by Chris Bunch
The streets were packed. Gareth thought at first it was normal midday traffic, then he heard the shouting:
“Damn the Linyati!”
“Death to the Slavers!”
“Free our Pirate!”
And:
“Gareth … Gareth … Gareth …”
The throng was for him, and Gareth wondered who’d organized the demonstration.
The mounted Guards drew closer to the carriage, and Gareth overheard their words through the open window:
“Looks like more damned trouble,” the first said.
“Mebbe,” the second said. “But not likely. Don’t see any staves or clubs or knives on the ends of sticks being waved about.”
“You’re right. But I don’t trust crowds.”
“They can turn ugly on you, can’t they?” the second agreed. “Especially when there’s some justice to what they’re raving on about.”
There was a boil of noise, and Gareth couldn’t make out what they were saying, then:
“… again and again, till our villages are stripped bare. Is that what the king wants?”
“Hells if I know,” the other one said. “But the army’ll send out an expeditionary force, I heard, to patrol the coasts and wait for another raid.”
“Shit,” the first said. “That’s no response, riding here, there, and everywhere, always late, always missing their damned smash-and-grabs. The only proper thing is to put the navy out in strength after the Linyati, not here, but down in their damned homeland.
“Burn some of their villages, cities, a hundred for the dozen of ours they’ve ruined, and let them see what it’s like to be on the sharp end of the sword. For all I care, sell ‘em to any demons looking for fresh meat. I’m against slavery, but I’m willing to make exceptions.”
“There’d be few object to that,” the second said. “Hells, I’d likely volunteer myself to go down amongst them, if I were a sailor. Especially since I hear they’re arse-deep in gold.”
The coach creaked on once more and the horsemen moved away.
Gareth looked at Quish.
“Have the Linyati been raiding our coasts again?”
“I’m instructed to have no conversation beyond the necessary with you,” Quish said, and Gareth was fairly sure he knew the answer to his question.
• • •
The palace held the top of the Mount, its stone walls elaborately worked, parapets with ready cannon, gold and white banners flowing, and, over them all, the great black, green, and white flag of Saros, the royal crest embroidered on it, showing the king was in residence.
The central courtyard was full of milling courtiers, and a double line of King’s Guards, their weapons ready.
Gareth saw Cosyra, didn’t think he should wave, was hustled down the line and into the palace.
There were a scattering of guards here and there, but the halls were almost vacant otherwise.
Gareth was taken to the hall’s end, past the tattered banners of battles fought and won over the centuries. A huge double door opened silently in front of him, and Gareth entered a huge chamber, whose vaulted ceiling was high overhead.
“Unloose him,” a voice said.
The only person in the room, besides Quish, Gareth, and two Guards, was a thin, fretful man in his late fifties. His beard was graying, rather tattered, hardly fitted to the rich ermines he wore and the jeweled crown on his head.
Gareth ignored Quish’s fumblings at the chain and knelt, awe surging through him.
The chain came away.
“You may rise,” King Alfieri said. At least his voice was deep, sonorous. “And you may approach us.
“Guards, Lord Quish, leave us.”
“But — ”
“Such is our command. This man is our faithful subject, and we shall come to no harm.”
Quish and the Guards scuttled out.
“You are the famous Gareth Radnor,” Alfieri said.
“I thank your Majesty, but don’t know if I’m famous.”
“Oh, you’re famous all right. Famous for having pirated all over the Linyati realm, famous for having put us in a quandary, with that double-damned ambassador of theirs threatening what might happen to our truce if you weren’t brought to the proper justice and all.
“It should have been most simple,” Alfieri grumbled. “We should have been able to seize your loot as a proper penalty, have our best executioner give you a nice, painless death, put your ever so obstreperous men into the coastal guard or navy, explain to the Linyati there had been some misunderstanding, and peace would continue to reign.
“Don’t think we’re a weakling, Radnor. But we swore to our father, when we returned from fighting in Juterbog as a young man, we’d allow no war to take our subjects’ lives, and we’ve kept that vow for thirty years.
“You don’t know what war’s like, Radnor. Anything is better than that.”
Gareth said nothing.
“You don’t agree, of course. Go ahead. We’ll not kill you just for speaking. It was in the olden days when we could do that,” Alfieri said, a bit forlornly. “When kings had real power. Go ahead,” he said once more. “Tell us why we’re wrong.”
“I can’t say you’re wrong, Sire,” Gareth said. “But I do think there’re things that are worse than war, and must be stood against. Slavery being one.”
Alfieri’s lips went thin, and he looked down. “The Linyati bastards do not make keeping the peace easy,” he said. “Particularly when they want a certain corsair pulled limb from limb, and then have the temerity to raze a dozen leagues of coast, taking away our people into chains and leaving nothing but wasteland behind.”
Gareth remembered what the two Guardsmen had been talking about, thought about giving thanks to some god he’d have to pick out later.
“The damned Linyati,” Alfieri went on. “Plus there are petitions from a certain noblewoman in our favor, a Merchant Prince, some of his friends, and even some of the firebreathers in our own navy. And then that son of a bitch Quindolphin.
“And now our own people are running here and there, shouting your name and calling for us to do something about those Slavers.
“Let me ask you this, Radnor. We said you are our faithful servant.”
“That is true, Sire,” Gareth said.
“Then let us talk about this treasure you seem to have acquired from the Linyati. I don’t suppose there’s any hope you’d make life easy for us, and simply arrange for it to be transported from whatever hiding place you’ve got it hidden in, is there?”
Gareth didn’t answer.
“Hmmph,” King Alfieri growled. “We didn’t think so. But let us ask. How much is there?”
“In gold, Sire, enough to build a palace, half a dozen palaces. Gold and jewels such as no one in Saros has ever seen, enough to fill the holds of two ships to foundering.
“There’s enough other goods — silks, spices, and such — to fill the holds of three prize ships I sent north before attacking the Linyati treasure fleet.”
Alfieri stared at Gareth, licked his lips.
“We understand you pirates have your own covenants and such.”
“Yes, Sire. We call them Articles.”
“When you were setting up these ‘Articles,’ did you consider your monarch?”
Gareth gladly remembered the section he’d forced down his crew’s throat.
“Of course, your Majesty. We unanimously decided to grant you six full shares, more than anyone else.”
“You decided?” Alfieri said. “But you were captain, correct? Couldn’t you just dictate the terms you wished?”
“No, Sire. As with everything else, what we did was decided by proper vote.”
Alfieri stared at him closely.
“No wonder they say pirates are more dangerous even than they appear,” he said. “Now, as to this share, we were thinking that a quarter of your booty would be more appropriate.”
Gareth had one tiny moment of objecting, then remembered three quarte
rs of something to a free man is far more valuable than everything to a corpse. He bowed.
“We would be honored to make such an arrangement.”
Alfieri smiled.
“You don’t seem to think it is necessary to consult with your crew about the matter?”
“I think,” Gareth said, “considering the circumstances, there’s no need for that formality.”
Alfieri nodded, paced back and forth.
“Crowds in the streets … gold concealed on some distant shore … those arrogant bastards the Slavers … Damn, but we hate to be manipulated!”
Alfieri didn’t seem to be talking to Gareth at the last.
“But we’ve been proud that we always know what to do and when to do it.”
He walked to a stand of halberds, took one out, and Gareth felt a moment of alarm. Alfieri crashed the halberd’s butt on the flagstones three times.
Gareth, who knew better than to turn his back on his ruler, heard a door open, and Quish’s voice: “Sire?”
“You may allow our court to return.”
“Sire!”
“As we said before, we don’t like to be manipulated, and we dislike even more when we have to admit to being … not fully apprised of a situation.
“We hope that damned Quindolphin’s boils suppurate him to death!
“Come here, Radnor, and let’s get this over with. We have more than enough other work than to concern ourselves over a single pirate.”
Gareth, completely perplexed, followed Alfieri to the end of the room, where a high-backed, jewel-inlaid throne sat atop low steps. Alfieri went up the risers and turned.
Gareth heard a throng yammering into the room, the echoes of their excitement against the high apse.
A great sword in a sheath hung against the back of the throne.
“All kneel,” someone shouted as Alfieri picked up the sword by its belt, and Gareth and the others went down.
The sword hissed out of its sheath, and Alfieri came forward. Gareth noted that he carried the weapon easily, as a man who knew what its real purpose was.
“You may rise,” Alfieri said, his voice a boom. “Except you, Gareth Radnor.”
Gareth waited, having no idea what was about to happen.
“Do you acknowledge us, Alfieri, as your king, as the only ruler you follow, and acknowledge you will obey any and all commandments given you by us, or by our officers?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
The sword came out, and Gareth almost flinched as its edge touched his shoulders, the top of his head.
“Rise then, Sir Gareth Radnor, the newest of my Servants.”
Gareth Radnor — Sir Gareth Radnor — almost started crying.
Fifteen
Beautiful, is it not, Sir Gareth?” the little round man said proudly, waving his hand around the horizon, his words almost lost in the keening wind. Gareth, still not used to the title, considered what he was looking at. The stone house just behind him was huge, four-storied, with square towers at either side. It sat in a slight vale, just low enough to block the strongest winds from the sea. Behind it, protected by plane trees, were outbuildings and a formal garden. Strangely, there was no wall around the estate, front or rear, and the grounds were carefully maintained so that anyone in the house had a clear view — or shot — in any direction.
Gareth noted two small cannon atop each tower.
“The former householder liked to feel safe,” he said dryly.
The round man cleared his throat nervously.
“The lord had his enemies … ‘tis a pity he chose to live as he did.”
“You mean, die,” Cosyra said, hiding mirth.
“Yes, well, he should not have defied King Alfieri.”
“Or,” Cosyra put in, “if he was going to tell the king he was an idiot who not only didn’t deserve his taxes, but his fealty either, he should’ve at least stayed mewed up in this castle rather than return to court.”
The skull of the land’s former owner, still with bits of clinging flesh the ravens hadn’t gotten around to, now decorated a spike over one of Ticao’s gates.
“Don’t forget,” said the round man, who was the agent for the land, “the price not only includes these grounds, but almost two thousand hectares, some worked, some open lands, plus two hamlets you cannot see from here, and, of course, the village below.
“The river we crossed coming to this house, which you also control riparian rights to, has a small hand-built tributary behind the house, there, that feeds into your fishpond. The river itself falls into the ocean just beyond that bluff.
“You’ll reap a hundred pieces of gold from the sea-fishing per year, the land produces enough for all your people to live on, plus there’s fallow acreage should you desire to have produce for sale. The uplands have no sheep on them, but they could easily be added, and your herd of prime cattle, about forty-five head, could also be increased without stressing the land.
“There’s deer for the taking, only half of which are the king’s, fowl, and great fish in the ocean for the sport.
“Your yeomen, several hundred of them, are all stout lads. The merchants will stand behind you four-square, and there’s no sign of plague or other evils.
“There’s one witch in the village, and she’s a most agreeable creature, well thought of by all. There’s no chirurgeon, unfortunately.”
The village nestled at the bottom of the twisting track that led down to the sea. Fishing boats bobbed at anchor around the half-dozen stone piers, and gaily painted houses lined the winding, cobbled streets. There were half a dozen businesses as well: small stores, a tavern, a fish plant.
Gareth nodded.
“Reminds me a trifle of our old village,” Thom Tehidy said.
“Ee-yes,” Knoll N’b’ry agreed. “If you buy it, Gareth, you’d best consider putting in a pair of guns … moyane or pykmayone culverin to give you the range up here to reach out to sea, and perhaps a pair of lombards down on the wharf for anyone closing on the village, and training some of the locals to fire them.”
“And aren’t you three the most worrisome sort of pirates?” N’b’ry’s companion, a lovely, very young, black-haired trader’s daughter named Suel, laughed. “Who’d be likely to attack any of you, Knoll, particularly if you and Thom do as you talked and built your own houses on either side of this monster?”
The three looked at her, didn’t comment. They all knew why the cannon might be necessary, remembering the village they’d grown up in.
N’b’ry had told Gareth he was very fond of Suel, and not for her prized conversation; Cosyra had rolled her eyes and agreed that was obvious.
Tehidy’s partner on this outing was a chubby shopkeeper’s daughter, Myan, quick-witted and always cheerful.
“And I don’t believe, come to think about it,” Suel went on, pretending a pout, “these brave bold swordsmen standing around talking about the yield of land as if they were common landsmen! That’s not what I expected.”
“Now there, at least,” Cosyra added, “I agree with you. Riches have turned all of them into conservative, cautious sorts, haven’t they?”
She wasn’t the only one to pretend disappointment in the corsairs’ behavior. When the Company’s fleet and cargo had been brought upriver and, as agreed, given to Pol Radnor for disposal, Ticao licked its lips and prepared for the greatest madness in its history.
Each share, even after the king’s creaking, heavy-laden wagons had trundled off to the palace’s treasury, was worth what a hard-working merchant might realize in twenty years’ labor.
Now it would be for the spending, as the crews were paid off and the Articles dissolved.
But things, mostly, did not work out that way.
Labala came to Gareth as he was making out the paperwork for the sale of all ships but the Steadfast, which Gareth had decided to keep for his own for reasons he thought were wishy-washy, sentimental, and not worth telling anyone about.
“Gareth,” th
e big brown man complained. “None of these bastards I sailed with are worth sour owl crud.”
“Why not?”
“Here I am, full of spunk and the money to pay to let it go, and I can’t find anyone to roister with, at least anyone worthwhile. All the ones I thought sturdy bastards are counting their gold and thinking about buying a shop, or a farm, or a fishing boat, or something for their godsdamned dotage.
“Godsdamned disappointing, I call it, especially when none of them are likely to live that long.
“Somebody told me once Saros was nothing but an island of shopkeepers looking for an apron to tie on and butcher paper to scribble accounts on. I never believed it before, but I sure do now.
“Hells, I’d ask you to go whoring with me if I didn’t know you don’t drink and have your own lady now.”
Gareth had thought for a bit.
“Why don’t you take your gold and find a nice sorcerer to study under? That and finish learning how to read.”
Labala turned serious. “Talking of that, and the man who started teaching me magic, if I were more of a seaman, I’d buy me a scow and go see if poor godsdamned Dafflemere is still alive.
“But I’ll wager the bastardly Slavers got him, and hopefully killed him. I’d a lot rather think about that than him in Linyati chains somewhere.”
Labala sat mournfully for a few moments, then heaved himself to his feet.
“Fat lot talking to you did me,” he said. “So I guess I’ll do what you and everybody else has told me. Get a couple of doxies to keep myself warm in this damned upcoming winter of yours, and learn more magic. It’s either that or find my way back to my own islands, wherever they are. Except I don’t remember anyone using gold to get by on, but something like seashells on strings, of which I have none.
“Damn, but they never told me being rich meant being bored.”
And he grumbled away.
In truth, Gareth Radnor felt about the same. What did he need with as much gold as he had? He had Cosyra; was in the king’s graces, as much as anyone could remain in the mercurial ruler’s favor; knew no riches could buy off his enemies the Quindolphins, nor did he wish that easy an ending to the feud; was healthy and happy.
As soon as he thought that, he could feel the tapping of boredom at the back of his mind, and bethought himself of various excitements, which he discussed with Cosyra.
