, from the southern tip of Lustria to far Cathay, and all we asked in return was our own area in each port to trade from, to govern as we saw fit." He contemplated the horizon. "In Magritta they think they no longer need us: the elf quarter had been declared Magrittan territory; their militia march through it at will and they demand a tithe of everything we trade."
She was shocked. The Magrittans had ignored etiquette centuries old. If the elves withdrew their trade Marienburg, L'Anguille, Brionne, Magritta itself, Luccini... all the major ports of the Old World would be devastated.
She thought back to the way the crowd in the Bilbali fish market had spoken of foreigners, the Magrittan ships in their harbour. "Why are they doing this? They can't sustain it. Surely they don't have the ships or crew to bottle up every shipping lane and every harbour."
"That's what I need to find out."
There was a lot he was not telling her. Aboard the Rosamund he had told her he had been working on this for months. She would find out, one way or another.
They sailed out into the Great Western Ocean in a vast loop to avoid the Estalian coastline as much as possible, and it was after mid-summer when Ariel and Send made their way ashore at night carrying enough food and water for the three-day walk east to the deep water harbour of Magritta.
Ariel, wearing a shift and with her short hair dulled with dust, sat in the room at the back of the shop and watched Pilar work. She tried not to worry about how she looked: Send had told her foreign-born slaves were not uncommon in the city. Although it was only two hours after dawn and the sun had not yet turned the air outside to a roaring furnace that dried sweat to salt on the skin, inside it was viciously hot. Sweat rolled down Pilar's meaty forearms as she lifted a fibrous mass from a bucket and spread it over a wire frame which hung by the fire. She took a second frame down and scooped the whitish fibres off onto a solid wooden board. They rustled like hay.
"Now you chop it, and that's carenna flour?"
"Si. Chop then roll. First I put on my scarf." The woman tied a square of bright cloth across her nose and mouth and began to chop. After a while, she laid down the heavy knife and rubbed a little of the carenna between her thumb and forefinger. She chopped some more, then checked the consistency again. Ariel could see a fine white dust rising from the board.
"What happens if you breathe the dust?"
"First time, nothing. Second time, nothing. Sometimes lots of times and nothing. But if the carenna isn't soaked enough times..." She shrugged. "All kinds of things happen. I've seen people who always have to be near the flour. When they're too old to work making the pastries anymore, they shiver, they can't eat, they cry like babies until they can come back and breathe the white dust. But not me." She examined the carenna critically. It was done. She took her scarf off.
"And now you roll it?"
"First we drink a cup of limegrass tea." She looked Ariel up and down. "And you eat one of my pastries. You're too thin." She led her into the back room where it was even hotter. A kettle was simmering over the fires which burned under the three big iron ovens. Pilar busied herself. "How many did you say your mistress wanted? Two dozen?"
Ariel nodded and perched on a three-legged stool. Using the thin end of a long wooden paddle, Pilar opened one of the ovens. Hot air roared out. Ariel felt fresh sweat burst out all over her body and she wondered how Pilar stood it. With the other end of the paddle, Pilar scooped out the pastries.
"Why do you use carenna if it's so dangerous?"
"You must be new in Magritta?" Ariel nodded. "Um. Then you answer the question yourself after you've eaten one of my pastries. Choose."
They were golden brown, still singing with hot air. Each was fashioned into the shape of an animal. They smelled delicious. But it was carenna that had killed Isabel.
"Choose," Pilar said again.
Ariel reached for a delicate golden swallowtail.
"Eat," Pilar encouraged.
Ariel bit into it. The pastry crumbled and clung to her tongue like light mead. Pilar had used only a little fruit in each.
Pilar laughed at the look on her face. "So now you know why. Enjoy it while you can. I make the best carenna pastries in Magritta, and the Magrittans make the best pastries in Estalia. I doubt you'll ever afford to buy one." She handed her a cup of tea. "Unless you buy one of those foul cakes the government workers make on the side after they finish grinding carenna for the navy."
Ariel sipped at her tea, careful to keep her expression neutral. "Carenna for the navy?"
Pilar scowled. "They're fools, all of them. Listen to me girl, if some navy man comes up to you and offers to buy your freedom if you'll come and work for the government grinding carenna, say no."
"Is the work so bad it's worth refusing my freedom to avoid?"
"Worse. Whoever leaches their carenna does a sloppy job. If it weren't such a crazy idea, I'd say it was deliberate. There's no one worker there who could stay away from the white dust now. And," she looked bitter, "more than one person has gone down with twist disease."
Ariel put her cup down carefully. It did not rattle. "Tell me about twist disease." Her voice was cool, calm.
"I'll show you. Come."
Everything seemed very quiet and far away. She got to her feet and put one foot in front of the other. She felt light enough to float as she followed Pilar up steps.
Pilar pushed open a door. The room was dark and cool after the hot iron smell of the ovens.
A man sat propped in a chair. His hands were curled up against his chest, almost tucked under his armpits, his feet were twisted inwards. He was dribbling.
"Nuh."
Ariel could not move.
At dusk, Ariel met Send on the eastern cliff. He was carrying a lantern. She knew now why Isabel had died.
"Did you know," she said conversationally, "that if carenna isn't washed properly it's addictive? In small quantities. If you put bad carenna in olla, then the olla becomes addictive. Start off selling it more cheaply than uncontaminated olla, which isn't addictive, and almost all olla users will buy the contaminated kind: they don't know it's dangerous." She stared out across the darkening sea. "Then when the price starts to climb, they have to keep buying whether they like it or not. The contaminators get very rich, the Magrittans get very rich. The only thing they didn't think of, Send" - the muscles in her neck were hard as pebbles but her voice was quiet - "the only thing they didn't think of was that some people in this world are greedy." She threw a clump of grass down towards the sea. A breeze caught it, pulling it away from the rock. It hit the water and floated. "Most of their customers will die before they spend enough money to make it worthwhile for the Magrittans. They made a mistake."
"Yes. In some ways."
Ariel stared at him. He knew. He had known all along.
"I doubt revenue was the only purpose," he continued. "Escribano likes to kill people, especially people who attend rituals dedicated to Slaanesh. Hence the olla. Khorne has... special enmity for Slaanesh."
Ariel heard the odd combination of bitterness and respect in his voice. She was too tired to care. She felt empty. "I wonder if he even knows she's dead," she murmured.
"I dou
bt it." He knelt on the grass and took tinder and flint from his pouch. He opened his lantern.
At that moment, Ariel hated him. "Do you care about anything?"
"I care about my life. Which may be threatened if I don't get this lantern lit. The Magrittan militia are looking for me. We have to leave."
"Without finding out your important information?"
"But I did." He struck the flint, tried again. "They've laid the keels for thirty new ships. Thirty. And they floated twelve others less than a month ago. That's why they know I'm here: they saw me in the boatyards."
Ariel did not listen. She found the path down the cliff and scrambled along it.
The path ended in the sea: the tide was coming in. She sat and listened to the waves slapping up against the rock. She knew how Bel had died and why; there was nothing more for her to do. But Bel was still dead and she was... angry. Angry at Send, angry at herself for having begun to trust him, angry at the Magrittans.
And angry with Bel.
She pulled air, cool and salt, through her teeth. Bel had died and left her alone. They had always laughed in the face of the future - marriage, motherhood, loss of freedom - secure in the knowledge that each would have the other to depend on, that they would be together. And now Bel had deserted her.
"How can I face all that on my own?" she whispered to the sea. "Why did you leave me? Why?" She punched the rock. "Why why why?"
She sucked the blood from her knuckles and spat the metallic taste into the sea. Where did she go from here? Not Quenelles. More blood dripped onto the dust by her feet. She ignored it. She felt old and tired. She would go wherever Send was going, then buy passage back to Brionne. There was always the Rosamund.
A light winked out from the top of the cliff. Send had lit his signal lantern. What ship would it be this time? She started back up the path.
Through her feet she felt the rhythmic step of many people. The militia. She flattened herself against the rock. Send was still holding his lantern out to sea. He had not seen them; they could be on him before he had time to do whatever it was he had done to those soldiers in Bilbali.
If she called out they would catch her too. She looked up the rock face. If she climbed that instead of using the path, she might not be seen. She felt along the rock until she found a crevice; she pushed her hand in, made a fist and hauled herself up, scrabbled until she found a foothold. With her right fist still anchoring her to the rock, she felt above and to her left. She found another handhold almost immediately. If she imagined she was pulling herself up the mainmast of the Rosamund it would not be too hard.
The cliff was not high. She hauled herself up onto the grassy clifftop and lay for a moment on her stomach, listening and watching. Send was still signalling; the militia were creeping closer. He was an easy target for a bow; they must want him alive. From the water, a light winked back. It was what she had been waiting for.
She hit him squarely from behind, wrapping one arm around his arms and a hand over his nose and mouth. Sweeping his legs out from under him, she kicked them both over the cliff and into the water. It was cold and her money pouch was heavy. Although he struggled, she kept her hand clamped over his face until they surfaced. Her knuckles stung.
"Listen!" she hissed.
Shouts of frustration echoed over the water and a torch flickered. Send nodded his understanding, and Ariel let go. She held her finger to her lips and pointed out to sea in the direction of the light that had blinked earlier. He nodded again: with the torchlight dazzling the militia, they would be able to escape if they moved quickly and quietly. They began to swim.
After half a mile, Ariel judged it safe enough to call out. "Hoy!"
No reply. They swam some more. She thought she saw a smudge of deeper darkness ahead. It could be a ship.
"Hoy!" Water slapped into her mouth and she coughed. She was getting tired. Briefly, she considered cutting loose her pouch. Only if she had to. They trod water for a while.
Send called. "Hoy the Aramam!"
Ariel heard the distinctive rolling thump of a ladder dropping down the side of a ship. A light flared.
"Aramam?"
"Who else?" The voice was young, laughing. "If you hurry, you'll be in time for dinner. Who is your companion?"
"We'll make the introductions on board, Djellah."
They reached the ladder. Ariel clung to it, too tired to pull herself up immediately.
"Can you manage?" the voice called.
"Yes," Send said, so Ariel did, climbing dripping and exhausted onto the deck of the Arabian dhow.
"Thrice welcome." The twelve-year-old bowed, then grinned. "You look half drowned."
"Thank you," said Ariel.
Send hauled himself aboard. "Where's your father? The Magrittans know I'm here. We need to move quickly."
A figure stepped from the shadow and bowed formally. "Please excuse my sister. All is in hand." She gestured to their growing wake.
"Ariel, this is Cendenai."
Cendenai was her own height, slim and dark. Her hair was as short as Ariel's.
"If you wish, you may exchange your clothes for dry garments before eating. Please follow me." She led them to a cabin door. "Inside you will find a selection of robes. Please join us in the mid cabin for dinner when you are rested." She withdrew.
The cabin was big and the walls tapestried. Brightly coloured robes hung from a rail in one corner. Ariel fingered one. The material was cool and sleek; it smelled spicy, unfamiliar. She let it drop, sat down on a plain wooden stool.
"Where are we going?"
Send stood with his back to her, his hands clasped stiffly behind him. "We're aboard the Rose of Aramam," he said tightly, "the private pleasure vessel and sometime trader of an Araby merchant called Hamqa. He has other titles. We are sailing for his port of Meknes."
"What's wrong?"
He turned round. "I owe you my life."
"I needed you to get me away from Magritta," she said coolly. "There was no altruism involved." She watched him absorb that. "Now, why are we heading for Meknes?"
Young Djellah stood up from behind the ottoman. "But we're not!" Ariel looked at her, startled.
Send reached to lay a hand on the girl's shoulder. "We're not sailing for Meknes?"
Djellah said nothing.
"Let her go, Send, you're frightening her." He moved away as she got up from her stool. She took the girl's hand. "Where are we going, Djellah? Do you know?"
Djellah shook her head. "They never tell me anything. But I heard my father talking about it to his steward when they thought I was on deck."
"What did he say?"
Her smooth, olive brow wrinkled. "He said 'We haven't time to make it to Meknes now.' And then something about sending messages to someone about a change of plan."
"When was this?"
"Days and days ago. Weeks."
Send cursed and wrenched open the door, slammed it behind him. Djellah looked up at Ariel.
"You should get changed, you're still all wet." Ariel could not argue with that. Djellah pulled a blue robe off its hook. "This one. It goes with your eyes. I'll show you how to wear it. It's Cendenai's favourite, but she won't mind."
So this was Cendenai's cabin.
The mid cabin was even larger. Silver and glassware on a table set for six glittered in the light of oil lamps. They all looked up as she entered: Cendenai, and Send, and three other men. Send was no longer angry. A large chart lay over the settings. The lamps made it very hot.
"Ah." One of the men stood. He was stocky but not fat, with a wide pink mouth. Hamqa, she guessed. "Welcome to my humble vessel." He smiled and gestured for her to sit. "We are in the middle of explaining to your companion why we are not sailing to Meknes to collect the rest of the fleet."
Ariel sat opposite Cendenai, who smiled slightly.
"Father."
"My sweet?"
"Our guest might feel easier if she knew everyone."
"Ah. Introductions, t
hen. Mademoiselle de Courtivron, allow me to introduce myself and my companions. My beloved daughter, Cendenai, captain of the Aramam." He pointed down the table to his left. "Next to her, Mousaou Salah, captain of my fleet. On my right is Adiffrah el Deheb, second steward."
Cendenai poured Ariel a glass of water and handed it to her. "The first steward stays at home to manage the affairs of my father who is prevented by modesty from introducing himself. Allow me: my father, Hamqa the Divine, Sultan of Aiir, Suzerain of Sadiz and Regal of all Kust."
Hamqa smiled complacently. "She looks well in your robe, daughter."
Cendenai tensed; it was slight but Ariel noticed. She cleared her throat, wondered what the correct form of address was.
"Perhaps, sir, you would grant me the favour of continuing your discussion regarding the course of this ship."
In answer, he gestured at his daughter.
"His Exalted Magnificence," Cendenai said - Ariel smiled her thanks - "anticipated the late arrival of Senduiuiel Cortengren and, fearing the news he would carry, determined to bring forward by a few weeks the plans laid many months ago. Thus, instead of sailing now for Meknes in order to meet with our fleet and send messages both north and west to the fleets of elven and other vessels, we sail south to meet these fleets."
Send pulled the chart round to face them, pointed to the bow shape of the south sea. Ariel was reminded of the dirt under Marya's fingernail. It all seemed so long ago.
"Here to the west, between the Horn of Araby and the southern tip of Estalia, the sea flows into the Great Western Ocean. That should now be blocked off by ships from Marienburg, Lustria and even from Brionne or Bordelaux. They will be sailing west to meet us and the fleet out of Meknes."
"What about the Magrittan ships in Bilbali?"
"They should already have been dealt with."
"I see."
The conversation continued but Ariel sat apart from it. There were strange tensions in the cabin, things she was not being told. She felt alien and unwelcome, Cendenai must have sensed it: she caught Ariel's attention and looked pointedly at the door, raising her eyebrows. Ariel nodded.
Warhammer - Red Thirst Page 22
