"Is it contagious?"
She looked down, thinking. "Sometimes it takes people who haven't been near the cliffs, but I think that's when winds and rain flushes the tainted ground into the air or streams. I've never seen anyone tending to the sick fall ill as well."
"And do you know of any potential cures? Even anything to treat the symptoms?"
"There is another option." Winden stared down the mountain slopes to where the sky met the sea. "A plant. It is known to sometimes reverse the wasting sickness."
Dante gawked at her. "Let me get this straight. There is a cure. Right here on the island. But instead of going and getting it yourselves, you thought it was a better idea to send a team of people on a journey of over two thousand miles—a journey that cost them their lives—to fetch me. And as it turns out, I'm completely useless."
"The cure? It kills the one who takes it as often as it works. Also, getting to it is very dangerous. Can cost more lives than it saves." Winden met his stare. "As for the idea to find you. It wasn't mine. It was his. Make of this what you will."
"No need. I'll ask him myself."
He went back inside. On the pallet, Larsin's eyes were closed, but as Dante approached, he blinked them open, smiling sadly. "It didn't work, did it?"
"I can't help you."
The older man nodded, sinking back into his blankets. "Thanks for trying. It was a big ask."
Dante stood over him. "Do you have anything to say to me?"
"Could I say anything that mattered?"
"I doubt it."
"I don't expect your forgiveness," Larsin said. "I just wanted to see you one last time."
"Selfish to the end."
"I wonder how far the apple has fallen."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Larsin grimaced, working his way up to his elbows. "I left you with a friend. Someone I trusted. Didn't mean to stay gone—just to fill my pockets with enough silver to see you never went hungry. But life takes its own turns. When I got here, I found I couldn't leave."
"Oh, I've heard. Winden says you're a man of high influence on this island. I'm sure you found it very difficult to give up the first prestige you'd ever found in life."
"You asking why I left you only to help them instead?"
"I wonder why I should care."
"You shouldn't. I made my choice to help these people fight for what was theirs. I knew what it would cost me."
Dante ran a hand over his stubble. "What was happening here that these people couldn't handle themselves?"
"The Tauren. Twenty years ago, they were on the verge of enslaving the entire island. Nasty people—they leave their newborns on the slopes for three days to see if they're strong enough to deserve life. Imagine how they treat their enemies." Tired out by so much talk, Larsin rested his head on his blankets. "I convinced the captain of our ship to reopen trade. We brought these people the steel to fight back. Forced the Tauren all the way back to their tower."
"But they're here again. Did they resume their attacks once you grew sick?"
His father shook his head. "The raids started up again two years ago. I discovered our old alliances had decayed too far. I might have been able to revive them, but the sickness stole my strength away. And the Tauren grow stronger by the day."
Dante nodded. When the man said nothing more, he walked outside. Blays stood outside the entrance.
"How much did you hear?" Dante said.
"None. And your insinuation is shocking."
"I can't help him. But Winden says there's something that might help. A plant. Sounds like it will involve travel and personal risk."
"Hmm."
"Hmm what?"
"'Hmm' as in 'I have no opinion what you should do, so consider this grunt my acknowledgement that I was listening.'"
Dante raised a brow. "You're not going to tell me exactly what I should do? I thought that was the basis of our entire friendship."
"You came here," Blays said. "That was the goal."
"Without you spouting moral imperatives at my every decision, I'm like a ship without a rudder." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Thirteen days until the Sword of the South carries us away. I suppose we might as well try to do some good." He glanced back at the temple. "Besides, I have no intention of sticking around here with him."
Winden was nowhere in sight, but a rapping noise pinpointed her spot in the jungle. Dante found her smashing roots with an iron-banded stick.
"This plant of yours," he said. "Let's go find it."
She wiped her hands on a rag, expression the brightest it had been all day. "To town. We will need supplies."
She jogged to the temple, returning a minute later and heading down the pathway toward the bay.
Blays glanced back up the trail. "Who looks after him when you're not here?"
"There are others in Kandak. The town. One will go if asked."
"Who is he to you, anyway?" Dante said.
An unreadable emotion crossed her face and swiftly disappeared. "When I was very young, he saved my life."
"From what?" Blays said. "The raiders?"
"Yes."
She didn't seem inclined to explain further. Dante walked into a cobweb and batted at his own face. "This plant of yours. What makes it so treacherous to get?"
"It only grows near the Tauren's tower. To get there, we will need to cross the Dreaming Peaks. We will have to bring shells for the Dreamers."
"Naturally," Blays muttered.
Her smile was faint, but compared to her normal flintiness, it gleamed like the seas below. "Your land. Does it make sense to outsiders?"
"Certainly," Dante said. "If only because people have heard of it beforehand. There's virtually nothing known in Mallon about the Plagued Islands, but long ago, trade between them wasn't uncommon. What changed?"
Her smile vanished. "Mallon got greedy."
"That would be historically consistent."
"Do you know of the swappers?"
"The islets where you trade goods."
"That was always how we made our deals. Hundreds of years ago, after decades of trading with them, Mallish merchants asked to see our island for themselves. We let them in. We showed them. They left. When they came back? It was with a great fleet."
"They were mapping the place," Blays said. "Checking out what was worth stealing."
Winden swung her heavy-bladed knife through a thorny twig that had grown across the trail in the last day. "And where our defenses lay. They arrived. Invaded. Attacked us with steel. Their treachery, it wasn't enough. We burned their ships. Trapped them on our shores. The fighting, this took months. At the end, every last Mallish man was killed. After? They called the islands 'Plagued.' And trade came to an end."
"We should compare notes. One time, they tried to hang me."
Dante stepped over an oily puddle. "Considering the bad blood, you speak Mallish very well."
"That's your father's work. He came from Mallon. He brought others with him and he knew there would be more. He thought teaching us their language would make them respect us."
"Did it work?"
She thought. "No. But it has made it easier to see through their lies."
At the rope bridge, Blays crossed without complaint. Other than a few mud holes and slick spots, the remainder of the descent was no trouble, and they soon overlooked Kandak. At first, Dante thought the fires were still burning, but this turned out to be nothing more than the steam of the hot springs right outside town.
From above, he saw several black stone structures all but reclaimed by the jungle, hidden within the crush of foliage. Within the city proper, others were placed with no rhyme or reason, even though they were obviously expensive, and should have been clustered in wealthy neighborhoods, or centers of prayer or business. In fact, something about Kandak reminded him of the city of Narashtovik prior to its renaissance: a shadow of itself, a monument to an age of glory long gone.
As they neared the settlement, two men with s
pears materialized from the brush. Recognizing Winden, they relaxed, settling their spears on their shoulders and launching into what proved to be a lengthy conversation.
"This is driving me crazy," Blays said. "I swear I recognize some of those words."
"Mallish, right? From the traders." Dante flicked a fly off his forearm. "Bet that would make it much easier to learn. Want to try?"
"Gods, no! Learning Gaskan was torture enough. Besides, if I learned to speak Taurish, then you'd expect me to learn how to write it."
The sentries padded off on foot. Dante realized he hadn't seen a single horse or beast of burden since coming to the island.
Winden continued forward, looking preoccupied. "We have a problem. We don't have enough shells."
"Then I have some very good news," Blays said. "It turns out you live on an ocean."
"Shaden shells. The raiders, that's what they came for. We'll need them to pass through the Dreaming Peaks."
Dante cocked his head. "These are currency?"
"To dream, they eat a certain plant. The plant is poison. The antidote is the shaden."
"And these are difficult to obtain?"
"Very."
"Here's an idea," Blays said. "We get a boat. Then use this ocean of yours to sail around the peaks to wherever the hell the plant we need grows."
Winden favored him with a sour look. "The Current would destroy us. And it's too strong to paddle back against. Even if the boats made it down, we'd have to travel overland to return."
"So how do we get these shaden of yours?"
"This matter? Leave it to me."
In Kandak, men drew wagons down the streets, the beds heavy with lengths of the knobby, bamboo-like wood. Stone-headed hammers clonked against wood—women were bashing down burned timbers from houses damaged in the raid while men loaded the rubble into wheelbarrows and carted it away. The air smelled like baked shellfish, roasted fruit, and the root paste they'd eaten at the temple. On their way to the shore, they passed several people carrying baskets of food to those cleaning up the mess.
Soft waves rolled up the sand. The bay was even busier than the cleanup. While men hauled in nets of fish, clams, and mussels, women sanded down wide-bodied canoes. A crew of men struggled with an iron anchor, wrestling it into a waiting canoe that looked far too small to need such a weight. Presumably, it was to stand against the Currents.
Nearby, a thatched roof was suspended between four tall posts, providing shade for sailors and fishers who needed a break. Winden brought them beneath it. "Here. Stay."
She walked down the sand without another word. Blays watched her go. "She's lucky I'm housebroken."
They plunked down on a bench of red hardwood. The townsfolk glanced at them, then went back to their work. A man scraping the bones of some large mammal looked their way repeatedly. Like many of the men, his head was shaved. He was in his mid-twenties and he had a mean scar on his throat. After some vigorous carving and sanding, he rinsed his hands in the surf, then padded into the shade of the thatch.
"Mallon?" His accent was much thicker than Winden's.
"Sort of," Blays said.
The man frowned. "Sort of?"
"By birth," Dante said. "Not by choice."
"You're here. Why?"
Dante glanced down the shore, but there was no sign of Winden. "We're going on a journey. We need shaden."
The man's face brightened. "Shaden? I have shaden."
"Larsin Galand," Blays said. "Do you know him?"
"Yes. A great man."
"Yeah, but I hear his son is a lackwit, unable to lace his own boots. Anyway, we're here to help Mr. Galand. Any shaden you can spare us would be of great assistance."
The man shook his head. "No gift. Will trade." He tapped the scabbard on Blays' right hip. "Steel?"
Blays drew the straight-bladed sword, turning it side to side. "This was my father's. I wouldn't trade it for all the shaden in the sea."
"Ah." He pointed at Dante's sheath. "Yours? Also from your father?"
Blays burst out laughing. Dante couldn't help smiling. "My father's still asking favors of me. But I can't trade my sword, either. I find myself needing it too often."
"So the swords are a no," Blays said. "Fortunately, I brought some travel-sized models as well." He tugged up the leg of his trouser and produced a knife with a nine-inch blade. He held it out to the young man. "How many shaden is this worth to you?"
The man took the blade and flicked its edge. After some fiddling and prodding, he held the knife to his ear, gazing out to sea.
"Its song is…" He waggled his hand side to side. "For this. two shaden."
Blays gave Dante a look, which Dante quickly sorted from the catalogue of Blays Looks. This one was skeptical, but not overly so, with a softness to the eyes indicating mild enthusiasm, and a crook of the mouth showing self-aware amusement. If Dante was interpreting it correctly, Blays thought the man was trying to take advantage of them, but not in a spectacularly outrageous way. Furthermore, Blays seemed to be indicating that even if they did get screwed, it wouldn't be a big deal. Presumably because it was only a knife.
Of course, they could have had this exchange in Gaskan and their ostensible trade partner would have been none the wiser. But that would have made them look shifty.
"Two?" Blays said. "I can't part with this knife for less than Four."
"Not four. This knife, it doesn't sing. It…" The man gestured, searching for a word, then he began to hum.
"It doesn't hum! It sings like a soprano in the Odeleon of Bressel. Four."
He sighed through his nose. "Three. No more."
Blays crossed his arms, brows bent, then nodded. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this robbery. Fine. Three it is."
The man hesitated, then nodded. "Get shaden. Wait."
He loped off. Dante watched him go. "We're sure that was a good deal?"
"He agreed. So probably not. But it's only a knife."
"And you probably have nineteen more of them on the left side of your body alone."
Blays shifted on the bench. "Let's just say you wouldn't want to hug me."
Within two minutes, the man with the scarred throat returned bearing a small sack made of pale leather. He loosened the drawstring and withdrew a black shell. It spiraled tightly, small spikes sticking from its curls.
"Shaden," the man said. "Very good."
Blays took it and made a show of inspecting it, hefting it in his palm, then stepping into the sun and holding it up to the light. "Bit small, don't you think?"
"No. Very good."
He showed them the other two. They smelled very faintly of old rot. They seemed to be intact. Dante took one down to the water, approached a woman tending a net, and after a brief, gesture-filled talk, confirmed it was a shaden. He returned to Blays and the scarred man and they exchanged goods. The man smiled, bowed, and walked off, jabbing his new knife at the air.
He'd hardly been gone five minutes when a young woman joined them in the shade. Sun-blond strands streaked her light brown hair, which was braided in tight plaits and tied behind her head.
"Shaden?" she said.
Blays rose with a smile. "We're happy to trade. What've you got and what would you like?"
Over the course of a lengthy haggling session, she convinced Dante to part with his belt (which had a large silver buckle and steel studs) in exchange for two shells. The bartering drew a small crowd, several of whom were also looking to swap. By the time Winden walked up the sand toward them, they had collected thirteen shaden.
She eyeballed the lingering townsfolk. "What is going on here?"
"We're making your life easier." Blays lifted the two pale sacks of shaden, jingling them. "Thirteen shells."
"You got shaden?" She grabbed one of the sacks and plucked out a shell. She lifted it and stared into its hollow mouth. "How?"
"This isn't our first time in foreign lands. We know how to get around."
"You fools. These shells. They'r
e worthless."
"But they're shaden," Dante said. "I made sure of it."
She tossed the shell at his chest. "These are shaden shells. The Dreamers, they need the meat."
Blays' mouth fell open. "I don't mean to alarm you. But it appears you live amongst a society of thieves."
Dante glared at the townsfolk, who'd begun retreating rapidly. "We traded for these. You have to get our goods back. I traded my belt."
"And my third-favorite knife!"
"This is not possible," Winden said.
"But they cheated us," Dante said. "Look, they're right over there."
She shook her head sharply. "This is not cheating. This is tonen. The Sweet Lie."
"The Sweet Lie?" Blays said.
"The lie that tastes better than truth. You swallowed it. So you are to blame for what comes after."
"Well, that's rude. No wonder no one likes to come visit you all."
"In your land, you always tell the truth?"
"Sure. Except to our magistrates, tax collectors, and in-laws. But when it comes to trading—particularly with people who are trying to help us—there's a certain expectation of not skinning each other alive."
"The truth is whatever tastes best," she said. "If you prefer a lie, it would be cruel to give you something bitter. This is how it is done."
Dante muttered a curse. "You might have told us that."
"I told you to wait. Not to trade."
"At the very least, you have to admit it's confusing to refer to shaden as 'shells' when it's what's inside the shells that matters."
"Everyone knows what is meant by this." She sighed in annoyance. "I have more left to do. Try not to get skinned again."
She stalked away. Dante gave Blays a look.
"Like this is my fault?" Blays dropped back to the bench. "You were so eager to deal I'm surprised you didn't trade them one of your balls."
"I think they got those anyway."
Blays gazed out at the people hauling nets, launching boats, and slicing up mussels. "They may be filthy, thieving liars. But they sure are hard workers."
"Don't observe their honest labor directly, your mind will be overcome by its strangeness." The waves washed the shore. A breeze blew past them, ruffling the ragged leaves of the roof. "You know, I'd like to be angry about this. But it's just too damn nice out."
The Red Sea Page 7
