by C F Welburn
“I’ll think on it,” he said, offhandedly.
Murdak’s brow creased. “Well, think fast. The Spear sails at dawn, and if Whitey over there accepts first, you’re out of luck.” Balagir nodded, and with pleasure took his leave of the unsavoury crew.
The Good Company finished their drinks about an old keg serving as a table.
“Well, if you choose to linger in this cesspit, I’ll look for you later,” Freya said, setting down her empty mug. “I’ve matters to attend to.”
“Aye. I’ve coin I’d sooner spend than fritter,” Igmar agreed, looking towards the door.
“I’m going to stay a while,” Balagir said. “See if a more favourable proposition presents itself.” Rych, who was bent over his drink, seemed not to have heard a word. Igmar rolled his eyes and followed Freya out into the blustery night. Rych visibly tensed at the creaking of the door and flinched as it swung to.
Balagir left him there and picked a table that, whilst not being particularly inviting, exuded less menace than the rest.
“May I?” The men looked at each other, then at Balagir’s threadbare attire and nodded disinterestedly. He sat down and retrieved his bones from his pouch.
He followed the pattern he had learnt, and within an hour he had doubled what he had brought to the table. So fixated was he on the game that he had not seen Rych watching with mounting interest from the keg.
“It seems our new player has brought some luck with him,” a boulder-headed man commented sourly.
“It’s about time,” Balagir riposted wryly, proffering his tattered garments. “My fortunes have been far from fair of late.”
“Be that as it may, this will be my final hand if I lose again,” a hooked-nosed man with one white eye said, nursing his dwindling funds. He had the look of a pirate about him, and Balagir, wondering if he were another of the Spite Spear’s crew, decided to tread carefully.
He was in the process of casting the bones when a scrawny hand caught his wrist. He turned to face the skull-masked ashen staring down at him.
“It’s your fault,” Rych said, trembling. The three gamblers looked on.
“Rych, you’re mistaken. I’ll explain shortly over an ale. My round.” He turned, raising his brow apologetically to the players. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. My friend has recently suffered a traumatic experience. I need to tend to him.”
“Then you’ll forfeit your current stake,” the hook-nosed one decreed. Balagir sighed.
“I suppose I can do that—”
“Your fault!” Rych suddenly shrieked, bringing the eyes of half the tavern upon them. He seized the bones from Balagir’s hand, scrutinising them. The players began to mutter suspiciously, and no amount of meaningful signals to Rych could penetrate his frenzied state.
Fortunately, it was precisely then that Murdak chose to return from the privy. As luck would have it, the timbers, warped from decades of sea dampness, had swollen in their frame. As the large captain pounded it, Rych swivelled. The door shuddered and scraped ajar. Balagir and the rest saw nothing stranger than the drunken captain come staggering in. Rych, in his distress, saw something more sinister as that black space gaped open. He stumbled backwards over a stool, catching his face on the corner of the table as he disappeared to the ground.
When he clambered up, the mask had cracked diagonally. The top half of his face was still a skull, the bottom a youthful face, pale as bone itself. Ranting incoherently, he dashed out into the night, bearing the charmed bones with him.
Unable to continue, but having avoided a beating or worse, Balagir bowed out. Despite his winnings, he remained short of the dock man’s quote. Reluctantly, he turned back to Murdak and witnessed the striking of an accord between the captain and the other ashen.
He waited anxiously until Murdak was alone and approached.
“I’m afraid my offer no longer stands,” the captain slurred. “Your kinsman, Greman, proved more enthusiastic than yourself. No hard feelings.”
“None whatsoever,” Balagir grumbled and went back to sulk over his drink at the bar.
Presently he noticed Greman enter and ascend the creaking stair to where he must be lodging. The ashen, despite his loss at Galnmere, appeared hardened. The white hair and scar gave him an air of experience, and his apparel, coupled with the fact he could pass the coastline barrier, told he had spent his share of smoke in his time.
Balagir hung to finish his drink, then trailed him cautiously. Once he had identified the ashen’s quarters, he returned to the bar, where he brooded and drank and brooded some more.
He paid for lodgings and sat for a long while, staring through the grimy pane over the shady waterfront. Era emerged and hovered at his shoulder. She seemed altered since the challenge; since the piper had taken her. What had passed between them was a mystery. He had no doubt she had saved him at Galnmere for her own sake, not his. Even so, there was an air of subservience about her. A fresh willingness. They were headed south, after all. Gwindle had said she had desired as much.
The candle spluttered until only her green light illuminated the room. Igmar’s words about family came back to him. It seemed strange that none of the ashen had one, nor histories they could recall. It was an overwhelming fact he had pushed aside, distracted by confusion and later by the smoke. He withdrew the forgotten amulet and examined it. Perhaps he would find the answers to these questions in the south. Or perhaps he would find something else. He had somehow lost sight. It was all too easy to become distracted; to chase power. He had seen it in the others at the challenge; in Finster’s black eyes in Wormford; in Greman’s as he had shaken Murdak’s hand. He recognised it in himself and felt at once tainted and unrepentant. Whatever lay ahead, he would irrefutably need more to achieve it. A means to an end, he counselled himself, denying the craving that stirred within.
He was up before the skies had broken, approaching Greman’s room to ascertain the door was locked and the key still in the far side. With a thought, Era squeezed beneath the uneven wood, tugged at the key so it fell to the floor, and nudged it enough for Balagir to retrieve it and drop it in the slop bucket on his way out past the kitchens.
Despite a cutting breeze, dawn remained misty down at the harbour. The world was already wide awake, and Balagir passed the Spite Spear, whistling contentedly.
“Good luck on your venture!” he called out jovially to Murdak.
“And you on yours. I hope you find passage soon.”
“Hope is a desperate man’s crook! I’ve secured passage. In luxury quarters no less.”
Murdak grunted in surprise but spoke no more of the matter.
A while later, when half of the morning’s vessels had departed, Murdak sought him out and begged him reconsider.
“I’m afraid it’s too late. I’ve already parted with my coin.”
“I confess my need, but you must recognise yours. I offer passage and smoke. You won’t get that on a trader.”
“And Greman?”
“Change of heart,” he growled.
“As I’ve stated—”
“I’ll move you from the hold to more suitable quarters.”
“I doubt they will be more lavish than the ones I’ve secured.”
“I’ve wine. Vintages from Savae and Tusco.”
“And the money I’ve spent?”
“Reimbursed.”
“I assume this is dependent on whether I take the oath or not?”
“Of course. Smoke, coin, wine. A windowed cabin. What else could you need?”
He considered it for a convincing enough time and grudgingly agreed. Murdak showed his black-gold smile and slapped him on the back.
“You’ll not regret it,” he said, walking away up the gangplank.
“And the oath?” he called after him.
“We’ve time aplenty to converse on the way, and scant to lose now.”
Balagir was about to assert when he saw Igmar stumbling forlornly towards him.
“Igmar! W
ell met. I wanted to wish you farewell. What ails you?”
“They’ve gone,” he said hollowly. In the hours that had passed, he had managed to replace his hat, though it sat somewhat askew on account of his missing ear.
“Who?”
“Freya and Rych. Rych fled in the night. Went mad by all accounts. Freya declared that two people can no longer be called a company and left to answer some personal bidding.”
So then there was one.
“What will you do?”
He shrugged. “Head north. Recruit. Rebuild the company.”
“Come with me.”
“No. My place is in the wilds. The company must prevail.”
“Then I wish you luck, Igmar.”
“And you, Balagir,” the big man said gravely. “I don’t know what you seek out there, but I hope you find it.”
They shook hands, and so it was, after uncounted years and forgotten forebears, the Good Company disbanded that misty morn on the shores of the sea.
Murdak did not dally in hauling anchor. As they drifted out of the harbour, Balagir watched Igmar turn and disappear into the crowd as though he had been but a figment of his imagination.
In the background, he saw the tavern window from which a knot of bedsheets dangled. Then the scar-faced ashen who ran down the pier, skidding to a halt, locking eyes with him across the widening gap. They held each other’s gaze for some moments before Balagir turned away to look out over the bow.
His black eyes fixed upon the grey horizon. From somewhere across the water, or perhaps within his mind, the piper’s tune took on an adventurous inflection. The mist swallowed Cogtown as the wind caught the sails and set his torn cloak to billowing. It was a hero shot. His belt rumbled with the new oath, and they passed finally from the north.
PART 2: JOURNEYMAN
VIII.i
THE DREDGE DOLLS
Life aboard a ship was much more glamorous in the stories. Stories also smelt better. The vintage wine turned out to be less vintage, more vinegar than Murdak had led him to believe, and the window in his cabin was little more than a chink of grimy light. Neither was he made to feel particularly welcome. It helped not that the two men who suspected him of cheating were amongst the crew. The one promise that Murdak made that held true was that they had time to talk. The mist-filled hours provided more than enough to tire of each other. It became swiftly apparent that none aboard were keen on having an ashen in their midst. Most attempts at conversation were snubbed or mocked. Land-Legs, he heard them call him, Black-Eye and Smoke-Eater. The sole member of the crew that had time for him was the steersman, Res, who spent so much time alone at the helm he was just glad of the diversion.
Bassy, the hook-nosed player, had taken a deeper disliking on account of his losses at the Ciga table. He had spat on the deck as Balagir passed, and with his mates at his back—brash Jip, cutthroat Jared, and scuttling Pegs—any confrontation Balagir may have considered was stayed. These were men of the sea, hard as salt-dried leather. As such, he went to his cabin and tried to stomach the corked wine.
It was on the first afternoon when only a darkening of the mist told of the encroaching eve that he caught Murdak alone in his cabin.
“Tell me of that to which I’m bound.”
“A simple thing.”
“If it were simple, you’d not need an ashen.”
Murdak rubbed his thick beard. “No gulls on you, I see. Very well, here’s the crux of it. I lost a few good men on Iodon. Rumours are they’re still alive; your job is to fetch them.”
“Would it not be better coming from one they recognised?”
“Futile. Each man I send never returns. Lost three more before I realised.”
“If they live and don’t return, wouldn’t it be best to leave them? Seems they’ve made their choice.”
“Preposterous. My men would never leave by choice; and if they did, it would be mutiny, and they must needs be tried.”
“No wonder I’m so popular.”
“Don’t miss a trick, do ye? Lads are anxious to reach Grimwater and peeved their lady’s caress be delayed.”
“I’m more than happy to go directly to Silione.”
Murdak laughed, a watery-chested rumble. “That’s not the only reason they despise you.”
“Despise? I had settled on dislike.”
“They believe you’re cursed. All ashen. Seen some queer things, we have, and your kind always seem to be at the thick of it.”
Balagir did not much care for the ring of contempt that enshrouded the word “kind.”
“Will that be all?” he asked curtly.
“There’s one other thing concerning the oath.” He paused mid-turn. “A creature you must bring.” Balagir knew a moment of hesitation. His experience with creatures had seldom been pleasant. On the contrary, they had been decidedly unsavoury for the most part.
“What type of beast are you referring to?” He waited, dreading the name of his fated foe.
“A frog,” Murdak said with all seriousness.
“A frog?” Balagir repeated doubtfully.
“Aye. A blue-eyed flicker from the River of Loss.”
“River of Loss. You never mentioned this earlier.”
“Fall in, and your memory’s gone.”
Balagir shrugged. Memory loss was the least of an ashen’s concerns, all things considered.
“Loath as I am to admit it, I’m scant distance from that now.”
“Be that as it may, you’ll forget everything. Me, this conversation, your oaths. I’ve heard what happens to you lot when that happens. Burn up like fleshy candles.”
“Eloquently put. Now about this frog, what merit does it hold?”
“The reasons are my own. Know only this, fail and you’re lost. I’m not sending any more men after you. Now, I’ve been told of a village by the name of Peaceriver. I think it’s a good place to begin.”
“Sounds pleasant enough.” Murdak did not look amused.
“I’d stay to your cabin if I were you. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve attempted this only to arrive at Iodon short a man.”
Affronted at how quickly the captain’s hospitality had faltered, he nevertheless decided to take the advice. The ship in the middle of the mist felt like a prison, and he locked himself in his cell to drink until his mind wandered aimlessly.
He thought of the Good Company and family; of Igmar’s big, sad face and awkward new hat; of Freya and how she had left without a word, as though their shared conquests had meant nothing.
His fitful sleep mirrored the jostling of the waves, swelling ever greater than the last. A whistling wind lulled him, reminiscent of the piper’s tune.
He hit the wall with a jarring of jaw; sailors’ cries breaking through the howling wind. He stumbled to his door, clinging to the handle as the world lurched, greeting him with a face of icy spray. Stumbling back, he kicked the door to, and secured himself to his pallet. The ship bounced and dropped, leaving his stomach several feet above his body. He tried to conjure happy thoughts, but none would come. He wasn’t sure he had any. Instead a bedside cabinet came to mind, and knocked his senses away.
Everything was still when he came to, and everything ached. He stared bemusedly at the bed on the wall; it took him some moments to realise the ship was on its side. He reached up to smudge congealed blood on his temple. Securing his pouch to the complaints of the kalaqai, he clambered across the wall and opened the door.
The sun was rising over a sandy coastline. The ship lay discarded halfway up the beach, like a spat-out morsel drenched in phlegm. Part of the hull had been damaged, and the main mast was in splinters. The groans told him he was not the sole survivor. Dropping down to the sand, he made his way to a group that were presently gathering. Murdak was amongst them.
Bassy foamed as he saw Balagir approaching.
“‘Tis that bloody fiend. Told you he’s a curse on our ship.”
Surprisingly, it was the tubby Res that blocked his path.
Bassy snarled, “Stand down, Res.”
It was Murdak who stayed exacerbation. They needed a steersman at least as far as Silione, and reckless or not, Res was currently indispensable.
“The ashen goes unharmed,” the captain said, sword in hand. His thick beard was wild, and his hat had a dent in it.
“‘Tis you, Murdak, that’s brought this upon us!” Bassy turned on his captain. “Your obsession with that island. Admit where your real interest lies.”
“With my crew.”
“Pah. You’ve thrown good after bad, now you put us further at risk.” Bassy’s blade was somehow in his hand, but Malech, the bald Ciga player, intervened, lowering Bassy’s blade with two steady fingers.
“Let’s not get heated, men,” he said. “We’re all tired and beaten.”
“He’s right,” Res said. “Look, there’s a stand of trees yonder. We can have the Spear repaired in a day or two.”
Slowly, heads nodded and swords were sheathed, though it was the captain and the hook-nosed Bassy that were the last to break their taut stares. Suddenly a morning gull cried out, a wave crashed, and the world continued to function.
Once the sun had risen and all the survivors sat in a battered circle on the sand, Murdak gave his orders. They had two days until high tide; the breach and mast must be repaired by then. The view offered little save the stand of trees along the shore, a burnt-out village on the bluff above, and an endless, white-tipped sea.
Axemen were sent to fell trees, and the more skilled carpenters awaited their return. Balagir admired how Murdak organised his men as if the situation were run of the mill, despite palpable tensions. He handled well the comments that the island did not appear on any chart, citing strong currents and magnetic abnormalities; quelling, for the time, further revolt.
Finding himself unassigned, Balagir went to investigate the village. The burnt buildings, on closer inspection, told of a distant devastation. From amongst the charred rubble, plants thrust and ivy clawed stone back to the earth with tenacious fingers. What had laid waste to the settlement, Balagir could not divine, but it had left no stone unscorched, and any former dweller had perished or long since moved on.
