I snorted. ‘He’s just punishing you for betraying your own kind and marrying elsewhere.’ I always thought the worst of Duthrick’s motives.
She didn’t quite dare to agree with me, and said instead, ‘The waiting is killing me… I have to know, and I don’t know when I’ll see another of the Awarefolk.’
‘There are plenty of other Awarefolk.’
‘Perhaps, but how would I know? They don’t make a habit of telling sylvs who they are. Blaze, can’t you try? I’ve been told that babies leak magic…’
‘Yes, that’s true. All small sylv children do. But I’ve never tried with one still tucked up in the womb.’
‘Please.’
I shrugged. ‘All right. But I can’t promise anything. But first, let’s discuss the price.’ I gestured at the wall to indicate the room next-door. ‘There is a young woman in there with a dunmagic sore of subversion; she needs help.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You want me to help her? I—I can’t. I can’t risk going anywhere near dunmagic, not when I am carrying.’ She looked terrified and edged away from the wall, a useless endeavour considering my whole bedroom was as small as a ship’s brig. ‘Anyway, one sylv isn’t strong enough to do that. You’d need several.’
I sighed. I had expected as much. ‘Five setus then.’
I expected her to bargain (it was an outrageous sum to ask for such a small service) but she dug in her purse, produced the money, and placed it next to the clam shell washbowl. ‘How are you going to do this?’
‘Perhaps it would be best if you untie your tunic and lie down.’ She did as I asked, baring her abdomen, and I ran an unskilled eye over the swell of her body. She really was enormous. ‘When are you due?’
‘Soon. A few days.’
I moved around her, studying her from all angles. Then I touched her skin. The baby kicked, and I felt it—a small bump against my hand pushing upwards as though he was ready to escape his prison. I felt a rush of tenderness, of wonderment. I had always resented the fact that the choice to have a child had been taken away from me, but that feeling was just part of the blend of anger inside, an anger that was always there, all part of being a halfbreed. Part of me. Now, however, for the first time in my life, I felt something else—an ache. A regret. This would never be mine.
I hurriedly took my hand away, appalled by my own vulnerability.
She looked up at me, her eyes pleading, desperate. Having a child was not enough for her—it had to be a sylv child. I said evenly, ‘I am sorry, Syr-sylv, I simply can’t tell. I cannot feel or see any sylvmagic, but that may just be because your own tissue blocks the way. You must wait for the baby to be born. Send me a message and I will come.’
Something died in her eyes and she nodded, rolling off the bed and buttoning her tunic. ‘Thank you for trying.’
I almost didn’t say anything. I almost let the moment pass; it wasn’t my business, but something made me say, ‘There are worse things than having a nonsylv child.’
She looked back at me then, and a split second later her eyes widened in understanding. ‘You’re sterile,’ she said. ‘They made you sterile.’
I nodded.
‘That’s—that’s—’ She stopped, aware that there was nothing she could say. And perhaps in her heart she did not think that halfbreeds should have children.
‘What’s it like to be sylv?’ I asked suddenly. I’d always wanted to be one, but that was more because sylvtalent would have brought citizenship with it. I’d never really considered what it was like to be sylv. To have that kind of power. It was impossible, of course; you were either born sylv, or not.
She took my question seriously. ‘It’s wondrous. I love having the power to heal. I help out in the hospice when we are back in The Hub, in the children’s ward…’
‘You make people pay for your services.’
She looked surprised. ‘No one works for free, Blaze. You don’t.’
‘Not everyone can afford to pay for sylv healing.’
‘We can’t be responsible for that. I do my best, but I’ve got to eat too.’
‘And the other powers: the illusions? The ability to confuse people, make them believe things that aren’t true?’
She was on the defensive now. ‘To have that kind of power is an awesome responsibility, and only those who accept that responsibility can be allowed to use sylvtalent. There are laws to govern the use of our powers. Strict laws. And the penalty for misuse is very harsh: you have your powers rendered inert.’
I quoted a sailor’s proverb to her: ‘ The captain rules the ship, but who rules the captain?’ but she didn’t understand what I was trying to say. It never occurred to her that the Keeper Council itself may have needed controlling. I gave an internal sigh, and wondered what I was doing. A short time earlier I had been defending Keepers to Tor Ryder; now I was giving his arguments back to a Keeper. ‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
We walked downstairs, talking niceties. She promised to speak to Duthrick on Flame’s behalf if he raised objections to my request for help. I promised to tell her the magic status of her baby, once it was born, without further payment. We parted outside the inn: she had an errand or two to do before returning to the ship, and I wanted to speak to Tunn. Secretly, I hoped I wouldn’t see her again. I was almost positive that if her unborn child had been a sylv, I would already know it—and I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell her what she did not want to hear.
###
It wasn’t very far from The Drunken Plaice to the main harbour where the Keeper ship was still tied up at the wharf. I didn’t think I would be in any danger; I was still hoping that my part in Ransom and Flame’s affairs was obscure. I still hoped that the dunmaster did not know I was one of the Awarefolk, and did not know that I was the one who had rescued Flame.
I had no premonitions. I was even happy. If it hadn’t been for Flame’s predicament I would even have been joyful, but I was confident that I could enlist Keeper help with her problem, that the Keepers would in fact be able to help. In fact, I—who so prided myself on my shrewd cunning—was uncharacteristically short-sighted. Maybe I can blame fatigue; I had not slept at all that night.
I didn’t go straight to the docks. First, I asked Tunn where Niamor lived. Fortunately, he knew; for someone who rarely spoke, Tunn was surprisingly well informed. He told me Niamor’s rooms were on the second floor of a dockside building.
The shops were open when I set out; in Gorthan Docks morning was the time for buying fish. There was plenty of the fresh catch to be had because the night boats had come in. Even better, as far as I was concerned, were the temporary stalls erected along the laneways, where sweetfish threaded on fish-bone sticks were grilled over seaweed fires. I bought two sticks and ate the smoke-flavoured flesh as I walked down to the harbour docks, my feet scrunching in the fish scales of the laneway.
Following Tunn’s directions, I found Niamor’s house easily enough, and he was at home. In fact, he was still in bed when I knocked on his door; people like him slept late in Gorthan Docks.
His grumbling changed to cheerful hospitality when he saw who had woken him up. He waved me in with every indication of pleasure, and loped about getting me a drink while I looked around. His rooms were the closest I’d ever seen to comfortable living on Gorthan Spit; they were spacious, clean and well appointed. Niamor knew how to look after himself.
‘Any luck with your slave?’ he asked as he handed me a drink that steamed in a carved whalebone mug; a potent seaweed brew that I knew from previous visits to Gorthan Spit. Non-alcoholic, but it carried a punch that sprang the eyelids apart nonetheless.
I quelled my impatience; when dealing with Duthrick, I needed every bit of information I could obtain: to use as leverage, or incentive, or payment. I shook my head in answer to his question. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’
He shook his head in turn. ‘I’ve asked everyone I know, and they all say there isn’t a Cirkasian slave woman on the Spit. If a
nyone told you different, then they didn’t know what they were talking about.’
I sighed. ‘Ah. Oh well. Too bad, eh? And what about the dunmaster? Have you had any luck figuring out who he might be?’
‘I made out a list of everyone in The Drunken Plaice at lunch that day, and I’ve eliminated most of them. I’m still checking out the remainder, finding out how long they have been on the island. But you know what Gorthan Spit is like. People come and go like smelts on spawning runs and nobody notices. I’ll let you know when I’ve come to a conclusion, but the name will cost you dear, Blaze my sweet. Although you can pay in kind, if you like. In advance too, if you want.’
He put his head on one side and gave me that charming smile of his. A day back I would have said yes, but not any longer. My initial attraction had faded as quickly as the colour of a starfish left in the sun. Tor’s doing, of course.
Embarrassed, I cleared my throat, all too aware that up until now my signals to Niamor had told a different story. ‘Sorry. I’m…er, busy just now. And, Niamor, be very, very careful. If that bastard has the slightest hint of what you’re doing—’
‘Don’t worry, this Quillerman here is very good at looking after his own skin… Did you hear what happened last night, by the way?’
‘About the Cirkasian disappearing? Yes.’ I finished the drink and stood up. ‘Her pretty friend has been telling everyone. Ridiculous boy—he woke me up in the middle of the night, and now he’s asking everyone to send out a search party. He thinks he’s back on one of the law-abiding Middling Islands.’
‘I told you she wouldn’t last long on Gorthan Spit,’ he said as he took me to the door. ‘But that wasn’t what I meant; I hadn’t heard about her. I came across Domino in a rage in the early hours of this morning—apparently someone killed both Mord and Teffel last night. With a sword. Domino is not at all happy. He tends to take such things very personally, Domino does. Perhaps it’s not me who should be careful.’ He bent his head slightly to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Take care, my lovely firebrand.’
He opened the door for me and I went out.
But I never did get to the Keeper ship.
They were waiting for me outside Niamor’s house. And this time they never gave me a chance to draw my sword. All I heard was a soft footfall behind me; all I saw was an upraised hand holding a cudgel as I half turned, my hand groping for my sword hilt too late.
TEN
I woke to pain.
I was staked out like a rayfish drying in the sun: arms and feet spread-eagled and pinioned at wrist and ankle, a thong around my neck that was also staked into the ground on either side so that I could not lift my head without choking myself. I was, in fact, in the sun, with compacted sand and dried seaweed under my body; the sea, now at high tide, lapped a pace or two away from my feet. I was naked and my head ached abominably. I also had a fair idea that worse was yet to come.
‘She’s waking up.’
The words were softly spoken, said with pleasure, and they froze me with their malice. I did not know the voice. I could not see the speaker; he stood somewhere above me, behind my head; although I could move my head a little from side to side, there was no way I could glimpse anyone behind me. I knew it had to be the dunmaster; the stink of dunmagic was so thick it furred my throat as I breathed.
‘Just as well for you, Domino. I would have been most unhappy had she died. Hitting people on the head is a risky way to immobilise them—please remember that in the future.’
I could see the other two men, the ones he had addressed. They were both short. One I remembered seeing that first day in The Drunken Plaice: a wiry fellow with lined skin. Sickle the torturer. A halfbreed, with an impossible combination of Calmenter honey-brown eyes and Souther brown skin. No earlobe tattoo. And he was no eunuch either—which meant that he was either a lot smarter than most of his kind, or he had lived out most of his life on Gorthan Spit, where no one worried too much about interbreeding.
The other was even shorter, a fair-skinned Fen Islander with green eyes and brown hair. He looked at me with fervent hatred: Domino, who had an obsession about his short stature, who hated the tall, who looked at me now—and smiled.
‘Syr-master,’ said Sickle deferentially. ‘What are th’orders?’
The dunmagic stirred as its originator moved; it whirled around my head, raging at its impotence against me. The smell of it contaminated the air, so intense that I could feel its strength. Its increased strength. It was growing stronger, day by day. The Keepers had better find this man before he was too strong for them…
‘I want to know who helped her free the Castlemaid, that’s all,’ the voice purred from behind my head. ‘The Cirkasian will return to me of her own free will shortly; I don’t need to track her down. But I don’t like not knowing who the other one was in the meantime; such Awarefolk are dangerous to me. Find out, then dispose of her however you please. The longer you take over it, the happier it will make you, eh? A week, a month, a year. There’s no need to hurry. Perhaps chained to the wall in our whorehouse as a final destination? But just get that name first. And make sure it’s the right one, you understand? Don’t let her fool you.’
He didn’t wait for an answer. I heard him move away over the sand, taking his dunmagic with him.
I could breathe again. I could puzzle over why they thought Flame was the Castlemaid. I could recall silly things like Ruarth’s mother had sylvtalent. I could meditate on what fools Tor and I had been to think that we could deceive a dunmagicker like this one.
I looked around as best I could, searching for any hope. However small.
As far as I could see, staked out as I was, I was on a deserted beach. There were no houses, no buildings, no boats out on the ocean. The only things in sight were a couple of sea-ponies, tethered to stakes at the edge of the water. They were cavorting in the sea, keeping themselves cool, their glistening coils winding in and out of the waves like a thread following a needle. A dried-out sea-pony is a dead one; they’re not much use as mounts, except on a place like Gorthan Spit where the sea is never more than an hour or two’s slither away.
They were my first hope: they represented a way of escape, if only I could free myself.
The second hope was just out of reach: my sword. It lay on the pile of clothing beside me, tantalisingly close.
The third hope was in the sand itself. Stakes might not hold, even in hard, compacted sand, if I was free to work at them. But I doubted Domino or Sickle would leave me here alone. Still, there was a lot I could do under the guise of writhing in pain.
Guise? It wouldn’t be guise. Pain was inevitable where these two were concerned.
I looked up at the cloudless sky: the sun was almost overhead. Close enough to midday—but what day? I had no idea how long I had been unconscious. I had a thirst that stuck tongue and lips together as if they’d been smeared with sea-pony slime. My head ached and ached without end.
Flame. Shards of memory scored my mind. How long did she have left?
Domino leant over me. ‘This is going to be very slow, lady-bitch. But I make you a promise, huh? Give me the name he wants and I make sure you’re dead by tomorrow night, ’stead of some time next year. That’s your choice, my sweet. Think about it, eh?’
I gave a hollow laugh. ‘Tomorrow night? In this heat I’ll be dead without water in a matter of hours.’
He didn’t take the hint. He nodded to Sickle. The torturer came forward with a gutting knife in his hand. ‘This stretch of coast here is known for its blood-demons,’ Domino continued.
I didn’t react. I’d never heard of blood-demons.
He read my mind. ‘Maybe you never seen one. Lemme show you what they look like.’ He walked down to the water’s edge, picked up something and walked back. He held up a seashell of some kind for me to have a look at. It was about the size of a man’s thumb; an upper hard purple shell covered a softer body underneath, like a limpet. He turned the creature over to show me the underside: it was sp
ongy and pulsated gently. There didn’t seem to be any claws or mouthparts, nothing that seemed lethal or horrible.
Domino smiled down at me, his green Fen eyes so like mine. They have beautiful eyes, the Fenlanders, have you noticed? —The colour of clear seawater over coastal sand. I used to wonder whether I inherited mine from my mother or my father…but I digress. Deliberately, I suppose. Even after all these years I find it hard to talk about what happened next.
Domino said, ‘Still wondering, eh?’ He put the creature on his arm, soft part down. ‘It don’t hurt. ’Less it finds an open wound and tastes blood. Then it hunkers down into the gash, turns its stomach inside out and sucks it up… I been told—by those who’ve felt it—that it’s a very painful thing, cos of the poisonous gastric juices. Mind you, I only got their screams to go by. None of them were able to actually speak.’
He looked at the blood-demon with affection. ‘They can go months without food. Then, when they do find a wounded fish or animal, they go into a sort of feeding frenzy. A small school of them can guzzle a whole whale in a week… Oh yeah, they have to crap as they eat, of course, and what they crap is mostly pure acid. It adds to the pain, I’m told, though I always doubted that it was possible to feel more under the circumstances. Still, you’ll find out shortly, eh? Perhaps you could tell me; for future ref’rence, you understand.’
‘Let me get on with it,’ Sickle growled at him. ‘He wants that sodding information today, not next week.’ Casually he bent down and slashed at my breast with his knife. The wound wasn’t particularly deep or serious; he didn’t want me to bleed to death. He wanted it slow…
Domino dropped the blood-demon into the cut. For a moment nothing happened. Sickle grinned at me, and opened up another slice on my stomach, and yet another on my thigh. The creature on my breast wriggled a little, settling into the wound as if it belonged there. Sickle disappeared from my vision and then returned with another couple of blood-demons. He ran his hand insolently over my body before placing them into the other cuts. Then he loosened the thong around my neck. ‘We wouldn’t want you to choke, would we?’ he asked.
The Aware (The Isles of Glory Book 1) Page 14
