The Red Sea

by Edward W. Robertson

  Blays wandered off, ending their talk. After a minute of watching the ocean, Dante began to suspect Blays' departure was actually a fiendishly calculated maneuver to get Dante to continue the discussion in his own head. After how he'd been lied to by his father, Winden, and basically every islander he'd encountered, he was inclined to leave them to their fate. But that was the spite talking, wasn't it? No matter how wretched the Kandeans might be, the Tauren were far worse.

  So what to do about the Tauren and their Mallish co-conspirators? Goaded onward by the whips of history and fear, Mallish aggression toward the islands had been precipitated, at least in part, by Dante's rebellion against Gask. If he could boot the interlopers out with a word and a wave of his hand, he'd surely do so. Which meant it wasn't a matter of whether he thought the Mallish should be tossed out—but rather, of how much risk he was willing to absorb to make that so.

  He was still thinking of ways to do so without implicating Narashtovik when Benny returned in the company of another sailor. While Benny was middle-aged, thick-browed, and gangly, the crewman beside him looked boyish despite a thick beard, and had the paunch which, on a man as young as himself, suggested he no longer cared. He wore a distant-eyed, taciturn expression that looked more suitable for the solitude of a mountain cave than the cramped quarters of a ship at sea.

  "This is Juleson," Benny said. "But you can call him Julie Boy."

  "Don't call me Julie Boy." Juleson shifted his feet. "Benny tells me you're off to see Larsin Galand."

  "That's right," Dante said. "I'd like to hear what he's like, if you would."

  The bearded man squinted. "You're not a close friend of his, then?"

  He snorted. "You might say that."

  "Good thing. Because Larsin Galand's been dead for nearly a year."

  15

  Dante cocked his head, examining Juleson's face for signs of a joke. "You must be mistaken. That's impossible."

  Juleson didn't waver. "Not two hours ago, Benny here's leg was as floppy as his yard. You went and made it good as new. For all I know, you cured his willy, too. There's magic in the world, sir. You practice it. Yet you want to tell me it's impossible that a man could fall victim to something as common as death?"

  "Correct. Because I saw Larsin in the flesh not three weeks ago."

  He laughed. "No you didn't."

  "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "Not necessarily. You could be stu—"

  Benny socked Juleson in the shoulder. "Shut your gob, fool. Without this man, my sailing days would be over. Tell him what you know or I'll use you to bait the crab traps."

  Juleson stared at him, unswayed, then sighed through his nose and shifted his gaze back to Dante. "One trip here, we made a deal out on one of the swappers. Had everything all squared away with the Kandeans. When it came time to pick up our share, though, Naran discovered the islanders had set out the wrong kind of spice. So he wrote up a note and sent me ashore. I was the newest of the crew, you see. Expendable in case I caught plague. When I came back, though, I thanked him. Because while I was ashore, I met Nassea. My dark-haired beauty."

  He smiled to himself. For all his world-weary airs, Juleson seemed eager to unlimber his story. "After that, whenever we came through, I came ashore. To be with Nassea. At the start, this wasn't easy. We had strict schedules, and I don't know how much you know about the islands, but they don't look fondly on foreigners."

  "Rixen," Dante said.

  "That's right. Well, I didn't give a damn for what they thought of me. All I cared about was my girl. If they'd asked me to, I would have swam the Current all the way from Kandak to Arawn's Mill. Not the one in the sea, either—I'm talking the one in the sky."

  "I have no doubt as to your devotion to dark-haired Nassea."

  "My apologies for rambling, I didn't realize you were in such a hurry to swim on ahead." Juleson aimed a pointed look at the featureless ocean that surrounded them. "Now, Larsin Galand was once rixen himself, and so they'd assigned him as master of rixen affairs. That meant I had to spend a good long time with him. At first, to explain my intentions. Second, to prove I was worth the hassle. Third, after I had proven myself, to check in and make sure I wasn't causing no trouble.

  "We went on like this for almost three years. Every time we came through, I got to see my Nassea, if only for a few hours. When the Sword of the South wasn't scheduled to go to the islands, Captain Twill let me crew on a ship that was. Sometimes, when the South visited with the intention to return soon, I stayed ashore while it was gone. Not long enough to catch sickness, mind—no more than a few days at a time."

  During his recollection of these times, warmth had entered his eyes. He'd even smiled. Now, though, his face became as cold as the crags north of Narashtovik. "Ten months back, we swung through the islands. Normal trip. But when I went ashore, they stopped me right on the sand. Said all rixen were forbidden. I told them I knew Larsin. They didn't care. I tried to storm past them. Would have gotten into a right brawl if Nassea hadn't showed up to explain. She told me Larsin was dead. That a fellow named Niles Ardner had taken over his role. And that he'd kicked all foreigners off the islands.

  "I asked her to come with me. Begged, more like. She said she couldn't leave her family. And that was the last time I ever saw her." He blinked, focusing his mile-off stare on Dante. "That's how I knew Larsin Galand. And that's how I know he's dead."

  "Not to be indelicate," Dante said. "But these people lie more than a six-year-old thief. You're sure they were telling you the truth?"

  "Got another explanation?"

  "None that would be polite. But it occurs to me the young woman might have decided she no longer relished your company, and employed this excuse as a way to spare your feelings."

  Juleson chuckled darkly. "You almost made that sound like it's not an insult. You claim you've met Larsin Galand. So what's he look like?"

  "Black hair streaked white. Dirty gray beard. Blue eyes, like mine. Bit hefty."

  "You've just described a million different men who're getting old but ain't yet elderly. This one, were his earlobes stuck fast to the side of his head? Or did they hang freely, like yours?"

  "I can't say I noticed."

  "Then here's an easier one. Did he have a scar right here, up past his hairline? Where no hair grows?"

  "That's right."

  "There you go," Juleson gestured. "That's Niles Ardner."

  If Dante hadn't already been hanging onto a nearby rope to combat the pitch of the ship, he might have fallen over. "Do you know what happened to Larsin?"

  "Died campaigning against the Tauren. Sounds to me like Niles has been impersonating him, eh? Now why would he do a thing like that?"

  "You'd know better than I."

  Juleson combed his fingers through his beard. "They look close enough to pass, if all you knew was what you've heard of them. Crewed together in days of yore. Came to the islands together. Niles was a natural replacement. Wouldn't have any idea why they'd want him to pretend to be Larsin, though." The sailor gave a bitter little laugh. "Like you said, though, they treat lying like an art. Maybe they just wanted him to keep his skills honed."

  He turned to go. Dante grabbed his short sleeve. "What was he like? The Larsin you knew?"

  "What's it matter now?"

  "I'm no rixen. I'm now rixaka, and can come and go as I please. Tell me about Larsin, and I'll tell Nassea anything you want me to."

  "Don't know what else I'd have to say to her." Juleson sucked on his teeth. "Then again, I've run my idiot mouth so much here, what's another minute? Larsin was a funny guy. Not like puppet show funny, although now and then he'd come at you with a line sharp enough to gut you. But funny like playing with a sword. Handle yourself correctly, and he'd be right friendly. No harm would come to you." He grinned. "The second you slipped up, though? He'd cut off your hand without a blink."

  "He must have had some sense of justice," Dante said. "The way most of them talk about rixen, they would never hav
e let you onto the island. No matter how benign your motives may have been."

  "That's what I'm saying. He always treated me fair. From what I hear, he was a hell of a leader, too. Back in the day, he brought everyone together to fight down the Tauren. The alliance might not have been enough on its own, but he pulled off some neat maneuvers at sea. Not easy, given the Currents."

  Dante was ready to ask for more, but at once, there didn't seem to be any point. Like Juleson had said, Larsin was gone. So what did it matter what kind of man he'd been?

  Besides that—if Dante stayed in public much longer, he was liable to hurt someone.

  "Thank you," he said as levelly as he could. "What would you like me to tell Nassea?"

  Juleson sniffed. "Tell her 'Hello.'"

  "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  Dante moved to go. This time, it was the sailor who reached out and grabbed his sleeve. "One more thing. Tell her…that I'm still here. And so is my offer."

  Dante made something close to a smile, then headed straight to his cabin. As soon as the door was closed behind him, shadows streaked to him so swiftly he thought he could hear them screaming. The entire cabin darkened in a flurry of black snow. His nerves thrummed with a harsh and punishing coldness. It would be enough to burst the cabin apart, to punch a hole in the side of the ship and take them all to the bottom.

  Breath by breath, he let it slip away.

  The knock came ten minutes later. He'd been expecting it. He didn't open his eyes. "What?"

  Blays' voice filtered through the door. "Just checking we're not all about to be sucked down to hell in a typhoon of blood."

  Dante didn't respond. The door creaked open. Blays entered and shut the door behind him.

  "At least you knocked this time," Dante said.

  "Is it true?"

  "Juleson has no incentive to lie. He spent significant time around Larsin. And his temperament matches his story: he was kicked off the island, separated from his love, and has been embittered ever since."

  "So let me see if I've got this. The Tauren are raiding Kandak again. On a scouting mission, Larsin is killed. With the Kandeans' leader gone, along with all hope of victory, his friend Niles hatches a desperate plan: pretend to be Larsin, then lure Larsin's son—rumored to be all-powerful—to come the island to help defeat the raiders."

  "Something like that."

  "A plan which would involve getting the entire town to follow along."

  The ship rolled down a steep wave; Dante grabbed the edge of his bunk. "Is it that hard to believe?"

  "Oh, I don't think it would require the threat of invasion to convince these people to lie to us. I think they'd do it just to get themselves a second piece of pie at dinner." Blays tipped his head. "To be fair, though, I'd lie for pie, too."

  "These people are diseased. With something worse than any plague."

  "I sense some wrath coming on."

  "Niles had better pray I die of sickness before I reach the islands."

  "Are you sure you want to get into it with him?" Blays said.

  "He lied to me. Lured me to the Plagued Islands to drag me into his fight. Knowing it could take my life in the process. I'm well within my rights to claim his life is forfeit."

  "I'm not sure I disagree with you."

  "Then why are you trying to talk me out of it?"

  Blays folded his arms. "Because I'm not sure."

  "Then it's a good thing I have enough confidence for the both of us."

  "Maybe you should be glad about this."

  "My dad's dead, and his impostor's lies have caused me to become deathly ill. What on earth would I be glad about?"

  "At least it wasn't your father who tricked you."

  Dante laughed in disbelief. "I can't believe you actually found a way to make me feel better about this."

  His improved mood didn't last long. Then again, such moods never did. The day ended in gusty, chilling winds. At least it meant they'd go faster. He woke to a hollowness in his stomach. Outside, it was raining in heavy oceanic sheets. It was cold, but he stayed in the rainfall, hair plastered to his head, a temporary reprieve from the salt that constantly crusted his skin and clothes.

  The day after that, he woke to sunshine and fever. He moved about the deck in silence. He remained angry, but with no ability to act on it, his rage settled in his stomach like hot silt.

  Day by day, the air warmed until most of the crew worked shirtless, yet Dante found himself shivering. The dark specks inside him expanded inexorably. He slept in later and later. Blays began to hover about, bringing him watery tea and flaky biscuits. Dante studied the illness inside him as best he could, but it remained impenetrable to the nether. His head grew too hot and foggy to focus for more than a few minutes at a time.

  He was in his bunk; the door opened, bringing painful light. Blays said, "We're passing the Mill."

  Dante got his feet to the floor and shuffled outside, holding onto a rope or a rail at every step of the way. The funnel of gray water connected the sea to the sky. He thought he could hear it roaring, but maybe that was his heartbeat in his ears.

  The day after that, he was too weak to lift his legs out of his bunk. All he wanted to do was sleep. Quit. Close his eyes and leave them shut.

  But he had to hold on. He had to see Niles Ardner.

  Out on the deck, men shouted. Dante's eyes snapped open. He gasped, inhaling—had he stopped breathing? A fluttery strength trickled through his limbs. Outside, a blue shape stood on the horizon. The island.

  He sat on a bench at the base of the aftercastle, willing his eyes to stay open. The Sword of the South came about the slashing green cliffs of the Joladi Coast and hove into the bay at Kandak, dropping anchor just beyond where the waves broke against the reef. Blays and Benny helped him into the longboat and rowed across the turquoise waters. The tiny waves lapped at the shore with lake-like calmness. Dante stepped onto the sand.

  A handful of locals watched, their work forgotten beside them. Winden ran down the path to the beach, arms pumping. She took one look at Dante and reached for his hand.

  "The sickness," she said. "I'm so sorry."

  "Where is Larsin?"

  "Later. Right now—"

  "Tell me where Larsin is!"

  She swayed back. "This way."

  She hiked up the hill. Dante followed, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded. A pair of villagers waved from the shade where they were trimming lengths of bamboo. Winden cut right, away from the houses on their stilts. After a traipse through the jungle, they emerged into the Basket, where Larsin was examining a violet flower. Seeing Dante and Blays, he placed a hand on the small of his back and straightened, smiling sadly.

  "Wish I could say I'm happy to see you," he said. "But I know what must have brought you back so soon."

  Dante barely heard the man's words. Tottering forward, he drew his sword and swiped at the man's neck. Larsin—Niles—cried out and ducked, falling prone to the purple dirt.

  Dante raised his elbow for a downward stroke. Yet with his sword poised to strike, he found he no longer had the energy to swing it. His elbow quivered. Without warning, his legs gave out. He collapsed to his side. People were talking. They sounded concerned, but Dante didn't feel a thing.

  * * *

  Salt. Slime. In his mouth. He sputtered, coughing, sitting up. He was installed in a bed. A wind blew through the open wall, ruffling the gauzy curtain. Winden stood over him holding a wooden spoon full of chopped gray bits.

  Dante wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are you doing? Trying to finish me off?"

  "The shaden," she said. "It will help you. It already has."

  He was in a hut. Quite possibly the one he'd been granted as rixaka. Crystal blue waters shimmered beyond the other wall. He had a faint headache and his limbs were shaky, but his fever had broken.

  "The shaden will help me for a week or two," he said. "But what about a cure?"

  "A cure." Winden lowered h
er gaze, loose strands of hair undulating in the breeze. "There is bad news. There isn't one."

  He waited for the shock and outrage to arrive, but he was too exhausted. "There's no cure."

  "Nothing permanent. There is only treatment. The sickness, it's called ronone. The Damnation. We all have it. We don't know what causes it."

  "Is shaden the only thing that helps?"

  "That is why we need them so badly. We eat a little bit with most meals."

  "That explains the brackishness of the san paste. Do the snails grow anywhere else?"

  "No. There is something here that feeds them."

  "The Mill," Dante said. "But there must be some way for you to leave. The woman who came to see me in Gallador was from here. My half-sister. Unless that was another lie."

  "Her name was Riddi. If you have our water, you can carry live shaden with you, but they last no more than a few weeks."

  "That's what killed her. It wasn't the netherburn. She ran out of shaden."

  "Probably so."

  "It takes two weeks just to sail back to Bressel. The trip to Narashtovik would take nearly a month total. If the shaden only last a few weeks, I couldn't make the trip back." He found her gaze. "That means I can never go home."

  She closed her eyes. "I am so sorry."

  The curtains stirred in the wind. The hut's ceiling was high, drawing the warmer air away. Dante pulled the sheet from his body and found that he could stand.

  "I need to see Blays," he said. "And Larsin."

  "Why did you try to kill him?"

  "Blays didn't say?"

  She shook her head. "He hasn't said a word. Except to ask how you are."

  "Show me to Larsin."

  "First, promise you won't hurt him."

  "I'm stuck on this island for good," Dante said. "If I want to kill him, you won't be able to protect him forever."

  Winden pressed her lips together. "You're right. He is the one who brought you here. He will have to answer for it."

  Dante's sword stood in the corner. He picked it up and followed Winden into the daylight. As it turned out, Blays and Larsin were right there on the beach. Blays appeared relaxed, but Dante could see the alertness in his stance—he'd been watching over Larsin.