Gita Kamrec shouted, ‘What do you mean we don’t know where they are? Bleeding whores, but I need Brand here! I can’t get a decent piece of intelligence from this band of pissing-’ She stormed along the path; her lieutenants avoided eye-contact with one another, each fearing that one of the others would roll their eyes or chuckle and that would be the end of them all. Gita might be small in stature, but she’d have them gutted and filleted for a Twinmoon festival in a heartbeat. Gita missed Brand Krug, her tough, level-headed commander. He was still not back from his foray south, escorting the Larion Senator, Gilmour Stow, and his company of freedom fighters into Wellham Ridge.
They knew he was coming, thanks to Stalwick Rees’s fit. He had collapsed, repeating over and over again: Brand is on his way and the Malakasians know about the Capehill attack. Several of her men were concerned, but Gita would not be swayed: she had agreed with Gilmour that taking Capehill would give the Falkans a foothold in the east, and she meant to follow through. It was an easier target than Orindale; the capital had a full infantry division, even without counting the Seron companies. She would need at least one more regiment and to make it a surprise attack if she had any hope of taking Orindale. Winning Capehill would give the Resistance a place to call home, a base in which to muster an army and prepare for a bloody march westwards.
In spite of all Gita’s planning, a problem had arisen. The Falkan Army, moving southeast as covertly as possible, had encountered no occupation forces. A battalion of partisans, travelling in small groups disguised as miners or farmers, had encountered just one Malakasian, a woman apparently separated from her unit. Sharr Becklen had killed her, a miracle shot into the rising sun. Apart from the woman, there had been no patrols, no soldiers away on leave, nothing. It was far, far too quiet. And that worried Gita.
Now, half an aven from Capehill, she wondered if she was marching her boys into a carefully baited snare. She had orchestrated what she believed to be one of the cleverest troop movements in the history of modern warfare, breaking her force up into its component parts and using everything from side roads to goat paths to move the squads and platoons – and she was certain no one, not even the country dwellers through whose land they were passing, had realised.
And now here they were, within striking distance, and no one could give her a cogent report on the Malakasian Army’s whereabouts.
She stalked through their temporary camp, fuming. ‘Tell me again!’ she barked, trying to think fast.
‘We just don’t know where they are, ma’am,’ said Markus Fillin, a lieutenant from the Central Plain, looking anywhere but at his commander.
‘Is the city that big?’ she mused aloud. ‘Can they really be hiding a brigade down there? If Stalwick was right, they know we’re coming, but how much do they know – do they know we’re here now, that we were coming from Traver’s Notch? Do they know how many soldiers we have, what we ate for breakfast this morning? Can anyone tell me anything?
Her officers and advisors shook their heads and Gita shouted, ‘Where is Sharr Becklen? He lives there, doesn’t he? He must know where the flaming horsecocks are hiding – what’s the most defensible position in the city?’
‘The heights above the wharf, ma’am,’ Markus interjected quickly. ‘It’s already been checked, but there’s no one there, ma’am, not one single soldier. The locals say they were in the city as normal, until sometime this morning, when they all disappeared.’
There was a moment of heavy silence, broken only by the crackle and spit of the camp fires, then Gita was shouting again. ‘An entire brigade of occupation soldiers does not just disappear, Lieutenant, do you understand? And I repeat: where is Sharr Becklen?’
‘Here I am, ma’am.’ Sharr himself came over the rise, as if summoned by Gita’s cries.
‘Oh, thank the gods,’ Gita said. ‘So what can you tell us?’
‘I’ll show you, ma’am.’ He reached out, inviting the partisan leader to join him. ‘It’s just up here. I think you’ll find this interesting.’
‘Where are we going, Sharr?’ Gita said. ‘I have to tell you; I’m not amused by any of this.’ She glared at her officers, then took Sharr’s offered hand and allowed him to help her up the snowy embankment.
At the top she released him. ‘Where are they dug in?’ she asked.
‘They aren’t,’ Sharr said.
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Be that as it may, ma’am, but apart from a bunch of very nervous-looking fellows on the wharf, the Malakasian Army is gone.’
‘Gone.’
‘If you come a bit further up here, just up this next hill, I think I can show you where to find them, but we need to hurry, they’ve at least a two-aven head-start.’
Gita frowned. She was not one who appreciated surprises, not on the Twinmoon, not at festivals, not even after she stood the tides with Rove Kamrec, all those Twinmoons ago. ‘Where are you taking me, Sharr?’
‘Up there.’ He pointed towards the rounded summit of a small hill they’d been using to watch the arriving groups of partisans forming up into an army. The gentle slopes around Capehill were teeming with Resistance fighters, every one of them awaiting Gita’s word, and they would take the city.
She herself had expected to be fighting already; she had never dared hope they would make it all the way from Traver’s Notch without a fight. Her orders had been simple: kill or take prisoner every Malakasian soldier you see. If by some stroke of profound luck Stalwick had been wrong and their attack was still a surprise, the last thing Gita wanted was for a Malakasian to escape and reach Capehill in time to warn them.
She looked behind her and called, ‘Markus, come with us.’
The lieutenant hustled up the rise, his boots slipping in the snow. Markus Fillin was not thrilled to be in Capehill; he didn’t suppose he was alone in that. It was hard to leave home and wage war in another part of one’s own country. All his life, Markus had watched Malakasian troops on the Central Plains, as had his father and his grandfather when they were boys working in the family fields. Sometimes soldiers would come into the yard and buy food; other times – most times – they simply rode into the barn or the storehouse, or even broke into the canning cellar, and took what they wanted.
He wondered how many fit young men had left farms like his to start this war. He was uneasy at the thought that he had left his own home vulnerable when he joined the partisans, but he was needed in Capehill, and if Falkan were to be free, this battle needed to be fought and won.
Sharr helped Gita as she scrambled awkwardly up the icy slope to the relatively flat summit, then checked back for Markus. He made no move to assist the lieutenant.
The two sentries stopped talking and stood to attention when they realised who had joined them. ‘Ma’am,’ one of them said, echoed by the second.
‘Good evening, boys,’ Gita said, trying to mask her wheezing. She was tired, and her stomach hurt from the climb. ‘Anything to report?’
The two shared a nervous look then shook their heads. ‘No, ma’am,’ said one.
‘Everyone in place?’
‘It’s getting harder to see, ma’am,’ he told her, ‘but from here it looks like the third and eighth platoons are moving into position, south of the city.’
The second sentry added, ‘Ma’am, we lost sight of Arden’s company when they passed across that snowfield there in the north.’
‘Captain Arden,’ Sharr corrected softly.
‘Sorry, sir, sorry, ma’am.’ The sentry coughed, and repeated, ‘Captain Arden.’
Gita ignored his lapse. ‘Good. My staff are here, their companies assembled behind these hills and in that grove to the southeast… so we’re in position. All we need now is the enemy – and we don’t know where the enemy has gone.’
Markus winced. ‘Ah, ma’am, if we-’
‘Just a moment, Markus,’ Gita interrupted, ‘Sharr was going to show us something. What is it, Sharr? I know you wouldn’t have had me haul my broken-down old body up here for nothing.’
Sharr grinned. Capehill lay sprawled at their feet, glittering firelight casting a shadowy glow on otherwise silent homes and businesses. From the hilltop, the city looked a natural target.
The harbour was different, however: something about it looked fundamentally wrong, though Gita wasn’t sure what had changed. There was a veritable fleet of boats moored in the shallows and lashed to the docks, and even from this distance she could hear the faint chime of a hundred or more bridges as bells rang out the aven changes. It had grown dark and there was no colour; the boats all looked like hulks, floating shadows. Gita shook her head, trying to figure out what was different. ‘What is it, Sharr? Where are they?’ she asked.
The erstwhile fisherman pointed towards the horizon, darker in the east. ‘You see that group of stars out there, just off the water?’
Gita sighted along Sharr’s outstretched arm. Her vision wasn’t what it had been two hundred Twinmoons earlier, but finally she focused on the low-lying constellation. ‘What is that?’ she asked, adding, ‘I’ve never seen those before.’
‘Demonpiss,’ Markus whispered to himself.
‘What? What is it? Someone tell me.’ Gita was irritated now, feeling as if she’d been left out of a secret everyone else knew. Behind her, the two sentries stood a bit straighter.
‘It’s a squadron of ships, ma’am,’ Sharr explained. ‘They left with the tide about two avens ago. They’re naval ships. There’s a bark, two brig-sloops, square-rigged, and a frigate, a big fat bastard, that one.’
‘And who in the names of the gods is on them?’ Gita was still confused, and angry at her own ignorance. ‘What do I care if-?’ She cut herself short. ‘That’s it. This harbour,’ she said. ‘I knew there was something awry, but I couldn’t figure it out. That’s it; that’s what’s different.’
‘Ma’am?’ Now Sharr looked confused.
‘The boats, Sharr. Markus, look at the boats. What do you see?’ Gita didn’t wait for them to reply. ‘There’re only fishing boats, no big merchant vessels, and no naval ships, only the trawlers and net-boats. See?’ She waved an open hand at the wharf as if the answer was obvious. ‘There’s no accommodation at Capehill Harbour for big merchant ships because passage through the North Sea is essentially impossible – unless there’s a northern Twinmoon and high tides in the archipelago – and anyway, very few merchant ships make the passage around the Ronan peninsula-’
‘Because the Malakasian navy has it blockaded,’ Markus finished up for her.
‘No one knows why,’ Gita went on, ‘it’s something to do with Estrad Village and the Forbidden Forest, but there haven’t been big merchant ships around Ronan point in generations, so, in turn, Capehill rarely plays host to those size vessels.’
Markus scanned the small fishing boats, owned and operated by independent fishermen like Sharr. He said, ‘So the only large vessels moored in this harbour would be-’
‘The Malakasian navy,’ Sharr interrupted, ‘and there they go, ma’am. That little group of stars fading on the horizon are the watch-lights on every Malakasian ship in these waters. They loaded stores, took on water, and then boarded all the Malakasian soldiers in Capehill, except for a handful securing the wharf, and I’m guessing the next ship to round the point, perhaps one of those policing the Estrad Inlet, will be coming north to pick them up.’
‘That’s the group of nervous-looking men you mentioned earlier?’ Gita asked, dazed.
‘Right,’ Sharr nodded. ‘They’re acting as if things are normal, they’re still in command of the city, but there are maybe fifteen of them on the wharf, and they must know already that they’re on tomorrow’s lunch menu.’
‘Why would they leave a squad behind like that?’ Markus asked.
‘Who knows?’ Gita said. ‘No room on the ships? Orders? Who’s to say why these horsecocks do what they do, but Sharr’s right; we’ll carve those whoring bastards up and grill them for dinner – that’ll be easy. What I don’t understand is why did they leave? And where are they going?’
‘North,’ Sharr said.
Gita laughed. North? Is there some kind of armed insurrection going on in Gorsk that we don’t know about? That’s even more confusing – and it’s gods-rutting reckless; they’ll lose half their ships just trying to navigate the archipelago. If they’re loaded to bursting and they actually didn’t have room to take on fifteen extra men, they’ll be scraping their hulls inside the next Moon.’ She cocked an eyebrow at Sharr. ‘How much draft do they need to make it through those islands?’
Sharr pulled his cloak closed against the evening chill. ‘A lot less than they’ve got, unless they plan to go far to the north, out beyond anything we have on the charts.’
‘Why?’ Markus asked. ‘Why did they leave?’
Gita looked at him. ‘I honestly don’t know, Markus.’
‘Shall I give the order, ma’am?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Sharr, take a squad into the city. I want to be absolutely certain there’s no one left, other than the lot at the harbour. Spread out, check everywhere, and be back here ready to report at dawn. If it’s clear, we’ll move at sunrise.’
Sharr nodded and hurried down the slope as Gita continued, ‘Markus, get word to the officers to stand down until dawn.’
‘Very well, ma’am.’ He too rushed off into the night, leaving Gita standing with the sentries, looking down on the fires sparking into life here and there in the darkness below.
Brexan rolled over, shaking the wine-cobwebs from her head, wondering what aven it was and why she’d awakened Someone was knocking.
She squeezed open her eyes and yawned, then rasped, ‘Come in.’ She cleared her throat, which was horribly dry and uncomfortable. ‘Come in,’ she said again, more clearly this time.
‘The door’s latched, Brexan,’ a muffled voice whispered from the corridor.
She pushed back the coverlet, pulled a tunic over her head and padded across the floor. She let the door swing open while she used her bedside candle to light several more. Doren Ford emerged from the shadows.
‘Captain Ford,’ she said, obviously surprised. ‘Uh, what are you-? Is everything all right?’ She tried to smooth down her night-snarled hair, hoping to tame her curls before he noticed what an uncooperative nightmare they were. She self-consciously shoved as much hair behind her ears as she could.
‘I’m fine.’ Ford moved to the foot of her bed. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Uh, no, no, please, have a seat,’ she stammered then, finding nothing useful to do standing up, sat down herself, keeping as much of the bed between them as possible without tumbling off. ‘What can I do for you?’ Her heart was thudding with anticipation; while she found the older man handsome, she certainly wasn’t ready for suggestions like, Strip naked and climb into bed with me!
‘I’m concerned about your friends,’ Ford said. ‘And I know I promised safe passage to Averil with no questions asked, but I feel as though-’
‘You can ask me,’ she completed his sentence.
‘Yes, I feel as though I can ask you.’ He smiled. ‘We don’t know each other very well, but I have the sense that I can trust you – and I am not one who trusts many people, Brexan. I have the feeling that you’ll tell me the truth if I ask.’
I won’t – I can’t, she thought wildly, hoping nothing showed on her face. Please don’t ask me, please!
‘I need to know who they are.’
‘They’re friends of mine from the city,’ Brexan began, ‘and they need to get to-’
‘Stop that, please,’ Captain Ford cut her off. ‘They may be friends of yours, but I don’t believe any of that story about picking up a cargo three days’ north of here. Do you know what lies three days’ north of here?’
She shook her head.
‘Cliffs, lots of them, and deep water.’ He pulled a pipe from his tunic, remembered where he was and put it back. ‘I’ve picked up cargoes from other ships before; everyone has – it’s standard when dealing with the Malakasian navy. So we sail north, tie up to an outlaw ship and load whatever it is your friend Garec doesn’t want to tell me about. And a run to Averil wasn’t what I had in mind; I was hoping for something that would get me back to Southport. But with the merchant fleet reduced to splinters and the docks here filling with unshipped cargoes, I can get to Averil and back and still load up for Southport before the southern Twinmoon. As word of what happened spreads, sailors are going to flock here from all over Eldarn. I’ve come to some agreements with a few wholesalers in the last couple of days. However…’
‘However?’ Brexan caught him glancing at her bare legs in the dim light. When he looked away she quietly drew the coverlet over them.
However, Garec and Kellin have a great deal of silver, more money than I would make even in a long-term contract with an Orindale distributor. I know I can put them off for a Moon, if necessary, but I need to feel confident that nothing untoward is going to happen to my ship or my crew on this daisy-run Garec claims we’ll have to Averil. So-’
So?’ Brexan bit her lip. Stop doing that to him.
‘What’s the cargo?’
She watched the bedside candle flicker in the draft from the hallway. She wanted to tell him the truth. She wasn’t quite sure why; maybe it had something to do with Nedra and the Topgallant Inn. Since Versen and Sallax had died, Brexan had been toying with the idea of a new life, an honest life, in which she always told the truth, and was rewarded through hard, honest work. Sitting here in the half-light, colluding with Captain Doren Ford: this was her old life again, and though she wasn’t slicing him open or crushing his skull, still this felt underhanded to her; dirty, even.
She decided to start with the truth and see how long she could maintain it. ‘The cargo is people, two men who couldn’t come into Orindale.’
‘Outlaws?’ He hadn’t been expecting this; transporting people was relatively easy, even if he was boarded and searched. People were easy to hide or disguise. Once, during the warm season, he had dropped a political outlaw in the Ravenian Sea when Sera Moslip spotted a Malakasian naval cruiser bearing down on them. After the search he’d ordered the Morning Star about and they had picked up their waterlogged guest, none the worse for an aven in the refreshingly warm water, and continued on to the Estrad River. ‘Well, why didn’t Garec say so? People aren’t a problem; we’ve done that before. Who are these fellows? Criminals? Political idealists? Partisans?’
‘They are-’ Brexan searched for the right words. ‘They are powerful men.’
‘Really? With the Resistance?’ He didn’t care for politics, but for what Garec and Kellin were willing to pay, he would make the run – the daisy-run – to Averil, drop these idealists in the shallows and be back to ship as much as he possibly could to Southport with the southern Twinmoon. With no loading or unloading to worry about, he might even make the run in record time, saving five or six days.
He felt better about the whole thing now. ‘Brexan, I do apologise for waking you. I’m embarrassed that you-’ He glanced where her naked legs had been.
‘Don’t worry about it, Captain Ford,’ she said, ignoring the little voice that was nagging her to tell him he was really going to Pellia, and there was a chance he might not survive the trip.
The soft light of her candles illuminated the lines in his weather-beaten face. He reached out for one. ‘Do you mind if I take this? I need to see my way back to my room. I didn’t use one coming down here; I didn’t want anyone to think-’
‘That’s fine,’ Brexan said quickly. ‘Good night, Captain.’
‘Good night, and thank you again.’ He started to pull the door closed, then Brexan hissed at him to wait.
‘One last thing,’ she murmured, taking a deep breath and steeling herself. ‘Please be careful with these people. I know Garec doesn’t look it, but he can be a dangerous young man.’
‘Him? Nonsense,’ Captain Ford smiled. ‘I’ve been around a long time. I’ll be fine.’
‘Trust me, Captain. If things should take an unexpected turn, remember what I’m telling you. These are nice people, but they’re also partisans, and very tough. They’ve been through a lot.’
‘Garec’s a boy; he could be my son,’ he said. ‘Good night, Brexan.’
As the door swung shut, Brexan whispered, ‘His friends call him Bringer of Death.’
Ford hesitated. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Then thank you,’ he said, his smile fading. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
Brexan felt her insides clench. She was sitting astride a dangerous fence, and she didn’t know on which side she might fall. Tell him to flee, she thought. Come up with some excuse and get him out of this. He’s a nice man, and you’re going to get him killed. She pulled the covers up to her chin and asked, ‘When can we leave?’
‘On the turning tide tomorrow, if you’re ready.’
‘We’ll be ready.’ She blew out the remaining candles and said, ‘Good night, Captain Ford.’
In the front room, Garec and Kellin relaxed in great padded chairs by the fire, a mostly empty flagon of wine between them. The landlady had finished clearing up for the evening and had gone to bed an aven earlier. Garec stretched his legs towards the flames and said drowsily, ‘Why are we still awake?’
Kellin swallowed. Her mouth was dry and tasted like stale wine. ‘Because it’s our first night together in a real boarding house.’
‘So what do you call all those nights since the wave washed us almost all the way to the Northern Forest? Weren’t those nights together in a boarding house?’
‘Those nights of you shivering with fever and me nearly comatose from the effects of querlis, not knowing where we were, if we’d live through the night, or what we’d do if we did survive to see the sun rise?’ Kellin asked. ‘No, they don’t count!’
‘Good point.’ Garec yawned, then blinked to clear his vision. ‘What aven is it?’
‘Middlenight, at the earliest.’
He stared into the fire. ‘You don’t think we’re still awake because we don’t know if Steven and Gilmour are alive, or if we’ve found a captain and crew to get us to Pellia, or if we have the resources, military or mystical, we’ll need to exorcise whatever is holding Mark Jenkins hostage, to free him and send Steven, Hannah – wherever she is – and Mark home to Colorado while simultaneously liberating Eldarn for all time?’
Kellin smiled. She slid her chair close enough to reach him and slipped a hand under his tunic. Caressing the taut flesh beneath, she whispered, ‘No, I don’t think it’s any of… whatever it was you said just then.’
Garec, distracted now, took a swallow of wine to moisten his own throat and said huskily, ‘So why are we still down here?’
She fumbled with leather ties; Garec made no move to stop her. Loosening the knots, she said, ‘How’s your head?’
‘The wine and querlis help. How’s your shoulder?’
‘The same, I suppose.’ Kellin ran her hand lower, feeling him begin to tremble. ‘Have you ever… in public?’ she murmured softly.
‘In a tavern?’ Garec’s eyes widened. ‘No!’
‘But you could be convinced?’
He closed his eyes and slid low in the chair. He wasn’t sure he would make it all the way up to the room without embarrassing himself. He groaned softly and said, ‘At this moment, I’m confident you could convince me of almost anything.’
‘That’s good,’ Kellin said, releasing him long enough to use her one good arm to unfasten her own leggings. ‘We’ll head upstairs to continue our conversation, but I think we need to see to something else first.’ She fumbled with her ties and cursed.
‘I’ll do that,’ Garec interrupted. ‘You busy yourself with something constructive, will you?’
Kellin laughed as he slid her leggings to the floor and ran his hands up her smooth thighs. ‘Hm, no underclothes,’ he said appreciatively, stroking her flanks.
She moaned in anticipation, pushed him back in his chair and pulled herself onto him. The chair creaked under their combined weight, but the lovers ignored it as they explored each other’s bodies by the wavering firelight.
‘I took them off when I went upstairs earlier,’ she whispered provocatively. Her legs were too thin; she needed a Twinmoon resting and eating, but in Garec’s eyes she was beautiful.
‘Upstairs? But that was two avens ago,’ Garec said, sounding shocked. ‘You knew?’
‘Of course I knew, you cracked-headed Ronan,’ she cooed as she did something with her internal muscles that left him gasping.
He held his breath, hoping to hold off the inevitable, but it was no use. As Kellin moved her hips in a lithe, unexpected motion, Garec cupped her soft buttocks.
‘Unlace my tunic,’ Kellin breathed in his ear.
‘I can’t-’ he gasped, but Kellin was inexorable.
‘I want to feel you against my body,’ she panted. ‘I can’t get the laces-’
Garec closed his eyes tight and sucked in a deep breath; he held it as long as he could before crying out, his body spasming with the power of his orgasm. He held her tightly to him as he came, and they stayed entwined together for several long moments.
Finally he croaked, ‘Upstairs,’ his voice hoarse with effort, ‘upstairs, please.’
Kellin rested her forehead on his shoulder. ‘Yes, upstairs, now. I want to feel you, all of you – and there’s not enough space here to do everything I want you to do to me.’ She licked his ear and he twitched again. She grinned devilishly, climbed off him and snatched up her leggings.
‘Bring the wine,’ she ordered, and made a dash – naked from the waist down – for the staircase at the back of the room.
Garec struggled out of the chair, looked around for his own leggings, which had somehow ended up tangled under her chair, and rescued them. Staggering slightly, he collected the flagon and followed Kellin up the stairs.
Marrin Stonnel knocked twice and poked his head around the door to the captain’s cabin. ‘Tide’s turned, Captain,’ he announced.
Ford was sitting behind a modest desk, writing in his log; he didn’t look up. ‘Are our passengers aboard?’
‘Aye sir, she is,’ Marrin said, then corrected himself. ‘Sorry, they are, Captain.’
Ford pretended not to notice. ‘Good, then we’ll get underway. I’ll be up in a moment, so up anchor and make ready.’
‘Our course, Captain?’
‘We’ll be heading north once we hit deep water,’ he said, his mind back on the log in front of him.
‘North?’
Marrin’s obvious shock made the captain look up. ‘North, sailor, that’s right. I’ll be up in a moment to give you a heading, but in the meantime, get all hands on deck and make ready. And, Marrin, I don’t like repeating myself.’
‘Uh, Captain?’
‘What is it?’ Ford was about to lose his temper.
‘Well, sir, I was just wondering- Last night, sir, you- I noticed you were gone for a stretch, sir, late last night, and I was wondering-’
‘On deck, Marrin, at once!’ Captain Ford roared. He had no idea how anyone knew he had left his room, but if that little piece of gossip was out, he’d have to prepare himself for days of rumour and innuendo. He sighed, then jumped a little as he realised Marrin was still there.
‘I’m just saying, sir, that I think it would have been cathartic for you to bring closure to your relationship, sir,’ he said.
‘Marrin!’ Captain Ford shouted as he rose from his seat, but the mate had already dashed away.
He closed his log and stowed it safely, laughing to himself. ‘Closure,’ he murmured as he made his way to the bridge.
*
There was a stiff breeze from the south and the Morning Star had already come about and was tugging at her anchor, raring to go. With the Twinmoon only days away, the tides pulled the Ravenian Sea towards the Northern Archipelago. In half an aven, when the slack water started to run, the little Pragan brig-sloop would dash north like a racehorse. With an empty hold she’d be skipping over the waves on a quick and lucrative journey to Averil.
It was the talk of the crew that the quiet Ronan, the one called Garec, was carrying a lifetime’s savings in silver: easy work for easy silver, something that rarely happened to a merchant sailor. On any other ship, they might well sail into deep water, kill the passengers, pocket the silver and be back in Orindale for their next cargo, but Captain Ford would have none of that; he was no killer – and even if the thought had crossed his mind, Brexan’s warning had set him slightly on edge. He didn’t know who was waiting for Garec and Kellin in Averil, or if they had alerted anyone in Orindale to their travel plans. And he didn’t know who the two strangers were – powerful strangers – that they were to pick up outside the city.
So given that degree of ambiguity, the captain had decided to transport these passengers as quickly as possible, and then start tacking for Orindale as soon as he had discharged his duty. Perhaps Brexan would decide to accompany them back; that would be fine with him.
No one was more excited about their current journey than Marrin, who had figured that with the Morning Star running empty, he and Sera had about thirty-eight fewer things to get done before making way. As far as he was concerned, this little jaunt was as near to a pleasure-cruise as he was going to get: a half-Moon at sea for no apparent reason. Lovely!
His enthusiasm was contagious as he fired off a series of ridiculous orders. ‘Mr Tubbs,’ he shouted, ‘secure the for’ad hold!’
‘We’re not shipping anything in the for’ad hold, Mr Marrin!’
Some of the men laughed, while others shouted off-colour jokes.
‘Common mistake, Mr Marrin; don’t let it bother you!’
‘Mr Tubbs,’ Marrin laughed, ‘secure the aft hold!’
‘We’re not shipping anything in the aft hold, Mr Marrin.’ Olren Tubbsward, a grizzled mariner who’d been sailing for more Twinmoons than Marrin had been alive, chuckled as he pawled the capstan.
‘Ah, Mr Tubbs, secure the main hold, stow the quartermaster’s inventory and cast off the barges. Get moving, Mr Tubbs, this tide won’t wait!’
Dropping everything, Tubbs snapped to mock attention. ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Tubbs shouted and, to the amusement of the crew, took several steps before pausing and pointing a gnarled, arthritic finger at his temple. ‘Uh, sir?’
‘What is it, Mr Tubbs? Make it quick, sir, make it quick!’ Marrin gripped the helm, doing his best impersonation of Doren Ford.
‘Uh, sir, we’re not shipping any cargo, sir. There are no ledgers; we don’t have a quartermaster, and there are no barges to cast off.’
‘Very well then, Mr Tubbs, nice work. Why don’t you help yourself to a jigger or two from my private stores?’ Marrin was lost in his performance, so engrossed in playing up the captain’s idiosyncrasies for his appreciative audience that he didn’t notice the sudden silence that had fallen over the crew.
‘Do you really think that’s wise, Mr Marrin?’ the captain said. ‘Beer at this aven?’
Marrin stammered apologies, slinking back from the helm, his face blazing red despite the cold. ‘Sorry, sir, it’s just- Um, Tubbs looked thirsty, sir.’
‘Get us underway, please.’ The captain had been a good sport, but now it was time to work. The crew of the Morning Star leaped into action, each to his or her appointed place, some scuttling up the rigging like monkeys, setting the sails, checking the lines; others manned the capstan whilst the day’s first watch took up position as they came about for their run up the coast.
Captain Ford smiled. The Morning Star was his life, and he was happy to be back to sea. He felt the brig-sloop beneath his feet; he knew this ship inside out and could almost guide her through the water by touch alone. She was only a little larger than a naval pleasure-boat, but they were single-masted, with fore and aft rigging, while the Morning Star was square-rigged on both her fore and mains. She was sleeker even than the quickest of the Malakasian schooners, already fast, and running empty she’d make even quicker time. Ford wondered what the record was from Orindale to Averil. With a northern Twinmoon and an empty hold, whatever it was, the Morning Star stood a good change of beating it. Or we might heel and swamp, he thought, searching for Marrin in the rigging.
‘Marrin,’ he called.
The youth dropped to the deck.
‘Did we take on additional ballast for this run? With no cargo, the Twinmoon and a northerly course, an unexpected gust could have us heeling to the scuppers.’ He wasn’t angry, not yet, but making good time was secondary to keeping the Morning Star afloat.
‘We did, sir, just a bit. I thought you might want to hurry along so we didn’t add much, just enough to compensate for drafting so high.’ As Sera Moslip joined them, Marrin elbowed her in the ribs and said with a raucous laugh, ‘The ballast, Captain, and whatever Sera’s added to her backside. I know you always count on that for a bit of additional weight. That old Nedra could certainly cook, couldn’t she?’
Sera, excited to be underway as well, pressed her lips into a thin smile before rearing back and slugging Marrin hard across the jaw. She shook an aching fist and muttered, ‘Sorry, Captain.’
The crew roared as Marrin fell to the deck.
The captain didn’t bother to hide his own grin. ‘May the gods bless and keep you, Sera,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ she murmured back, equally quietly.
Marrin, bleeding from a split lip, pulled himself up and stood on trembling legs. He turned to the captain, embarrassed, and shouted, ‘I do love this job!’
A roar of approval came from the sailors busying themselves on deck and in the rigging. The boy knew how to take his licks. It would be a fine sea day.
Garec laughed so hard his head hurt. He hooted and whistled and shouted Sera’s name along with the crew, while Marrin pulled himself together. ‘Did you see that, Kellin?’ Garec said, clapping her on the back. ‘That was beautiful; she’s like Versen, no gods-rutting warning at all, just, blam! and you’re on your backside waiting for the fog to lift. Oh, he would have loved this.’
Brexan, who had been quiet all morning, brightened. ‘I wish you would do more of that,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Talk of him.’ Brexan’s face was half in shadow.
‘Of Versen?’ Garec said, looking a little surprised. ‘All right, I’ll talk of him all the way to Pelli- ah, Averil, if you like.’ He searched her face, not sure what he expected to see. Brexan simply stared back at him. ‘You got to know him well in a short period of time, didn’t you?’ he said finally.
‘I don’t know what’s worse for me now,’ she said, ‘wanting what I had, keeping my little box of memories all tidy and neat, or wanting what you have, a lifetime of stories, highs and lows, good and bad. Do you know what I mean?’
‘I do,’ Kellin said. ‘It’s like my father – he died when I was young, and I never asked my mother about him. She told me some things, but I’ve always been content with what I remember of him. He’s the only perfect person I’ve ever known. He probably had just as many flaws as the rest of us, but I’m not interested in knowing them.’
Garec felt the Morning Star creak as it rolled beneath them. He said, ‘I don’t know what to tell you, Brexan, but I’ve lost six close friends in the last two Twinmoons. Sallax, Versen and Brynne were the best friends I’d ever hoped to have.’ Without looking at Kellin, he added, ‘I am as alone as I can imagine, but like anyone, I find comfort where I can, from Kellin, from knowing my family is safe at home, working the farm, from feeling like we’re nearing the end of a painfully long struggle… and most especially from my memories of who they were – who they still are – in my mind.’ He reached for Kellin, who took his hand. ‘Did you know that Versen could eat his own weight in eddy-fish? Eddy-fish… We lived a quarter-aven from the ocean, and all he ever wanted to eat were those fatty bottom-feeding river fish that any seventy-Twinmoon-old kid would throw back as worthless. We used to stay up late, drinking and singing, and sometime after the middlenight aven, when the rest of us were beginning to drift, he’d come charging in with rods and rigs, a couple of bottles of wine in his cloak, wanting to go night-fishing.’
Garec looked around the deck and smiled. ‘I wish now that I had gone with him more often, but it was always humid and the bugs were bad down there. But Sallax often went, and they’d come back after dawn, hungover, and smelling like a warm case of death, and we’d all eat eddy-fish for breakfast. It was wonderful.’
‘How did he prepare it?’ Brexan was crying, but she was smiling through her tears.
Garec snorted, then, embarrassed, said, ‘He always rolled them in something – ground sugarroot, pepperweed, greenroot, anything he could lay his hands on. We teased him about it, that all he was doing was trying to find the perfect mask for the flavour – eddy-fish tastes like day-old laundry water to most people. But actually, he had a way with them that made them edible – the sweet potatoes were the best.’ He licked his lips, savouring the memory. ‘It was his own invention. He’d fillet the fish, dunk the bits in egg, and then coat them in mashed-up sweet potatoes. Then he fried them… gods, I can remember the smell! Those mornings everyone joined us for breakfast.’
‘Sweet potato-wrapped eddy-fish, for breakfast?’ Kellin made a face.
‘And beer,’ Garec added.
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Brexan said as she wiped her eyes. ‘You’ll have to make it for us one day.’
‘I’ll have a go at it, but I don’t know where we’re going to find eddy-fish out here.’ He turned to watch Orindale fade off their stern.
Kellin pointed at Marrin, now climbing the rigging above the mainsail like a lemur. ‘Punched out, and he can still crawl about up there. I’d have given up five or six times already.’
‘Or bailed my stomach, for the gods and everyone to see,’ Brexan agreed.
‘We were lucky to find them,’ Kellin said softly, ‘and even more lucky to find you, Brexan.’
‘They do seem to be a competent crew,’ Garec mumbled.
‘I hate lying to them,’ Kellin said.
‘So do I.’ Brexan was glad for the chance to bare her soul a bit. ‘I don’t know how we’ll convince them to make for Pellia.’
‘We won’t have to,’ Garec said. ‘Steven and Gilmour will take care of that.’
‘It doesn’t seem right,’ Brexan said, pressing the point. ‘These are good people.’
‘This is bigger than us, Brexan,’ Garec said. ‘You know that. If a guilty conscience and the loss of their trust is all we have to suffer from here on in, then I’m all for it. Unfortunately, there’s much, much worse waiting for us in Malakasia; trust me.’ Garec blurred for a moment, his shadowy doppelganger, the Bringer of Death, appearing, flickering and then fading like Orindale harbour. He had seen and suffered more than either of them knew; that much was apparent. If he could stay focused on their goal, surely they could too.
‘Come on,’ he said and started towards the helm. ‘Let’s see if we can help.’