Ison of the Isles

by Ives Gilman, Carolyn

Joffrey nodded. “You were right, she was with them. It gave them great hopes, perhaps unwise ones.”

  “And?”

  “The Ripplewill wasn’t one of the boats that returned.”

  Nathaway closed his eyes, concentrating as if he could touch her with his mind. Surely, he thought, he would know it if she were dead. He would feel something.

  “We can go to Harbourdown,” Joffrey said. “There might be more news there.”

  “No.” Nathaway’s voice was reckless with fatalism. “What’s the use of that? We might as well go straight to where she is. The faster the better.”

  “You have some plan?” Joffrey was watching him a little sceptically.

  “Yes,” Nathaway said, but it was a lie. He had no plan, other than to throw himself on Corbin’s mercy and enlist the Navy’s help in finding Spaeth. He would worry about talking himself out of trouble later. For now, all his reliance was on the essence of reason at the core of the Inning temperament—his faith that, all the facts being known, justice would naturally prevail.

  And so they set a course direct for Yora. As Thimish fell behind them, Nathaway was reminded of the first time he had come this way, less than a year before. How naively optimistic he had been then, how confident in his mission. How many broken promises paved the path back to that time.

  They saw the smoke before they could see Yora, for it rose into the sky like a black shroud hanging over the corpse of the island. When at last the rounded hill of the Whispering Stones rose ahead, Nathaway saw that it bristled with a new crown—a thicket of tall stakes, each one with a body impaled upon it, standing out against the sky. They covered the crest of the island in uncountable numbers. A cloud of scavenger birds circled overhead. The sight drew his gaze and fixed it, burning into his memory like a branding iron. Yora had been turned into a mass grave, a charnel island. Its soil would forever be tainted by human bone and suffering.

  The Inning fleet was moored on the west side, opposite Yorabay, but as the Grey Lady rounded the point, Nathaway saw that there was nothing left of the village. The houses were smoking rubble; the grove of trees had been burned or felled for execution stakes. Only a scar of bare soil and ash was left.

  Joffrey had given an order to raise some signal flags to the masthead, and a cutter that had been on course to intercept them steered away and let them pass instead. Nathaway dragged his eyes away from the island to see that they were headed for the flagship Pragmatic.

  When the Grey Lady came up alongside, several officers and a collection of marines were standing on the warship’s deck. Joffrey turned to Nathaway and said, “Wait here a moment.”

  It was not until then that it occurred to Nathaway that Tiarch’s Vice-Admiral was in more peril than he, and he said, “I won’t turn you in.”

  Joffrey gave him a slight, condescending smile and said, “Don’t you worry about me.” He caught hold of the rope ladder the warship had let down, and swung himself nimbly up onto the deck, where he exchanged salutes with the officers and fell into conversation with them. Immediately, two marine officers descended onto the Grey Lady’s deck to take charge of Nathaway.

  They ushered him up onto the flagship, then stood waiting for further orders. Joffrey had disappeared. Scanning the deck, Nathaway was struck by how clean and orderly it was, how free of blood or pain. One would never know that this was the place from which all the orders had issued.

  This time, he had no illusions about how cordial his reception would be. It didn’t matter; he was not doing this for himself. He would have to hide his personal feelings, and approach his brother diplomatically. He would be conciliatory and persuasive. His pride was not the issue here.

  Eventually, a midshipman came up with instructions for the marines to bring him below. When he entered the great cabin, four Inning officers were sitting around a table where they had just finished a meal, drinking wine. Alongside them at the table sat Joffrey—or yet another version of Joffrey. He was still dressed in his dockhand’s smock, but his bearing was completely different. He was painted over with a heavy lacquer of Inningness.

  When Corbin looked up, he took in Nathaway’s long hair and grey clothes with an expression that made Nathaway feel like he had appeared in public naked.

  “So,” said Corbin, setting down his wine glass, “have you decided to leave off titillating all the pubescent girls in Fluminos with your sexual adventures among the natives?”

  In spite of himself, Nathaway felt his face flushing. “I haven’t seen a newspaper, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It’s been very entertaining. You fancy yourself quite the romantic hero. So what brings you here?”

  Steeling himself, Nathaway said, “I didn’t come because I expected you to welcome me.”

  “That’s just as well,” Corbin said, his left brow arched to show what an understatement it was.

  “I’m here because there is a woman—”

  “Ah. I should have known.”

  Firmly, Nathaway went on, “—a woman who was with the pirate fleet, and whom I need to locate.”

  Corbin turned to one of the Inning officers. “Have we any female captives?”

  The man shrugged. “The native boats were infested with females. Regular floating whorehouses. We’ve executed a few.”

  “This one would stand out,” Nathaway went on stubbornly. “She is Lashnura. Grey skin, silver hair, young, beautiful. Her name is Spaeth Dobrin.”

  The name obviously rang a bell with Corbin; he glanced at Joffrey.

  “The Onan,” Joffrey said.

  “Of course. Harg Ismol’s concubine.” He turned a piercing gaze on Nathaway. “And your native paramour as well. I’m curious how you worked that out. Did you share her, like gentlemen, on alternate nights?”

  Ignoring him angrily, Nathaway said, “I wanted to make sure you knew she is far more valuable to you alive than dead. In fact, her captivity might be a decisive factor, as long as you don’t harm her.”

  “How gracious of you to offer us strategic advice. But we do actually have other sources of information.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Nathaway said, casting a look at Joffrey. The look Joffrey gave him back was cool and cultivated, the very mirror of his Admiral’s.

  With a deliberate control, Corbin rose from his seat at the table and came around to stand facing Nathaway. His expression had changed; now his face looked carved from flint. Nathaway realized that he had been toying with him up to now.

  “I hope you did not come here expecting any special consideration.”

  “No.” Nathaway forced himself to meet his brother’s gaze.

  “Good. Because I find your actions abhorrent. You have betrayed your country, disgraced your family, and degraded your very race.”

  The intensity of Corbin’s personality was still difficult to face. But this time, Nathaway felt something harden inside him in response. Trying to keep his voice measured, he said, “I have disgraced Inning? I’m not the one who has made my country’s name another word for butchery and slaughter. I have not defiled every idea of justice our civilization is built on. I have not spread terror or stained our name with savagery. Look at yourself, Corbin. You are the one who has betrayed our country.”

  Corbin’s face froze over as Nathaway was speaking. In a soft, dangerous voice, he said, “How easy it must be to have the privilege of principles. It’s only because the nation has men like me to make ugly decisions that men like you can walk around pretending to be blameless.”

  Nathaway didn’t answer. He had already said too much, too truthfully. But he didn’t look down, either.

  At last the Admiral glanced to the door and ordered, “Guard!”

  When the two marines entered, he said, “Put him in the hold with the other prisoners. I’ll deal with him later.”

  Corbin
had to resort to force, Nathaway thought, because he couldn’t win the battle of conviction.

  It had not yet occurred to him how effective force could be.

  *

  Over the next two weeks, he learned.

  The hold of the Pragmatic was a dense jam of prisoners, mostly young Adaina men who would, in due course, be sold as slaves or impressed into service in the Navy. The mass of brown bodies was so close that they slept nearly stacked atop one another, and there was no escaping the constant sensation of skin pressed against sweaty skin. The sanitary facilities consisted of two overflowing buckets, but in the dark crush, most prisoners simply used the floor. Dysentery, lice, and skin eruptions were epidemic; the stench, itch, and misery reduced grown men to mere bundles of nerves.

  The fleet set out for Thimish after two days. It took three days of nonstop shelling to reduce Harbourdown to submission. The noise of the cannons on the deck above them was deafening. Sleep, difficult before, became impossible.

  At last the guns finally fell silent, and it was clear that Harbourdown had fallen. An orgy of executions would follow. When the marines came below to start thinning out the crowd of prisoners, men pushed away, thinking they were being led to death, and three people were crushed and trampled in the panic.

  It was another week before they came looking for Nathaway. When he came forward, filthy and insect-bitten, they put irons on his wrists before leading him up through the warren of dark, narrow stairs and passages. He followed in a daze, feeling as if his head weren’t quite attached to his body.

  Emerging into the fresh air and sunlight on the open deck was like being reborn. Nathaway breathed in and combed his hair away from his face with his fingers. The ship was anchored in Harbourdown Bay. High on the cliff above, the black bulk of the Redoubt loomed. The town below was still standing, though the damage was visible even from here.

  A drum roll called his attention back to the warship. When he saw how the deck was set up, his drowsiness left him. Seven Inning captains in full uniform were seated in a row on the edge of the quarterdeck, behind a long, flag-draped table. In the ship’s waist a crowded audience of officers and seamen was assembled. He had seen the setup before. It was the immemorial arrangement for a trial at sea.

  To the slow beat of the drum, the marines led him forward to where, below the judges’ dais, there stood a large, coffin-shaped block of wood with iron manacles bolted to it at each corner next to the floor. Nathaway’s muscles froze when he saw it. He faced the judges and said defiantly, “This is uncivilized. You have no authority to do this to me.”

  Corbin sat in the middle of the judges. The officer on his right glanced at him; the others were gazing stonily forward or down at the papers before them. Corbin said mechanically, “State your name, please.”

  “My name is Nathaway—Justice Nathaway Talley.”

  “Put him on the block.”

  The soldiers forced Nathaway to lie on the block, then pulled his ankles to either side and clamped them into the iron manacles. They forced his arms back till they could fasten his wrists at the other end of the block. Last, they fitted an iron collar around his neck and bolted it down to the surface of the wood. When at last they stepped away he lay uncomfortably spread-eagled before his judges, unable even to raise his head. All he could see was the sky and the masts above him.

  “Read the charges, please.” Corbin’s voice sounded like an icy wind across the silent deck.

  There were three charges, couched in complicated phrases. Nathaway’s mind was in turmoil, but he grasped the main words: espionage, conspiracy, and treason.

  His ears pounded. It was almost impossible to think, lying there like a slab of meat. That was the whole purpose of the block—to humiliate intransigent prisoners and break their will, so they could not defy the court or give false testimony. It was a holdover from uncivilized ancient days. He tried to get a grip on his mind.

  The bailiff’s voice was still reading accusations. You did escape from lawful detention. You did reveal vital intelligence to the press. You did aid the enemy by giving them counsel, including legal counsel. You did transmit messages vital to enemy plans. You did make public statements against the interests of the Inning nation. It was all a tissue of innuendoes that a good defence lawyer could have peppered with holes.

  “Prisoner, what is your plea?” Corbin’s voice said.

  “I deny this court’s right of jurisdiction over me,” Nathaway said to the sky. His voice sounded husky in his own ears.

  “This is not a court,” Corbin said. “It is a military tribunal.”

  “I am a civilian,” Nathaway said. “I demand to be tried by a jury of my peers. It is the right of every Inning citizen.”

  “The Forsaken Islands are under martial law,” Corbin replied. “You are subject to military justice.”

  “Then I assert my right to legal counsel,” Nathaway said.

  “We can answer any legal questions you might have. But first we need your plea.”

  Nathaway’s face had broken out in a sweat. Don’t submit, he told himself. Don’t let them break you. If they do this to you, they can do it to anyone. Someone has to stop them. “You have no right to try me,” he said.

  “How do you plead?”

  “I refuse to answer. This is barbarous. I am an Inning citizen.”

  Corbin’s voice came like a swift slap: “You should have thought of that before you committed treason.”

  Even in his state of confusion, Nathaway realized that the mask of impartial justice had just slipped.

  Corbin was back in control of his voice almost as swiftly as he had slipped. “We cannot proceed till you enter a plea. I must warn you, your continued refusal will be held as contempt of court. We can compel your cooperation.”

  Nathaway clenched his teeth and stayed silent. He could hear the judges conversing with each other in low tones. At last Corbin gave an order, and the soldiers came forward to unshackle him from the block and pull him upright to face the panel.

  The judges had all risen to their feet. Corbin said, “Nathaway Talley, you have been found in contempt of court. You are sentenced to receive fifteen lashes on your bare back, to be repeated daily until such time as you submit to the jurisdiction of this tribunal. Officers, please carry out the sentence.”

  They seized him by the arms and turned him round to watch as a team of seamen cleared an area around the foremast to set up a wooden framework to carry out the punishment. Nathaway watched, uncomprehending. He couldn’t believe they were serious. The law was a long, deliberative process, full of opportunities for delay and reflection. This precipitous action was completely foreign to its spirit. He waited for someone to speak up, to intervene.

  The drum gave another roll, and to its slow ceremonial cadence, the soldiers led Nathaway forward. A dark-bearded, muscled man was shaking out the whip. It was a cruel-looking instrument with multiple knotted lashes, designed to inflict half a dozen wounds at every blow. The man holding it grinned brutally at the expression of horror on Nathaway’s face. It was clear he was looking forward to the novelty of flogging an Inning.

  “Take off your shirt,” the marine officer said. Nathaway’s disbelief was slowly turning to outrage. They expected him to lose his nerve and give in, intimidated by their apparent willingness to execute the sentence. He could feel Corbin’s gaze at his back, and a stubborn determination took hold of him. He took off his glasses and handed them to the marine, then pulled his shirt over his head. There was a murmur from the watching Adaina seamen when they saw the green stone pendant around his neck. The marine gestured for him to take it off, but he put his hand over it, saying, “I’d prefer to keep it.”

  “Suit yourself,” the marine shrugged.

  Another soldier came forward to fasten his wrists to the frame with leather straps. There was a pause then, as they wa
ited for him to recant. He stood straight, full of pride and defiance, and said nothing. His eyes were fixed on a seagull wheeling overhead.

  “Proceed,” Corbin said.

  The first blow knocked the breath out of him and buckled his knees; he would have fallen forward if he hadn’t been fastened up. Before he could quite collect himself, the second blow came, even more ferocious than the first. He had imagined that he would be able to react with stoic nobility, but there was no possibility of control under such a battering. He was an object, not a will.

  He tried to count, but lost track as the lashes cut into his skin, raising stinging welts that finally broke and bled. His body was acting on its own, his back arching away from the pain, his lungs gasping and grunting. When it ceased, he was hanging limply from his wrists, and the deck around him was spattered with droplets of blood. As the soldier stepped forward to release him and help him stand, a surge of mad defiance gave him strength to stand and face the judges.

  Corbin said, “Prisoner, what is your plea?”

  “You have no jurisdiction,” Nathaway said hoarsely.

  “Take him below,” Corbin said dispassionately. “We will reconvene at the same time tomorrow.”

  The marines took him to the ship’s small infirmary. The surgeon was an Inning, and seemed angry as he inspected Nathaway’s wounds, but would utter not a word of sympathy. He did at least insist that his patient remain in a berth in the infirmary rather than return to the fetid hold.

  The next morning, Nathaway woke almost unable to move. He felt bruised all over, and the slightest motion set off such a fiery pain that his eyes watered and his breath came in gasps. Nevertheless, they came for him again at the same time, marching him up onto the deck to face the seven judges and the witnessing crowd.

  “Prisoner, what is your plea?” Corbin addressed him.

  “I deny your jurisdiction,” Nathaway said. “I obey only the law.”

  “Very well,” Corbin said. “Carry out the sentence.”

  Nathaway wasn’t able to remove his own shirt this time, and the marine had to help him. As they fastened his wrists to the framework again, he was shaking like a leaf, but his mind was grimly focused on not submitting to his body’s needs. When the whip struck his back again, his voice cried out, but not to beg or give in.