by Chris Bunch
Hunting? A poor deer was no match for a man with a musket, and he was hardly fool enough to go after the great bears of the north with only a spear, as some loons did. Besides, after hunting men, even a bear would be tame.
Fishing? He’d done that for a living as a boy and hated it, so how could there be much amusement in the sport?
Whoring? With Cosyra? Hardly.
Gambling? He tried that once, lost a dozen gold pieces and felt mildly sick to his stomach.
“What you’re going to do,” Cosyra said, “with my able assistance, is buy a nice piece of land somewhere.”
“Why?”
“Because people who have a tendency to end up in the Great Dungeon, as you seem to, are far better treated as landed gentry than as an unwashed sailor with hairy toes.”
“My toes are not hairy,” he protested, but her instructions took him, Cosyra, N’b’ry, and Tehidy along the coast, looking at properties.
This near-castle, with its villages, farmlands, and fisheries, was the best they’d found.
“And how much will this fine plot set me back?”
The round man named a price, and while Gareth swallowed hard, added hastily, “And the title Lord Newgrange can be had atop it all for only … oh, another thousand pieces of gold.”
“The title,” Cosyra put in coldly, “will accompany the estate.”
“But — ”
“I am Lady Cosyra of the Mount,” she said, “and am well familiar with the tradition of the heraldic college.”
“Oh. But of course. I merely meant there’s a certain amount of paperwork, and some money accompanying that generally leavens things, and …” and the round man sputtered down into embarrassed silence.
Gareth leaned close to Cosyra.
“Am I supposed to bargain? I mean, being one of the King’s Servants, and I’ve never bought any land before.”
“You thank him,” Cosyra said, “we return to that little inn that’s given me fleas, and then, tonight, in writing, we make a counteroffer of, oh, half what he mentioned.”
“That’s still more gold than I could ever dream of,” Gareth said.
“So?” Cosyra said coldly. “Aren’t you the one who prattled on to me about how meaningless gold is?”
“Yes, but — ”
“Congratulations, my love,” she said. “You’re already learning the hypocrisy of the very rich. Now you can learn to be bored in utter isolation and moan about how much you miss Ticao.”
Two days later, after offers and counteroffers, Newgrange was his.
Tehidy and N’b’ry had already consulted builders and made offers on other pieces farther along the coast; Gareth had written to Ticao’s best foundry and ordered two cannon, mentioning that he thought he might have further business for them in a while.
“Never thought we’d end up like this,” N’b’ry said. “Owning anything, let alone almost as far as I can see …”
“Magical,” Tehidy murmured. “Did you know, speaking of magic, the person who took quickest to my lectures on the fine art of gunlaying was the witch?
“Odd world we live in.”
Gareth smiled, and scratched hard.
That damned inn did have fleas.
• • •
Gareth wrote a long, unsigned report about that final raid, skirting facts that might be unpleasant for the highest nobleman to have to consider, focusing on the utterly inhuman reptiles that appeared to control the Linyati.
He gave it to Cosyra, with instructions for her to give it to the current Lord of the Admiralty, whom she had known from girlhood.
The King’s Navy, such as it was, should know how the Slavers fought, thought, and operated, as much as Gareth had been able to determine.
• • •
“I’m most proud of you, Gareth,” Pol said, reflexively pushing a decanter of brandy across his littered desk. “From a mere seaman to a knighted, hmmph, well …”
“Go ahead, Uncle,” Gareth said, amused. “I’m not ashamed of being a pirate.”
“Maybe so, maybe no,” Pol grumbled. “But it’s hardly a dignified term, now is it?”
“I never planned on being dignified.”
“Perhaps not. Uh, the reason I asked you to visit me, was to inquire as to your future plans?”
Gareth started to give a flippant answer, then turned serious.
“I don’t know, sir. I never planned on having more money than I could ever spend, and thought I’d always be working at something, maybe in the end to have my own merchantman or something.
“I can’t see going out to Newgrange and turning into one of those bucolic fatbutts, worried about when his prize mare’s going to drop or whether his marrows will take the top prize at the district gala.”
“No,” Pol said. “I may have my country estates like Priscian wanted, but she’s the one who’s welcome to spend more than a few weeks away from Ticao.
“If I had to spend the rest of my life out there, damme, but I’d rust solid within the year!”
Gareth walked to the window, looked out at the Nalta and the ships moving steadily up- and downriver. He glanced at a ship model on a shelf, recognized it, with a bit of sadness — then anger as he remembered her fate — as the lost Idris, of his first voyage. He wondered why his uncle had the model built, then returned to the subject at hand.
“I don’t know,” Gareth said again. “Perhaps I’ll wait until war starts with the Slavers, which must happen before I’m too old to fight.
“I still don’t have satisfaction for my parents, and would welcome a good, honest war to settle their accounts.”
Pol harrumphed.
“Do you have a suggestion, Uncle?”
“I do not, and must not,” Pol said. “For what I might be thinking is against the King’s Justice, not to mention Priscian would have me toasted and buttered for even thinking about anything that might put you in danger.
“You know, she quite wants to see you and Lady Cosyra, well, married. And I beg your pardon for intruding in your own affairs.”
Gareth wasn’t offended, and thought of telling Pol of Cosyra’s views on marriage. He decided not to. “You mean, go a-pirating once again?” he asked instead.
“Well … no, or, rather, actually I’ve discussed the significant profits you returned with some of my fellows, including, naturally, my father-in-law, and they are most … well, jealous is the proper if somewhat discourteous word.”
Gareth was about to pass the subject off and suggest they go out for the midday meal when an idea came.
“Jealous enough to invest in such an enterprise?”
“Oh, certainly,” Pol said. “Some of them — and breathe not a word of this — have been bold enough to think of setting out privateers of their own. But of course such raiders not only are generally unlucky, but become hellish independent, and have a terrible tendency to go off on their own and never pay their share and end at a rope’s end, of no profit to anyone.”
“I know that,” Gareth said. “But let us say a certain enterprise is suggested, one which would require a fair investment.”
“How large?” Pol asked cautiously.
“Oh, let us say, twenty to thirty ships.”
Pol winced.
“Some warships, some transports, some merchantmen. And soldiers. At least three hundred, I’d prefer half a thousand. Remembering that the enterprise I’m thinking of is still no more than a dream.”
“When would you sail? I won’t ask where for the moment, since you’re being mysterious. It would take time to prepare for something this great,” Pol said.
“No sooner than late spring, more likely early summer,” Gareth said.
“That many soldiers,” Pol said. “With our tiny army, I don’t know if we could muster that many from those discharged or from adventurous youth.”
“The men would have to be trained before they fought, for their first battle would likely be the deciding one.”
“Then we’d have to
go across the Narrow Sea, and hire in Lyrawise and other of Juterbog’s cities. And how we’d manage that without word getting out to … I assume you’re talking about striking against the Linyati?”
“There could be ways,” Gareth said. “All it would take is money. And don’t panic, Uncle. I’m not even sure I want to take part in something like this. It’s a bit too much like putting all your wealth on the single turning of a card.
“And it would require a deal of camouflaging,” he finished.
“And what would we, I mean the investors, reap from such an extravaganza?” Pol asked.
Gareth smiled.
“Perhaps riches to make what I brought back this time look no better than a beggar’s copper.”
• • •
Cosyra got up from the bed, padded over to where Gareth stood looking out the bay window.
“What’s so fascinating?”
“Just watching the lights of the village go out,” he said.
“You’re lying.”
Gareth pretended injury.
“How can you tell?”
“Because I’m starting to know you a little bit … and there’s the ocean out there, beyond the village. What were you thinking?”
“I was just wondering what comes next,” Gareth said slowly. “And about how I’m several kinds of a damned fool for not being satisfied with what I’ve got.”
“Why should you be?” Cosyra said after a moment, and there was an edge to her voice. “Do you think I am? I may be Lady Cosyra of the Mount, but my whole damned life is predictable.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m sorry, Gareth,” she said, “but you are part of it. Say I disgrace myself, and run off with you. Say, even, that I’m willing to marry you, and you’re willing to marry me, which isn’t a hint, by the way.
“Then I’m supposed to sit here and make babies, just like I would have to do for anyone else I married.
“It’d just be that you’re more interesting, and better in bed, and better-looking than Lord Mushmouth, who was my alternative before.
“Damn, but I wish I could run off to sea,” she said vehemently. She remained for a while, then: “It looks freezing out there.”
“It is.”
“The fishpond froze over last night,” she said. “I was going to show it to you when you rode in, but you had … other things on your mind.
“It was nice, looking down through the water, like a windowpane, seeing the fish move slowly about. I wonder what fish dream of, in the winter, when they sleep?”
He moved behind her, put his arms around her, slid them up to curl around her breasts.
“Am I being in a sour mood?” she asked.
“You’re in some kind of mood,” he said. “Maybe if we made love again.”
She turned, put her arms around him.
“It certainly couldn’t hurt, could it,” and the last of her sentence was muffled by his mouth over hers.
• • •
“I’ve decided,” he said the next morning over breakfast, “on a scheme.”
“Butter me a muffin,” Cosyra said, “and tell me more.”
Gareth obeyed, after checking in the serving pantry to make sure none of the servants was listening.
“My, aren’t we dramatic?”
“Shut up and eat your muffin. I’ve decided to go after the Linyati again.”
Cosyra yawned. “That’s supposed to be news?”
“I just decided it for certain this morning, in the bath,” Gareth said.
“I knew you were going to do it last week.”
Gareth eyed her thoughtfully. “You’re sure you have nothing of the Gift?”
Cosyra smiled mysteriously, cut a bit of the seasoned ham, put it on her muffin.
“I’ve even decided what of your outfits — all twelve of them, you overdressed lordling, we must buy you some more clothes — we’ll take back to Ticao with us so you can start organizing.”
• • •
Gareth was at the King’s Court, looking for his uncle and one of the possible investors, when he saw Lord Quindolphin. Quindolphin was in deep conversation with the man Cosyra had identified to Radnor as the Linyati ambassador.
Interesting.
Very, very interesting.
• • •
A deal of camouflaging …
A certain hack was hired, and two weeks later, a pamphlet was in all the bookshops:
A True
Account of
A Fabulous Journey
To
The Great, Rich
Frozen Kingdoms
Of the Far North
Beyond Any Man’s Reck
Together With
A Full
Description of the
Gold and Treasure
To Be Found There
Together With
A Narration
Of Their Most
Barbaric Ways
And Brutal Government
No Civilized Nation
Should Countenance
Gareth sent for Labala, told him what he wanted. The man snorted.
“For this you bring me from my studies?”
“I’ve heard of your studies,” Gareth said dryly. “It’s not possible to futter every maiden in Ticao, you know.”
“It’s still a great goal to set your life after,” Labala insisted. “But you don’t need sorcery for what you want. All you need is a handful of gossips, a bit of gold, and the right taverns to gossip in.”
“The last of which I’m sure you know.”
“The ones I don’t, Thom Tehidy does,” and Labala departed on his task.
Within the week, “everyone” in Ticao knew that Sir Gareth Radnor was preparing a new expedition. And, breathe not a word of it, but it would be to the far north, to the great kingdoms “everyone” knew were beyond the frozen cities Saros already traded with. Relieving them of a greater part of their gold would be only right, considering the monstrous lords who ruled those lands.
• • •
Another story spread, this one easily verified: more than twenty ships had been chartered or bought by an unknown person and were being modified with heavier cannon, larger provision lockers, high bulwarks in the bows suitable for keeping off the icy northern seas, and extra canvas and rope for campaigning in a harsh climate.
“Two days at sea,” Gareth told his uncle, “and we can strip off the wood on the prows and use them for the cook’s fire.
“Everything else” — and he wasn’t aware of how sharkish his smile was — “will be put to very good use.”
• • •
Very quietly, agents for a dozen of the richer Merchant Princes of Ticao started buying fur clothing.
“Do you know,” Pol said, “what your camouflage is doing to the price of hides? Catskin for gloves is up to two pieces of silver a skin, and you would not believe what a martin-lined coat sells for.
“What am I to do with all those damned pelts and coats and such I’ve got hidden in that warehouse?”
“Wait until next fall,” Gareth said. “Well after we’ve sailed. Then you’ll have a monopoly on the market and can persuade everyone this year’s style will be furs, from head to foot. Sell at your cost, no more, and quickly, and all the idiots who drove the market up will be broken.”
Pol eyed his nephew thoughtfully.
“Perhaps it’s a good thing you didn’t join my firm. Your ideas are entirely too slick.”
“So you aren’t going to follow my suggestion?”
“I didn’t say that.“
• • •
Agents in the cities of Juterbog busily interviewed experienced soldiers, and one of the most important qualifications they sought was experience in winter warfare. Those accepted were given enough silver to make their way to Lyrawise, report to a factor there for quarters and armament, and wait for transshipment.
• • •
Gareth pulled his cloak closer as he went out the s
hipyard gates. It was just dusk, midwinter, with a gale coming upriver from the sea.
He looked back to the Steadfast in the ways, studying his ship in the growing dimness. A day before, the foundry had delivered the first of the guns he’d had designed and built — long-barreled, small-bore culverins, intended to mount in the bows of a ship, much like the small swivel guns that’d been mounted there before. But these, fifteen feet long, were heavier, throwing a shot of eight pounds out a thousand yards, intended to smash the stern of a fleeing enemy or cut down masts and rigging.
He’d tried the idea back on Freebooter’s Island, but the guns he had available were too heavy and put the Steadfast badly out of trim. But these new guns looked as if they would be ideal for a pirate going about his business. His other ships would be similarly fitted.
It was brutal cold, and he’d told off his carriage earlier in the day. The streets would likely be icing, and he’d rather chance his own footing up the winding hills to Cosyra’s house than any carriage, even one with cleated wheels. He could have taken a horse out that morning, but he liked the animals little better than he ever had, and distrusted his abilities to stay in the saddle in hard weather.
He was considering whether there was any further way to deceive the Linyati when the wagon hurtled out of a passage at full speed.
It was a heavy freight wagon, with six horses drawing it, and was coming straight at him.
Gareth shouted a warning, then saw the driver was not only cloaked, but masked. The wagon, closing, almost filled the narrow lane, and Gareth looked for an alley to duck into. There was none — the driver had chosen his spot well, with a walled house on one side, and a brick building on the other, flush with the street.
Gareth saw but one chance, and leapt into the middle of the street as the wagon closed. He jumped, had the lead animal by the halter, pulled himself clear of the ground, and had hold of the harness. He heard the driver shouting curses, felt the sting of the man’s whip on his shoulders, then, feet flailing, found footing on the wagon’s tongue, and was steadying himself, no worse than being on a yardarm in a gale.
The driver, not ten feet distant, was pulling a pistol from the depths of his cloak, and Gareth dragged out his dagger with his free hand, braced, and threw the knife, hoping for luck, knowing at knife-throwing he had little.
