CHAPTER FOURTEEN
By the time they gained on the ship, the smoke had lessened to ghostlike puffs on the sea breezes. A trade freighter labeled in Brînish as the Sea Swallow, it had taken on water and dragged deep in the sea. Ash from the burned sails still floated in the air. Blackened strips of cloth hung from booms. Bits of wreckage floated over the quiet waves. Despite repeated hails, no one responded.
Ghotze’s grandson Treol shimmied up a mast, hand-over-hand like the fingercats in the Norvern Wildes of Monoea, and scanned the seas.
Draken called out, “Any of you know the Sea Swallow? Her owner? Her Akhanar?”
The sailors gathered on deck to see the wreckage. They shook their heads and mumbled denial. More than a couple sliced their forearms with a blade and let blood drip to the water, the Brînish offering to the gods in prayer their own ship remain safe. Tyrolean tossed coins into the sea.
“Not another ship in sight, Captain,” Treol said, leaping from the lowest mast onto bare feet that thudded against the deck like hard boots. He took an awkward knee before Draken and kept his gaze somewhere around his stomach. “No living neither. Bodies are floating and seasharks are circling to the starboard and there’s a big red-brown mark on the aftdeck.”
“A mark?” Draken frowned and glanced up at the mast, wondering if he should go up to see it.
“It’s a Brînian ship. See? Just there,” Setia said as they sailed around the fore of the ship. The coiled snake banner of Brîn hung limp and torn from the rail. Her little hands clutched the rope rail.
“So you think Monoeans did this?” Tyrolean’s sharp dark eyes missed nothing.
“Or pirates,” Draken said. As they floated past the ship, a body emerged among the wreckage., It drifted face-down, arms and long hair wavering in the sea like bay grass. The bottom half of it was gone. Draken couldn’t tell the race but the hair wasn’t in locks.
“Never heard of a pirate who likes to leave evidence,” Joran said, slipping a gaze at Draken.
“You would know,” Aarinnaie said stiffly.
Joran tightened, but he said nothing.
“Aarinnaie,” Draken said. “Joran is no pirate. Apologize.”
She shoved a strand of hair from her face. “I won’t. My royal brother had to buy your loyalty. You did nothing as Ghotze tried to kill him.”
Her bottom lip pouted and her eyes widened. Draken sighed. It was probably the last thing some people had ever seen, that deceptively appealing, innocent look.
“Enough, Aarin,” he said.
Aarinnaie shot him a glare, but she quieted.
“Shall I see the Szirin to your cabin, Khel Szi?” Joran asked politely as another body floated by. “I fear this will be ugly before it’s done. Perhaps it’s not for a female’s, ah, gentler sensibilities.”
Aarinniae released a frustrated growl. Draken held her gaze and shook his head very slightly. No wonder she kept away from court. She couldn’t manage the least verbal sparring without lashing out. But he liked Joran so he kept his tone mild. “My sister doesn’t have the usual gentle female sensibilities, Akhanar. It won’t be necessary, thanks. Besides, I value her counsel.”
To his credit, Joran hid his surprise well. He said nothing else. Draken’s respect for his new ship captain notched up again.
“Some Monoeans know the Khel Szi would come this way,” Aarinnaie said. “That ship captain, and her crew; the other ships. Do you think they killed all these people?”
“It’s possible.” His voice was quiet, no air behind it.
“To what end?” Tyrolean asked.
To start war in earnest? “I don’t know. But I’m going over there and finding out. Joran, drop the skiff.”
#
The Sea Swallow had taken enough water she listed sharply. Climbing aboard from his skiff was a simple matter; the rope railings were only an arms-length away from the surface of the sea. He hauled himself up, muscles straining, and got his good knee under him. The other one bore his weight grudgingly. He hung onto the rail behind him and stared at the sloping deck. It was like any ship he’d ever been on, except for the rigging echoing in the silent death.
He heard dripping and climbing on his swordhand side; he glanced over. “Aarin!”
She pulled herself up, unsmiling. Her sheer undershift clung to her slight body. He could make out her ribs, her small, high breasts, the muscles in her shoulders. He averted his eyes.
“Are you capable of saying my name without sounding disapproving?” she asked.
“That was foolish to swim. There are biters in the water.”
“They’re busy with the dead. Besides, you need me,” she said. “You value my counsel. Remember, my brother? My Prince?”
“Curse you, girl.”
Draken walked up the shifting, sloping deck—well, hobbled. Damned knee. He aimed a brief scowl at the great stretch of blue sky, though the gods were sleeping. The healing magic that failed to mend his old injuries must be a reminder that he was ever the gods’ tool: something to be kept sharp but always reliant on their goodwill. Beyond, smoke dissipated from a fire trough at the stern. The coals were burning down but ash nearly overflowed it. The wood stacked nearby was nearly gone. Someone had set a great fire to get attention with the smoke. Sea breezes dragged at the ash, spinning it to winddevils over the waves.
He climbed the few steps to the aft deck and stared at the sigil painted on the wood. The fresh sea breeze couldn’t clear away the rotting smell of blood. The sigil was as wide as a man’s height. Hand prints smeared the area around it. There was a big smear to the rail, as if a body had been dragged and tossed over. He thought of someone dipping their palm into hot blood pumping from a fresh wound, dragging it across the deck with purpose. He had seen enough horrors in war to forgo queasiness. But this …
“The boy spoke true. It is the Khisson House brand,” Aarinnaie said.
Draken strove hard for indifference and failed, his jaw gritted. Aarinnaie held onto a mast and stared at him with dark eyes.
“It’s a bloody fucking waste,” he said, a low snarl. He glared at his sister. The assassin. The killer. The one who had once scoffed at the deaths of Akrasians and berated Joran for loyalty. “Do you see now what death is? Do you see how ugly, how careless? Blood runs red whether you’re a friend or enemy. Bodies stink, no matter who you were. Whether you’re Akrasian or Monoean or Brînian. King or slave. We all rot in the end.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I know.”
He turned his back on her and limped down the small flight to the cabins, bracing himself against the wall to manage the sloping deck. She didn’t follow.
The captain, who bore the shipsmark on his tunic, sprawled in his cabin. He’d fought but obviously been killed handily. They’d left him dead with his sword in hand. Deep slashes crisscrossed his throat and chest and face.
“Khel Szi?” Soft, meek. “There’s something you should see in the hold.” Still furious over the waste of life it had taken to draw the bloody sigil, Draken strode back, his bare feet falling hard and uneven on the sloped deck. Aarin-naie stood by the hatch, body stiff under her clinging, wet shift. She gripped the hatch so fiercely the flesh of her wrists strained against the knife sheaths strapped to them. She met Draken’s gaze with stricken eyes, blinked rapidly.
Over on the Bane, Tyrolean remained on deck, still at the rail, watching.
The stink of death was stronger, drifting up in overpowering wafts. He steeled himself and went down a few ladder rungs. The smell thickened immediately, a gut-wrenching cocktail of bowel, sweat, blood, stale seawater, and burned flesh. Waves lapped the doomed hull. Chains clinked, muffled. The ship gurgled as it took on more water.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light faster than his mind adjusted to what he was seeing. The dulled edges of the forest took on the blunt sharpness of trees. Bodies. Everywhere. Packed tightly. Limp. Still.
Fatal visages ran from grim acceptance to terror. Blue eyes splayed nearly as wide as g
uts and throats. Blond hair splotched with black. Tanned skin now struck white, drained of blood. Fine woolen and silks stained crimson and brown.
The bodies didn’t float in the stained water. Chains held them down.
Someone had walked among them and murdered them all.
He shifted, and his shadow with it. Sun lit a face … one he knew. She had been the wife of one of the Black Guards beneath him. Laryson, that was their name. He peered around and found the Guard. His head lolled, nearly severed from his neck.
It was several heartbeats to remember to breathe. Then he regretted drawing in another lungful of death stench. He started up the ladder quickly, stumbling over his bad knee, and then paused and climbed back down. Holding his breath, he reached into the brackish, boot-high water to grasp a cold, wet hand, and then another. No brands to match his. These were no criminals. But their clothing was fine. Minors, at least. Military. Maybe some Landed.
He had muck up to his elbows. Stained, oily, stinking seawater. He climbed back up, found the rain barrel, and thrust his branded hands in to clean them.
Aarinnaie watched him, one hand over her nose and mouth. It didn’t muffle the edge of hysteria in her voice. “Were they all banished? Are they all criminals? There are so many. It can’t be possible, can it?”
He shook his head slowly, willing himself to hold down the bile, to straighten his back, to shove the imagery from his mind. Blessed, habitual numbness settled in. But he’d never escape the memory of the stink. Those bodies could never be unseen again.
“Not criminals.” At her frown, he added, “Military. Black Guards. Nobility.”
She lowered her hand, clenching it. “This is a Brînian ship. Did our people do this?”
Draken wanted to dive into the sea and swim as deep and hard as he could, away. “There’ll be fire-oil aboard. In the galley. Or on the aft deck for defense. Earthen jugs. Find it.”
She stared a moment more before she went to find a jug and drag it back to him. He sent her after more and they slopped the acrid oil onto the deck and over the course sails before escaping into their skiff.
Despite its inevitable sinking, Draken wanted, needed the Sea Swallow to burn. He needed all evidence of the horror destroyed. At the moment he couldn’t even think why, he just knew the truth of need in his bones. He threw his shoulders into rowing. Sea spray soaked them; a fine wind was picking up. After drying off, dressing in fresh clothes, and drinking warmed wine pressed into his hand by the well-meaning galleymate, he went to the cabin and found his bow. Back on the aft deck, as Brimlud steered them away, Draken lit arrow after arrow from the fire basin. For a little, the familiar bow in his hand was all he knew. Draw, release, the reassuring thup of the string against his wrist bracer. The deck and limp sails of the Sea Swallow caught. He shot until they were out of range. He watched the wreckage disappear into smoke and sea as they sailed away. Osias watched as well, wrapped in his white cloak, the wind tugging at his braids. He hadn’t been talking much in the past days, as if he already knew the horrors floating on these waters, and those just ahead, in Monoea.
Tyrolean joined him at the rail. “Fine shooting, Your Highness.”
Draken didn’t answer, but he couldn’t deny the relief of having a bow in his hand again, especially combined with the sensation of waves rolling under his feet. It gave him the reassuring sense of being a single stone mortared into a wall, rather than the keystone. This is who I am, he thought. A Monoean half-blood slave. A bowman. Night Lord. Khel Szi. If I die for it, so it be.
Tyrolean tried again. “Your sister is resting.”
He relented without softening his stature. “Good.”
Aarinnaie had made herself scarce, climbing up to the deck and letting Tyrolean wrap her in a cloak, obviously shaken by the carnage she’d seen. Draken didn’t have it in him to comfort her. His mind was still wrangling with the possible costs. His life, most certainly. And maybe the others with him.
Gods protect them. Forget me. Protect my sister. My friends. These men.
This time he didn’t have to try not to curse the gods as he prayed. He drew the sharp edge of an arrow across the back of his hand and let his blood fall into the sea. An offering to Korde. To Khellian. It was a bald-faced plea.
“Did you learn anything of use?” Tyrolean asked when he was through.
Draken grunted. Stared a few breaths longer. “The hold was full of Monoeans. Officers and nobles. Dead, all of them.”
“Pirates—?”
“No.”
Silence. “Who would do such a thing then?”
“Yramantha,” Draken said.
Osias had shaken himself out of his reverie and joined them at the rail. “I think it must be. But I do not know why.”
Tyrolean shook his head. “I don’t know that we can make that conclusion. It’s a big ocean. It could be anyone—”
“The sigil is the same Yramantha wore. The same as House Khisson. She knew I was coming this way. She’s baring her teeth.”
Tyrolean’s hesitation told Draken the news had penetrated the stoic Captain. “How many?”
“Two hundred. Three. No brands. I checked.” Draken’s hands tightened on the rail. His own brands stood out from his skin in sharp relief, the scars pale, mottled, ugly. “They weren’t criminals. They weren’t slaves, or prisoners of war. They were a message from Yramantha for me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Come now, brother. Stand still. Nearly finished.”
Draken shifted as Aarinniae inked a stern, stylized Khellian’s mask in white and red on Draken’s face. She cursed and reached up with a wet rag to redo the section he’d made her smear.
His black trousers were the loose, sashed sort. Seaborn was strapped to his waist and thigh by an embroidered leather belt. Thick moonwrought cuffs wrapped his wrists rather than his typical leather bracers, and over it all, the cloak given him by Elena: black wool adorned with two green stripes over each shoulder designating his Akrasian rank as Night Lord. A proper Brînian Szi would only wear boots in snow or if on a long journey, never into someone’s home or to court. Despite the cold, Draken was bare-chested and barefoot, though he’d drawn the line at toe rings.
Aarinnaie reached up with the drawing stick and inked another narrow scroll onto on Draken’s cheek. She squinted up at him, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, filled in a line beneath the moonwrought circlet on his brow, and stepped back.
“There. Quite stern and noble. The gods should be pleased.”
“Would you know it’s me? I’d like to buy a little time.”
Aarinnaie shook her head, brow wrinkled, looking worried. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
He turned his head as he felt the ship bump one of the huge outer docks anchored to the floor of Sister Bay. An ornate barge waited to pick them up and take them ashore. He’d seen it as they’d entered the harbor, which showed Yramantha had passed along the news of his arrival. But it had been two agonizing days of messaging across the harbor before they could settle on arrangements for his presentation to King Aissyth and Queen Bolaire. Somehow in the past Sohalia he’d forgotten how long Monoeans took to sort such things. He’d hoped the knots in his stomach would loosen once he was preparing to go ashore, but they were only worse. He couldn’t keep his mind from jittering along the bumpy, shaded path to his death. Soon, he told himself. Surely it would be soon.
Aarinnaie’s gown covered her throat to heel, though the fabric clung to her curves. Father, no doubt, had told her everything she should know about Monoea and proper etiquette. Once she had a cloak on, she’d be more than suitable. Released from the braids and thoroughly washed, her dark hair hung in miraculously sorted ringlets. Not proper to wear it loose in Monoea, but it would be in Brîn. Draken felt no little pride in her.
Curse the Seven that brought them to this moment, and all who had hurt his sister. She’d seen enough pain in her short life. She depended on him now and she might just lose him h
ere. Watching his head get separated from his shoulders could be her undoing. Perhaps King Aissyth could be persuaded to execute him in private.
He touched her arm. “If it comes to violence, I’m certain King Aissyth won’t harm you.”
“He should be more afraid of me than I am of him.” She straightened her back. “We should go.”
“Wait. I want to ask a favor.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“If they kill me, do not harm them. I’m here to avert war, Aarin, not make it.”
“That sounds like an order, not a favor.”
“Whichever will make you agree.”
“Revenge appeases the lord god Khellian,” she said. “Patron of our House.”
“War would be a poor way to honor my memory. And I need you to go home, to explain to Elena. Let her hate me if she will. But don’t let her start a war over my death. I’m not worth it.”
She bit her lip, studying his inked face. “Where did you live? With your wife?”
“In Ashwyc City, near the palace.”
“So you know them all.”
“And they know me.”
“You think they will execute you.”
He was certain of it. “I don’t know,” he said gently.
“You have this ship. The men are yours to command. You could have gone anywhere. To any country. To Felspirn or Dokklok or the Filmun Straights. Anywhere else would have been safe. Instead you chose to come here.”
Those places were further than the end of the world, far enough to be mythic.
“They threatened to kill Elena if I did not come.”
“And Elena would have killed you had she learned who you are.”
She knows who I am, Draken thought. Just not what I am. “And maybe she’d kill our child, as well. Or someone else might. Elena doesn’t need my blood on her hands. This was my best chance to spare her.” To save her, he almost could hear the ghostly voice of Bruche admonishing him. He sighed and said feebly, “They’re waiting.”
She blinked, a string of rapid movements. “I will do as you ask and forgo revenge.”
Emissary Page 17
