As terrible as the day they had whipped him had been, he had felt a strange relief when those men had dumped him by the side of the river to die. Until that moment, he had been sure they were carting him back to Dedelion’s home to be bled dry. He still didn’t understand why that hadn’t happened. Had Dedelion grown tired of him? Or had there been another reason?
It took him a long time to get anywhere creeping along the walls this way, but he didn’t mind. If he rushed around, he’d really have nothing else to do, and he needed something to get him through every day. The first garbage dump had two rather mean-looking men already looting it, so Kareth moved on to the next one. This one was much smaller and looked like it had already been pillaged thoroughly, but he was there so he decided to check.
He was up to his elbows in disappointment when he heard the approaching voices. Friendly or not, he wanted to avoid them all the same. He dove behind the dump, half burying himself in pottery shards. He felt a few of them cut his leg, and he winced in pain but didn’t make a sound.
“They’re only rumours,” one man said. From his accent, Kareth could tell at least two things about him—he was from Nepata and was not a poor man. He sounded sophisticated, so most likely, he was a shopkeeper or merchant.
“I tell you, my brother saw them,” the other man was certainly of the same class, but his voice had the twang of the south.
“Your brother the drunk?” The northerner laughed.
“My brother the scholar,” the southerner said with a mix of annoyance and laughter.
“I thought that was the same thing!”
They had turned into the small enclave, and Kareth could hear that they were pulling a cart behind them. As they continued to speak, the sound of smashing clay punctuated their conversation as they unloaded their garbage onto the heap.
“He says it’s true in his letter, and I believe him,” the southerner said with confidence.
“Sea nymphs, was it?” The northerner was still chuckling softly at his earlier joke.
“Those are the ravings of the insane. They are men, just as you and me, but men without a home. Men living on ships, going from town to town, raping and pillaging. They act like monsters, but they are men all the same.”
Kareth lifted his head ever so slightly, trying to hear them better. Ships of men attacking towns? What were they talking about? If the southerner said his brother told him of this, he must be speaking of towns in the Sea Mahat. Was Mahat being attacked?
“The Sea People they call them,” the northerner said, sounding serious for the first time. “I assumed they were just spreading myth. After that flood, everyone’s been speaking as though there are evil spirits around every corner.”
“Not spirits…men,” the southerner said again, and clearly they had finished emptying their cart, because the sound of smashing clay stopped and Kareth heard them start to pull it away, their voices becoming softer the farther away they went.
“Men are far worse than spirits,” the southerner said sadly. “A spirit can wish you ill, but a man…a man can be truly evil.”
Kareth waited awhile, his breathing having become heavy. First that terrible wave, and now men attacking the towns just as they were being rebuilt? He crawled out from under the pile, pottery cascading down from the top as he shifted it to escape. He stood there a moment, feeling dazed.
He remembered the dream he’d had, all those turns of the moon ago, when he was still living with Imotah. He had stood before the temple at the foot of the Kerlra Hal’Gepe, lightning striking the massive tower, the pregnant woman marching slowly towards him, accusing him.
“YOU FAILED!”
He had failed. He saw it clearer in that moment than any others before it. The people starving on the streets. The diseases that robbed men of their lives as they slept. The Sea People killing any hope that remained in the south. How long had he been here? Too long. He had meant to speak to the Paref, but there was always some reason—some excuse—to avoid it. And what was he doing now?
Kareth looked around at the shattered pottery. He could smell the faint odour of rotten meat coming from deep inside. Soon, this is all that would be left of Nepata, of the once great river empire of Mahat. The gods needed to be appeased. The Rhagepe had chosen him to carry their words. And he had done nothing.
He felt suddenly tired, felt as if there were hands holding onto his shoulders, pushing him down. The urge to lie down and curl up like a child on his mother’s lap was so overwhelming he nearly did just that, but the shame he felt kept him from giving in to the impulse. He took one step and then another and soon realized he was walking.
It didn’t seem to matter anymore if anyone saw him. He didn’t bother to be cautious, didn’t bother to check around the bend if someone—some ill spirit—was waiting there for him. Those men had been wrong of course. It wasn’t the men and it wasn’t the spirits anyone needed to fear. It was the gods. The gods were angry. Somehow he had forgotten that. He had remembered the words, but he had forgotten what they meant.
He would have kept walking forever. He would have walked out of the city, through the grasslands, and into the desert. He would have kept walking until his feet failed him and the Goddess of Death wraped him in her embrace, giving him the punishment he deserved for failing. He would have, but he found his way forward was blocked.
How long had he been walking? He looked up, not recognizing the street or the buildings around it. They were larger, cleaner, and some boasted lovely frescoes. The sun was heavy and low in the sky, the dusk light glowing all around him. He must have been walking a long time. His feet hurt, but it felt like only a moment had passed.
His way was blocked by a mass of people standing in the road. A large procession was going past, dozens of guards holding spears and servants holding palms to give shade to those being carried on litters. Kareth looked up at them as they went by, something tugging at his heart. Could it be? It couldn’t be.
The Paref!
He squeezed through the crowd, eliciting a few angry remarks, but he didn’t care. Had the gods taken mercy on him and delivered the Paref to him? He pushed his way to the front, looking at the two grand litters being carried. They were golden, painted red and sky, and white silk hung from the side, making the riders look as though they were enshrouded in mist.
He felt the weight of hands pushing him down again, though maybe this time they were real. It wasn’t the Paref. He could barely make out the riders, one in each litter, but it was obvious to him they were women. The gods were angry with him. Of course they didn’t want to help him.
Still, he watched as the women were carried past him, their heads held high, both looking straight ahead, almost bored by the awe and attention they received. Kareth thought they were beautiful, that they looked like the statues of royal women he often saw around the city. They had ornate wide necklaces around their throats and black wigs braided with gold and silver. The one in the front fanned herself and yawned.
The second woman to pass was younger and looked slightly more apprehensive, or perhaps uncomfortable. It was hard to see her expression properly through the silk. She shifted slightly in her chair. Kareth might not have recognized her. She was older than the girl he remembered, her limbs longer, face thinner. She still had the long braid of a child. Though, what really caught his eye was the armband she wore. Even through the curtain, he could make out the red twinkle of rubies.
It looked a little too tight to be an armband, and Kareth realized it was meant to be a bracelet, but obviously it was still too large for her slender wrist. It was a thick gold band, and on it was the smiling face of the sun, the five sunbeams emanating from the face jewelled with rubies. It couldn’t be a coincidence, because he doubted any royal of Mahat would own something which looked so shoddy compared to the shining gold and polished jewels they normally wore. That was the bracelet he had given Harami, the princess he had met along the shores of the Hiperu—the princess who was being carried in a litter past h
im at that very moment.
Her wide tawny eyes, though surrounded by thick black lines painted ornately with dark red hues, still had that bright kindness he remembered. She had smiled so much when he had met her, when they had gathered fruit and sung together, that it was strange now to see her face look so regal.
“Kehmas—” he whispered the word for friend, and suddenly he remembered the song he had taught her, the bawdy song the sailors had sung as they rowed up the Hiperu. He hadn’t even understood what the words had meant then.
“In’ the water she goes,
Dip her in, pull her out,
Row that ship faster boys, in out.”
Did she remember him? Why else wear that bracelet? He had thought of her from time to time, the way one remembers a lovely dream. It was almost shocking now to see her in the flesh, to see that she was real. He nearly called out. He took a step forward, reaching out, opening his mouth to speak, but he stopped when he saw the grime and broken nails on his hand.
He looked down at his dirty body, at his ripped loincloth. His body was hairy and unclean, and although it was hardly full and lush like a grown man’s beard should be, he had stubble on his face, and his hair was growing long and tangled. He looked disgusting to these people. He looked disgusting to himself. She had met a Whisperer on the shores of the Hiperu, and he had met a princess.
He didn’t feel shame but something else, something he had forgotten he knew. There was a warmth in his chest, a pounding like a drum. The famine, the sickness, the Sea People…they hadn’t destroyed Mahat yet. There was still time. And he had one more chance. Because now he knew, he had a friend in the palace, and she could help him.
THE MIDDLE SEA
WHO CAN STOP MURDER
“No, no, you’re doing it wrong,” Samaki muttered, his frustration overriding him as he yanked the coarse ropes away from the flustered man and tied the knot himself. “I’ll do it.”
Back among the Black Isles he’d been so pleased to have new men at last, willing and strong men to join his crew, that he’d momentarily forgotten the annoyance of training new men. He’d also taken for granted that everyone on the isles would have worked on ships, but most of the people who’d volunteered came from farms either too small for another son or which had been lost in the wave.
“I’m sorry, sir, captain, sir,” the young man stuttered and Samaki sighed.
“Just go tend to the rigging,” Samaki motioned to the bow, but he wanted to kick the boy in the arse as he stumbled away.
Tiyharqu chuckled softly behind him. “You weren’t expecting to become a new father so soon, were you?”
Samaki turned around and glared at his friend, though even he couldn’t help smile a little. “No, mother, I suppose I didn’t…” his voice trailed off as he spotted something dark on the eastern horizon. He nodded towards it and Tiyharqu turned around in surprise.
“Another ship?” Tiyharqu said, but she wasn’t really asking. No one knew the shape of a ship better than Tiyharqu. The ship was small with a wide sail, obviously built for speed. It had the wind behind them.
Samaki felt an uneasiness creep into him. “Turn south, then they can’t use the wind to catch us,” Samaki ordered, unable to take his eyes off the shadow, which was quickly growing larger.
“Everyone on the oars!” Tiyharqu ordered, and the men began to scramble over the bench to get into position.
The Afeth began to turn, her strong new sails went limp as they turned out of the wind, but their speed remained constant as the fifty men oared with all their strength. Samaki couldn’t help but take a moment to look at his ship, and the fresh lumber that made the masts. If he was close enough, he could still smell the freshness of the wood. And leading the way was the bright red snake head, the personification of the god of chaos, freshly painted.
Looking back, there was no question in his mind. The ship was changing its course to follow, and it seemed all too obvious it did not have friendly intentions. Even with every free hand pumping an oar, the ship in the distance was getting closer.
“Maybe they just need directions,” Tiyharqu suggested, trying to smile, but her expression looked strained.
“We have no weapons,” Samaki looked at his friend, who merely frowned and nodded. They’d had weapons, a few spears and bows, but those had been lost in the storm and hadn’t been replaced. Samaki had been so certain their trials were over, that they would make it to Serepty.
The ship was close enough now that Samaki could make out the men on it, and see the oars going up and down, like the legs of a spider as it scuttled down its web to its struggling prey. Was their attempt to flee just as useless as the fly’s? What other choice did he have?
Something whizzed past his face and he heard a splash as it fell into the water. He ducked down as another flew past him, this time a crudely made arrow embedded itself into the mast. He doubted the archer was aiming to kill. More likely they just wanted to frighten them. It worked, a few of the men called out in surprise, and one lost his grip in his oar.
“Don’t you stop rowing!” Samaki yelled at the trembling man.
But they should stop, Samaki thought bitterly to himself. It was pointless to run. Yes, he should tell them to put down the oars, to collect the sails, to wait for the inevitable. But he couldn’t. He kept thinking back to how he’d been after the storm, to how he had stared onto the horizon waiting for death. He would never wait for death again.
“Faster!” he ordered, peeking over the gunwale to see the ship nearly upon them. He could see the ugly faces of the men coming for them, hollering insults and shaking short swords in the air. When Samaki turned back to his own men, he saw another arrow fly at them, this time burying itself into the shoulder of one of the men. It was one of the farmers who had just joined them.
“Haven’t you ever wanted more from life?”
He should have told them the truth. He could still remember their starved eyes looking up at him. He’d given the same speech he’d given a hundred times in a hundred ports. The same speech he’d been given when he was still a young boy living in the marsh. Die a starving farmer, or live as a rich king. The truth was simple, but no one wanted to hear it. You don’t escape death. The most you can do is choose where to meet it.
The ship was coming up alongside them. Samaki had to dodge as a hook nearly grappled onto his skull. Instead the jagged piece of metal dug into the gunwale. Samaki grabbed onto it, trying to pry it loose as the man holding onto the rope laughed. Just as he got it out another hook flew over and another, and Samaki fell on his back as the Afeth trembled, the two ships grinding together. Samaki heard the sound of snapping oars and screams as men were thrown.
Samaki looked to see what damage was done and saw one man trapped between two oars that had been pushed together, like a fish caught in the claws of the crab. He screamed and flailed, and Samaki recognized him as the young man he’d berated for not tying a knot properly only a few moments before. He pushed himself to his feet and started to move towards him to help when he felt a body tackle him to the deck.
Men from the other ship were jumping over to his, and there was barely any time to register the skirmishes around him. The man on top of Samaki was wild and spry, but Samaki was strong and his powerful chest and arms easily pushed the man away. He started to scramble to his feet, but the man came at him again, a bronze short sword with drips of sea water glinting prettily as it slashed towards his chest.
He moved back, and the blade sliced through his vest. He could feel the wind as the tip just missed his soft flesh. The man was slightly off balance after the attack and swore loudly. Samaki took the opportunity to grab the man’s wrist with one hand and punch him in the face with the other. The man’s hand went limp and the sword fell from his hand, and Samaki grabbed it from the air before it could clatter onto the fresh wood, and stabbed him in his gut.
Blood began to flow from the wound, splattering the deck and Samaki frowned, knowing the red would stain. His n
ew ship, blessed not with holy water, but the blood of brigands. Sephian brigands, he realized with a slight jolt. The man had sworn in the same tongue they used on Serepty.
As the man fell, clutching his gut and screaming in pain, Samaki finally registered his light hair and olive skin, the shabby silk tunic he loosely wore. Yes, there was no doubt this man was from the Sephian Islands. He went to finish the man off when another jumped at him, a short-spear in hand.
Samaki managed to block it, and the spear snapped in two, but Samaki had pushed too hard and as the man ducked the blade dug into the mast. Before Samaki could pull it out he was grabbed by the waist and tackled to the deck again. He felt a burst of pain as the Sephian man used his own forehead as a club against Samaki’s nose.
The pain was so overwhelming he barely felt the fist that impacted with his jaw. He was only vaguely aware of screaming around him, of the violent rocking of the ship, of crazed men laughing over the dead and wounded. But the pain was nothing compared to the anger he felt.
He reached out blindly, feeling the man’s collar bone and neck. His neck. Samaki’s fingers wrapped around his neck and he started to squeeze. The man looked surprised, his sharp azure eyes widening. Samaki squeezed tighter, gritting his teeth. The man punched him again, and again, but he weakened fast, and soon his fists were like the batting of a cat’s paw.
His face was turning red, the look of surprise turning to one of fear. He began to scratch at Samaki’s hands, tried to pry his fingers off, his mouth gasped open, and his eyes turned blood red. Spittle fell from his mouth as he desperately tried to scream, but there was no sound. His eyes bulged so much Samaki thought they might pop out of their sockets.
And then the man’s face started to soften. The discoloured skin began to sag and the fear was replaced by a dull glassy stare. He was dead. Samaki knew he was dead, but he could still hear the sound of screaming from his men, and so he squeezed harder and harder.
Pekari -The Azure Fish Page 29
