The Women and the Warlords

by Hugh Cook

  Lying within easy reach of Lorp, the Lesser Teeth traded fish and shark liver oil for wool, mutton and boatbuilding timber; with easy access to the Ravlish Lands, they traded amber and ambergris for knives, fishhooks, nails and soapstone, for Tamarian honey, Dulloway beer and the occasional cask of Renaven wine. Amongst themselves, they traded boats and land, the titles to land being based on traditional family holdings. When Yen Olass had come to Carawell, she had purchased title to Skyhaven from old Gezeldux, paying with her gold, her amber beads and her stone globe filled with stars.

  Yen Olass lived free of rates and taxes, for there was no government in the Lesser Teeth. The people were poor, but they were free -- they maintained their lives and their dignity without making any compromises whatsoever with any throne, kingdom, power or outer authority.

  This is not to say they had built themselves a paradise, for they had not; like people everywhere, they still yielded on occasion to their lesser nature, and, apart from this, living as they did where they did meant that many came to grief while fishing or sailing, so there was an uncommonly high number of widows and orphaned children on the islands.

  It also needs to be said that anyone planning to live on the Lesser Teeth would have to get used to the idea of living mainly on fish. Or shellfish.

  In the case of the household at Skyhaven, shellfish was the staple which kept life and limb together. However, Yen Olass also gathered edible seaweeds, speared flounder during nightstalks in the shallows with spear and burning brand, raised chickens, and, nourishing the sandy soil with dead seaweed and chicken manure, was endeavouring to grow vegetables -- an enterprise best described as optimistic.

  Taking her first bucket of water to the vegetable patch, which was currently lying fallow as everything had died, she poured the water into the soil. She theorized that the vegetables had died because the substratum of seaweed buried down below had failed to rot down into fertile earth.

  All over Carawell, seaweed was widely touted as the best of all possible fertilizers, but the greater part of this batch had been buried underground for rather more than a year without showing any inclination to convert itself to anything other than seaweed. On her last trip to Brennan -- when she had bought a coat of coney-fur for Monogail, and had bested old Gezeldux first at wrist-wrestling and then in a drinking match -- she had been led to understand that a liberal application of fresh water, repeated some two or three hundred times, would produce amazing results.

  She was now on day seventy-six of her watering schedule, but, digging down to inspect the seaweed, she found the sample she uncovered was still a slightly resilient mass of lubbery fronds, stout stalks and durable bobbles. Not for the first time, Yen Olass wondered if she had been had.

  With this depressing thought in mind, she stopped at one bucket, and went inside, to find that Monogail had tracked sand all though the house.

  'Monogail!’

  The problem with sand is its high mobility -- upwards, downwards and sideways. Among other things, it gets in clothes, hair, food and the bed. Living on a beach, Yen Olass was in some respects in a state of siege, with sand the constant and unrelenting enemy. 'Monogail, come here!’

  Monogail came. Yen Olass gripped her by the shoulder and looked at her. Hard. Monogail grinned a big toothy grin. She had a scratch on her cheek where Quelaquix must have tagged her, probably after getting his tail pulled, or after getting chosen as the target in a one-on-one game of whales and boats. There were tiny, tiny beads of blood oozing from the scratch.

  'What did you do?’

  T didn't touch him!’

  'Then don't do it again. Do you hear me?' 'Yes, mam.’

  'Otherwise you'll get your eyes torn out. And then what will you do?’

  Monogail had no anwser to that. 'Mam, is it teatime yet?’

  'Almost,' said Yen Olass. 'We need two eggs. You can go and get us some eggs.' 'And say hello to Straff.' 'Yes, and say hello to Straff.' 'And Alamanda.' 'Yes, and Alamanda.' 'And feed her an egg.' 'No!’

  'Not really, though. Just an onzy one.' 'Fifty onzy ones, if you like. Go along now -- it'll be dark soon.' 'Not for ages.’

  'But I have to have light to cook with.' 'Cook with light? You don't cook with light, mam.' 'You're so quick you'll step on yourself. Now go outside. And check the chiz trap while you're at it.' 'If there's a chiz--’

  'You can't have it because it'll eat the chickens. Besides, it'll be dead.’

  'Like my father,' said Monogail.

  'Yes, like your father.’

  'Did he fall in a trap?’

  'No,' said Yen Olass. 'He got old.’

  'Very very very old?’

  'No,' said Yen Olass. 'A little bit old but a very much sick. Now off you go, mam's got to sweep up this sand. And don't bring any back when you--’

  But Monogail was gone, running out of the door. Yen Olass sighed. Were all children so curious, so energetic, so full of questions? She swept up the sand, wondering if there really might be a chiz in the trap. She had never seen this curious weasel-like animal, and would have thought it a mythical invention -- the islanders were good at inventions -- if she had not at times seen its delicate tracks in the sand. Usually the morning after a raid on the hen coop.

  Monogail came back with three eggs and a ghost which, she said, had been caught in the chiz trap; Monogail talked earnestly with the ghost while Yen Olass cooked their evening meal. Then, when they sat down to eat, Yen Olass had to shift one place to make room for the ghost.

  'Hadn't you better introduce us?' said Yen Olass. 'That's polite, you know.’

  'Even among pirates?’

  'Especially among pirates,' said Yen Olass firmly.

  'Can we be pirates, mam?’

  'No.’

  'Why not?' 'Because.' 'But why?’

  'Because first you have to cut off your nose.’

  'Really?’

  'Yes, really.’

  'Doubt it,' said Monogail.

  'All right, doubt it then,' said Yen Olass. 'So who's your ghost? Tell us her name.' 'It isn't a she, it's a he.' 'Why?' said Yen Olass. 'Because,' said Monogail.

  'Because what?’

  'Because that's how, that's why. His name's Vex. He's a ghost because he got killed. He's a dragon, that's what. Uncle Hearst killed him.’

  'Now that's a story,' said Yen Olass.

  'No it isn't!' said Monogail. 'Uncle Hearst told me. He killed lots and lots and lots of dragons. That's why.’

  'Dragons don't exist,' said Yen Olass. 'Uncle Hearst tells lots of stories, most of them aren't true.’

  'This dragon--’

  'When Uncle Hearst--’

  'You're not listening!' said Monogail impatiently. 'You have to listen. Now? All right. Vex was a good dragon. He had two wings. He had sharp teeth. Like this. Gnaaar! Teeth to bite you with.’

  'Eat your egg,' said Yen Olass absently.

  'All right,' said Monogail, killing the egg then mutilating it. 'Gnaar! Dragons. Biting.’

  Vaguely, Yen Olass wondered how long they would have to share the house with the ghost of a dragon. Chewing a stalk of sendigraz, she wondered, equally vaguely, if dragons really did exist. Raging through the skies and burning things. Long ago, in a different life, Resbit claimed to have seen one, but Yen Olass doubted it. One dragon, burning . . . yes . . . burning, that was a thought ...

  All that seaweed . . .

  She had plenty of driftwood, cached in the dunes up and down the beach ...

  Dig up the topsoil, so called, and expose the seaweed. Then a big, big fire. Burning for two days, if necessary. Or three. A mountainous pyre. A real volcano ... a fire-mountain, like the ones Uncle Hearst talked about. More stories, yes . . .

  After such a fire, what wisdom?

  After such a fire, wood ash, and what was better, the ashes of all that slightly resilient seaweed, which of late had taken to writhing in her dreams. Pour fresh water on it! What was that going to do? If anything, the water seemed to be nourishing it, keepi
ng it in tone, so to speak. She could imagine them laughing about it in Hagi's Bar in Brennan. Well, she'd show them. Ashes this year, vegetables next. She'd get the better of them.

  Yen Olass recalled her first days on Carawell, when she'd been renovating Skyhaven. Strangers had dropped by, and, after watching her work for some time -- in the beginning, their studied silence had unnerved her -- they had ventured to introduce themselves and to assist with a little tactful advice, advice which was always given in that dry, sage, wisdom-of-generations manner which they had brought to such perfection.

  Which was how Yen Olass had come to dig forty-seven earthing holes to protect against crawling lightning, to rig up a net over her door at night to entangle any invasive land octopuses, and to crowd the roof with sharpened hnials to ward against garret hawks. All these fortifications had long since disappeared, but on every trip to Brennan, someone was always sure to remind her about them -- old Gezeldux would always rise to the occasion, even if nobody else did.

  'Mam?’

  'What?' said Yen Olass.

  'Mam, Quelaquix wants to go out.’

  'Then you get up and let him out.’

  'I can't.’

  'Why not?’

  'Can't you see? Vex is sitting on my lap.’

  Why did I askt thought Yen Olass.

  'Sitting is all right,' said Yen Olass. 'But rumpaging isn't. Especially not in bed.’

  'What's rumpaging?’

  'What dragons do that they shouldn't.’

  'But dragons don't exist,' said Monogail. 'Mam said so.’

  'Did she now?' said Yen Olass, skilled by now at extricating herself from these predicaments without getting too deeply entangled in advanced metaphysics. 'Maybe that's so, but cats do exist, so I've got to let Quelaquix out.’

  'To go hunting.’

  'Yes,' said Yen Olass, 'Hunting a chiz,’

  The cat was eager, alert, poised for a big adventure in the dark. That suggested it would be a fine night, and probably a good day tomorrow. If it was going to rain during the night, Quelaquix became an altogether different animal: a profoundly recumbent heap of fur sagging over the floor in a prime spot enjoying the full benefit of the fire.

  Yen Olass opened the door, and Quelaquix slipped outside. Looking out into the starlight, Yen Olass saw a dark figure standing watching. She reached up to the lintel and fetched down a gollock, a thick-bladed machete nicely weighted for demolishing a man's face. Sliding outside, she closed the door behind her, slipped sideways and lost herself in amongst the saltwater pines. There she went to ground.

  Hiding in the shelter of the trees, she closed her eyes to adjust her vision to the darkness, and listened. Opening her eyes again, she saw the figure moving through the night. Soundlessly. Whoever he was, he must have seen her break for the trees, and now he was coming after her. Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Yen Olass waited. She was ready.

  'Yen Olass,' said the man.

  Spitting out the breath she had been holding, Yen Olass got to her feet and stalked out of hiding.

  'You bastard!' she said. 'You whoredog rat-rapist, how long have you been skulking around in the dark?’

  'Give you a fright, did I?' said Morgan Hearst.

  'Fright!' said Yen Olass, inserting the gollock between his legs. 'I'll give you fright! How would you like to sing soprano?’

  'Not today, thanks,' said Hearst, reaching down to remove the cold steel. 'Anyway, you've got the blunt edge uppermost.’

  'For sure,' said Yen Olass. T wouldn't want to hurt a pathetic old cripple unless I had to. What've you been doing out here?’

  'Practising,' said Hearst. T have to stay sharp.’

  'For what? Is it true what they say -- that your, last trip to Sung was to kill a man?’

  'My lips are sealed,' said Hearst. 'I'm a professional. Remember?’

  'Okay, professional, how did I do?’

  'You did well,' said Hearst. 'A regular nightfighter. But I still think you should build a back door.’

  'Come and stay for a few days with a few of your braves,' said Yen Olass. 'You could get it done in no time.’

  The door opened, and a small figure stood in the doorway illuminated by the glow of firelight.

  'Mam!’

  'It's all right, Monogail.' 'What're you doing, mam?' 'I'm chasing a chiz.’

  'Oh, really? Have you caught it? Can I help?’

  'Go back inside,' said Yen Olass. 'It's cold out here.’

  But Monogail came racing out into the night. Shouting.

  'Gnaar! Dragons! Ah! What? Uncle Hearst!’

  'How's my darling?' said Hearst, scooping Monogail into his arms and giving her a kiss.

  'Put her down, you lecherous old monster,' said Yen Olass. 'Now come inside -- but don't sit on the dragon.’

  'Dragon?’

  'Not a dragon, mam,' said Monogail. 'A ghost. His name's Vex. He was a dragon once, but now he's dead. You killed him, Uncle Hearst. Killed him dead.’

  'Did I?' said Hearst. 'Which one was that? Tell me about it.’

  With Monogail clutching his hand and chattering excitedly, he led the way inside.

  * * *

  Morning.

  Yen Olass woke, and yawned. The door was ajar. Quelaquix had come in while she was asleep, and was now curled up on top of Monogail. Yen Olass couldn't imagine how her child could sleep with that great lump of a cat on top of her.

  Careful not to disturb child or cat, Yen Olass got out of bed and opened the shutters, and looked out to sea. The tide was in, with a brisk wind sending waves surging up the beach.

  Going outside, Yen Olass found Hearst practising with his sword. She watched, till his shadow-fighting brought him wheeling round to face her.

  'You left the door open,' said Yen Olass sharply. 'Were you born in a tent?’

  'No,' said Hearst cheerfully. T was born under a boat. What's the problem, anyway? Afraid of land octopuses?’

  He sheathed his sword and came to the door, grinning. He looked strong and healthy.

  'What's for breakfast? Vegetables? How's the seaweed growing?’

  'It needs nourishment,' said Yen Olass. 'How would you like to be manure? Come on, let's go to the fish-garth.’

  As they walked inland, Yen Olass wondered whether to ask Hearst about his business. He was too much a man of affairs to have come here for pleasure. Although most of the Rovac had left the Lesser Teeth two years ago, abandoning all dreams of power in Argan, Hearst remained the leader of a hundred warriors who had chosen to stay in Brennan. With these fighting men and five ships at his disposal, he was rapidly becoming a rich man, daring his vessels past the Orfus pirates to trade for steel in the island of Stokos. He was now building a warehouse, and a big residence for himself made from imported cedar.

  The night before, they had talked about Resbit, about the exploits of young Elkordansk, and about Aardun's first birthday. Aardun, son of Resbit and Morgan Hearst, was their second child; the first, the ill-fated Nesh Enelorf, had died of colic a few days after birth. With gossip over, it was time to talk seriously, though Yen Olass could not imagine what Hearst might want.

  Inland, amidst the hath grass and the gallows trees, the sward pond lay in the centre of a piece of marshy ground. With a hand net, Yen Olass fished a dozen kellings out of the confines of the fish-garth, and placed them in a string carry. Hearst, hungry, snatched another from the water, and ate it raw. His hand hovered, poised to snatch one more.

  'Hey!' said Yen Olass. 'Ease up!’

  'Breaking into next week's rations, am I?’

  'Something like that,' said Yen Olass.

  'Now that's what I call poverty,' said Hearst. 'How would you like to earn some money?’

  'This is a proposition? If you want my body ... a hundred crowns to you. And ten more for not telling Resbit.’

  'And Monogail?’

  'For five crowns you can have her. And her pet dragon. But seriously . ..’

  'Yes,' said Hearst. 'Seriously . .. wh
o or what is the Silent One?’

  'The what?’

  'The Silent One. Of the Sisterhood.' 'Oh ...’

  Yen Olass got to her feet. With a dozen dripping quick-kicking fish in her string carry, she set off toward Skyhaven, with Hearst walking along beside her. When they came in sight of the house, they saw Monogail running over the sand, pulling along a piece of twiner vine. Quelaquix was chasing it. They settled down in the shelter of a saltwater pine and watched.