Akhanar Ghotze held a short sword as he entered. Three burly sailors crowded the corridor behind him. One of them pushed in behind Ghotze. The cabin went from stuffy to claustrophobic in an instant.
Tyrolean rolled from his bunk, landing on his feet and stepping toward his freshly oiled swords on the rack. Ghotze intercepted his progress with his blade, cutting the air between Tyrolean and his swords. “Not so, Captain.”
Two of the sailors grabbed Draken and dragged him up from his bunk. His sleepy, drunken muscles barely tightened in protest as the sailors forced him to his knees before Ghotze. The cabin spun about him and his stomach did a lazy flip. He swallowed hard as Tyrolean demanded, “What are you on about, Ghotze?”
“We’ve heard tale that Khel Szi is not the man we took him for,” Ghotze said, his tone tight. “That you’re not Khel Szi at all.”
“The galley boy. You sent him to get me drunk,” Draken said. His slurred voice carried a note of finality, even to him. Perhaps his lies would kill him before King Aissyth got his chance.
“You’re going to believe a lad over the word of your Prince?” Tyrolean glanced toward his swords and back at the captain. Ghotze’s sword edged closer to his chest.
Draken drew in a breath, trying to clear his muddled head. He needed to stop Tyrolean trying to protect him before he got hurt.
“That boy is my grandson,” Ghotze said. “And if the treachery he heard tells true, then my Prince, as you call him, is no Prince at all.”
Draken set that aside with difficulty. One thing at a time. His bad knee ached sharply against the wooden floor and the sailors kept a painful grip on his arms. His mind protested putting together any coherent sentiments except to a vague curiosity about why he’d thought drinking himself into a near stupor was a good idea.
Where were his guards? Halmar? Gods, if they were dead … “My szi nêre?”
Ghotze straightened his back. “Locked below until we get at the truth.”
Draken blinked blearily at him. The cut-metal lantern hanging behind Ghotze’s head swung as the ship crested another swell and the flame flickered into Draken’s eyes, blinding him for a moment.
“They’re cooperating,” Ghotze said. “As you should. We can end this quickly.”
Depending on what Ghotze meant by end, Draken wasn’t too certain cooperation was the best idea.
“And if he doesn’t?” Tyrolean asked.
“Then we toss him over and let the gods sort it.”
“Fools all, man!” Caught in a rare rage, Tyrolean took a step forward. “Are you trying to start war between Monoea and Akrasia? They’re expecting him. They’ve threatened—”
“Back, Green.” Ghotze’s blade flicked across Tyrolean’s bare chest. Blood sprang up on his pale skin. Just flesh deep, but Ghotze knew what he was about, damn him. Tyrolean lunged for his swords. One of the sailors holding Draken released his arm to go after him, tackling him against a wooden bench. Tyrolean went down hard with a grunt. Draken took the opportunity to wrench free of the other sailor holding him. Someone shouted and the boat listed enough to make his effort a clumsy scramble toward Seaborn, looped on Draken’s belt at the end of his bunk. The scabbard swung toward him. His fingers brushed the end of it as he felt a cold blade settle under his jaw.
Tyrolean snarled and tried to shove through the burly sailor without much success. Draken spat out, “Captain. Enough!”
Tyrolean was pinned to the bench by the sailor, still straining, his nostrils flared, his lined eyes white with fury. “Don’t be a fool. Draken is royal and godsworn. People who mishandle him tend to meet bad ends.”
“Enough,” Draken repeated, breathless, his head pulled back to accommodate the sword at his throat. “Let me up, Akhanar Ghotze. I’ll cooperate. Captain Tyrolean will, as well.”
The sword backed from Draken’s throat. Draken sank down onto his bunk. They kept Tyrolean pinned.
“Rorq, bind the ‘Khel Szi’ to the bunk post.” Ghotze turned his hard glare on Tyrolean. “The Green can join the others in the hold.”
Others? Had they taken Osias and Setia prisoner too? The Mance had his glamour; Draken prayed he’d made good use of it in time.
Rorq locked cold metal around his wrists, still scarred from shackling after his wife had died, and chained him to the post at the end of his bunk. Ghotze waved a hand at the dirty mugs and pitcher. Rorq took them away. Before he shut the door behind him, Draken caught sight of another guard waiting with bared blade outside. Not so alone then.
Tyrolean’s nostrils flared. Draken held his gaze. “I’ll sort this.”
“Aye, Your Highness.” Tyrolean gave him a stiff nod and didn’t fight them as they shoved him out of the cabin.
Draken wrapped his hands around the cold chains and waited.
“You are no Khel Szi,” Ghotze said, sliding his sword back into the tooled scabbard at his waist.
“Khel Szi was my father and my grandfather before him, and his father before him. Bastard I may be, but I never pretended any different.”
“But you pretended the other half of your blood, aye? No one knows you’re sundry.” Ghotze reached out to touch Seaborn where it lay on the table.
Draken’s fingers whitened on his chains. The rough metal scraped his skin and a tremor ran through him as it healed. Seaborn had a penchant for burning other people. It might cause Ghotze to think it was some magicks worked by Draken, though the sword had a mind of its own.
Ghotze drew it. The sword remained dull and dead.
Draken sighed in relief. “There is no law against sundry serving Brîn.”
“Only the gods’ own.”
“The gods put me on the bloody throne,” Draken snapped. Ghotze turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. Draken tempered his tone. “Akhen Khel wouldn’t accept me had I not carried Khellian’s blood.”
“But you are Monoean. My grandson heard you say you would die if you return to her shores. That you are banished.”
The boy had taken his care about listening.
No argument emerged from his drunken haze. And he was dead weary of lies. “The truth would only hurt Brîn.”
“Brîn. Pah! It’s your neck you’re looking to spare, bastard. Your own godsforsaken honor, whatever there was of it.”
Godsforsaken, indeed. How often in his early days after Lesle’s death had he beseeched the gods for death?
Draken stared at the point of Ghotze’s sword as it drew closer to his chest. He had no illusions his ability to heal himself would mend heart and bone. He couldn’t make himself hate the idea. But the curved blade snagged Elena’s pendant and lifted it. “This is a start. I wonder what else you’re worth.”
Draken shook his head. It was hard to hold up. “The gods chose me,” he mumbled. “But I’m not worth that much.”
“Then the gods can bloody well have you back. Rorq!”
The big sailor shoved the door open hard enough it banged against the end of Draken’s bunk, jarring him and rattling his chains. Two more sailors followed close.
“Bring the sundry to the rail.”
Draken’s heart gulped blood and spit it back out chilled.
Ghotze turned away without a backward glance, still gripping Akhen Khel as he shoved past the sailors.
Rorq’s face was hard and grim. “Come along, then.” He reached for Draken’s chains.
Draken lashed out with his bare foot and hooked Rorq’s knee, yanking him off balance. The sailor crashed into him with a shout. Draken slammed his chain-wrapped fist into Rorq’s nose, and tasted blood as it flicked across his face, sweetly bitter. Rorq screamed a strangled, wet scream. Draken growled and shoved Rorq off him, but the sailor came at him again, blood streaming over his mouth and chin, his mates on his heels. A fist found Draken’s temple. The world whirled about him and pain slammed in close behind. The bunk behind him shifted with a heavy weight, or maybe it was the ship rolling over a wave. Abruptly, Draken gaped for air and his lungs seized. A thick arm tightened around
his throat.
“Feeding the sea is all you’re good for, sundry bastard.” Somebody took off the chains. Draken lashed out again and struggled. The arm tightened on his throat. Black crept in on the world from all sides. The clink of the chains wasn’t enough to keep the darkness at bay.
#
You’ve things to attend, Draken. Awaken!
The harsh echoing shout made him twitch but pelting rain on his face and bare chest brought him to. Bruche?
No answer. Draken slumped against the rail. His ale-infused mind playing tricks again. His head hurt badly and rain soaked his head and back. Someone knelt by him, fixing a shackle to his ankle. He kicked out awkwardly, delayed by drink and lingering stupor. Something heavy held his leg pinned to the deck boards. The sailor at his knee scrambled back just in time, his work done. Groggy, Draken blinked down at a salt-pitted counterweight affixed to his ankle. Something about the whole thing seemed wrong. Wrong even beyond Ghotze’s plan to pitch him into the sea.
He swung his head from side to side. He should have let himself sink the first time he’d been forced into the sea at sword point, in warm Khein Bay. It would have been a pleasant way to go in comparison to these storm-strewn waves.
“You could buy your way out of this,” Ghotze said.
“Do it,” Draken mumbled. “Kill me.”
“Truth? No reason to spare you at all, then?”
Draken dragged his bleary gaze up to the Akhanar’s face. “You’re doing me a bloody favor.”
“I wonder if the Queen would think so?”
That stung. His voice sharpened. “Do me a kindness and help me over the rail. Bad knee. Can’t manage on my own with the counterweight.”
Ghotze grunted, his brows lowered in a scowl. He looked comically confused. A humorless smile tugged at the corners of Draken’s mouth until two sailors strode forward. Hands dragged Draken up and pushed at him, straining the ropes.
No, Draken! You—The voice broke. Draken had to strain to hear, difficult through his own grunts of pain and the voices of the sailors. You will never… Elena, remember Elena …
Draken blinked rapidly and uttered a wordless protest at the voice. Bruche?
He could join the spirit swordhand there. He wanted to go. Let the sea swallow him. It would be a relief. But one hand grappled for the rail; the other swung out and caught one of the sailors on the side of the head, finding a ropy lock. His fingers tightened on it like erring jaws on prey. The sailor shouted. Another guttural, wordless growl burst from Draken’s lips. If they were shoving him into the sea, he was damn well dragging one of them along with him.
The sailor snarled and tried to jerk free. Draken yanked back on him just as the other sailor shoved him harder. The sailor tumbled over the rail, past Draken. For a long breath he hung suspended over the sea as the sailor flipped over the rail with a sharp scream. His weight tore at Draken’s grip. The hair dragged through his fist and wrenched free.
The sailor scrabbled at the air and disappeared screaming into the sea mist. He thudded against the side of the ship before the snarling waves swallowed him. The motion had pulled Draken down, bent over the wiggling rail. His head slammed against the edge where deck met hull. Pain burst behind his eyes but the icy spray kept him from blacking out. His waist was bent over the rope rail, locked into place by the weight on his ankle. Agony stabbed through his bad knee as the muscles tore and knit themselves as quickly. A great ocean swell shuddered through the ship.
Crack. The rope sagged abruptly, dropping him lower.
Draken gulped a breath of mist and salt spray. One hand, rubbed raw and stinging as it healed, still clung to the rope rail. His stomach and back strained against falling further. His head protested the rush of blood from hanging upside-down with epic, thought-clogging pain. Let go, he thought. End this.
Shouts penetrated the rain, his agony, and his groggy mind. Metal clanged. A deep voice screamed. Rain and briny spray ran into his nose and open mouth, making him cough. A sharp, high voice, unrecognizable through his coughing: “Ty! Get him up, damn you!”
Rough hands hauled Draken back up over the rail and dumped him onto the hard wood deck, slick with rain and a familiar, sickly-sweet reek that clotted in his lungs with every gasping breath. Rain pelted down clear and splashed back up crimson. Narrow, delicate bare feet stopped near his face. Small … the lad? His feet had been bare. No. That’s not right. What was his name again …?
“Seize the ship.”
“Aye, Szirin.”
Draken blinked and strained to see, but just got an eyeful of rainwater for his trouble. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting. “Aarin—” Another burst of coughing cut him off.
“Up, Khel Szi. You’ve a ship to command.” Strong, slim hands tugged at his bare arm, digging into his muscles. Her fingers felt like dagger points.
He moaned again and shoved to a sit, unable to pull free of her iron grip. Khellian’s balls, she was strong for such a slight thing. “Aarinnaie. You’re pulling on me.”
“And you’re drunk,” Aarinnaie said.
But she let go.
“Damn it, Aarin.”
“She won’t let you go so easily,” Osias said. “None of us will.”
Draken wiped his hand over his eyes, clearing off the rain. Tyrolean appeared, his shirt plastered to his chest with the rain, blooded blades in each hand. Draken’s szi nêre followed. Halmar’s face deepened into a scowl. He eyed Draken and then his gaze passed over the bodies on the deck.
“Throw the traitors overboard, Halmar,” Aarinnaie said.
Halmar looked at Draken, who blinked the rain out of his eyes and nodded.
“Aye, Szirin.” Halmar signaled his men. They hefted the bodies of the two dead sailors, tossed them over. It was then Draken realized Ghotze was alive. Only just, gagging on blood from gaping chest wounds. Looked like Tyrolean’s work.
Konnan looked at Draken. “Khel Szi? What of the Akhanar?”
Draken grabbed at the rail but had to try twice to get up. His knee, flexed the wrong way from the weight on his ankle, made him hiss in pain. The rope sagged under his weight. He grabbed a post instead and hauled himself to his feet. His knee gave way. He leaned his weight onto his other leg. Ghotze’s mouth gaped and his eyes rolled as they followed Draken. His brown skin had taken on a greyish cast, stretched taut over his cheekbones, and his mouth gaped and worked. He grunted and moaned.
“Throw him in,” Draken growled. “And get this blasted counterweight off my leg.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ghotze floated for a moment, his arms waving, frantic and awkward. A fin appeared in the water nearby, and another. Froth splashed over a swell, sucking Ghotze under. Draken couldn’t be certain in the infernal rain, but he thought he saw a dark stain rise from the depths.
Korde, drinking in blood sacrifice before Ma’Vanni scented the death in her realm? The god of death had ever been a hungry shadow. It had nearly been Draken who had stained the ocean. His whole body weakened at the thought. Stop the blasted rain, then. You had your feast.
He lowered himself to the deck, unable to move further with the weight on his leg. He had to sit in the wet for an eternity, shivering under an oiled cloak while Halmar sawed the ring from his ankle. Aparently the key had gone over with Ghotze.
Aarinnaie posted the other szi nêre on the anchors and confined the helmsman to his cabin and the other sailors belowdecks. The saw sliced his skin. He hissed in pain and bled on the already stained deck. Fortunately that and the shudder of the boat as it crested a wave hid the magical healing. Tyrolean leant his shoulder to Draken without a word, helping him limp back to the cabin. Once inside, Draken shoved him off and bound his already healed gash to conceal it. His knee hurt as if steel straps embedded in the muscle bound a stabbing knife buried inside it.
“This is yours, I believe.” Tyrolean held out Elena’s seal.
Draken slung it round his neck as he got up. Even dry trousers, warm under-and over-tunics,
and a woolen cloak couldn’t stop his shivering.
Tyrolean tossed him a blanket. “That went sideways from Sohalia quickly.”
“Where are Os-sias and S-setia?”
“Sorting the crew.”
Draken eased onto his bed, his back against the wall. The bunk posts were marred by the chains that had bound him there. “Need Gadye oscher wine.” That stuff would sear him to his bones.
“I’ll send for some.” Tyrolean stripped his wet clothes and added hash marks on his muscled chest with a flinch. His kills. When Draken had first seen them, he’d thought them bragging notches. Now he knew them for penance. The Captain pressed a cloth to the small wounds until they stopped bleeding, dressed in dry clothes, wiped his blades clean, and re-sheathed them on his back.
Draken watched him. “Taking no chances, then?”
“The crew is likely loyal to Ghotze. And you’ll need to decide what to do with the boy.”
Draken looked at Tyrolean, wondering if he remembered another boy, one they’d been unable to save but whose death had led to Va Khlar’s valuable alliance and friendship. “Ghotze is dead. Dead Akhanars don’t pay their crew. Rather negates loyalty. Where is the lad?”
“In the hold with the men.”
The door slammed open and Aarinnaie strode in. Her eyes were dark as storm clouds and her many black braids gleamed wetly. Curly sprigs sprouted from her hairline. Her sopping tunic and trousers clung tight to her narrow, muscled body. “What in the name of the Holy Seven was that?”
“I believe it was an attempted assassination,” Draken said. “What are you doing here?”
She ignored his dry tone. “Saving your sorry arse.” She poured herself ale, gulped it down, and eyed him over the rim of her mug.
“Not pouring one for me?”
“Ale already addled your wits, and you’ve little to spare.”
Tyrolean opened his mouth to speak. Draken raised a weary hand to stop him. “I’ve no doubt you have many opinions on my lackluster intelligence, Aarin. Save them for when you’ve ample time to eviscerate me. Right now I’m more interested in the state of the ship.”
Emissary Page 15
