Jacrys lifted his head, blew hard enough to clear a lock of hair from his face and considered the stairway. It might have gone on for ever. He had been up and down these same stairs countless times over the Twinmoons but had never before realised how steep and precarious the crooked slats nailed into sloping cross beams were. They could not be more than a breath or two away from collapse.
‘I can’t make it,’ he wheezed. No one heard; the others were wrestling with bags and a heavy trunk. ‘Thadrake,’ Jacrys’ voice rattled, ‘Thadrake, I can’t make it up there. All that time on Carpello’s yacht and I never imagined I wouldn’t be able to make it up the steps at my own safe house.’
‘What’s that, sir?’ The young officer dropped the bags and walked into the foyer. Thadrake was back in uniform since negotiating their safe passage through the naval blockade early that morning. With his leather polished to a shine and his jacket brushed to within an inch of its life, he looked as if he expected to encounter Prince Malagon strolling along the quay at any moment.
Jacrys gripped the one handrail that looked sturdy enough to support his weight. ‘I said, there’s no way I can make it up these stairs. I never-’
‘Mirron and I can-’
‘Don’t interrupt me when I am speaking!’ Droplets of blood sprayed from Jacrys’ lips and his head bobbed in time with his laboured breathing. He inhaled as deeply as he could, hollow tree, coughed a wet, throaty spasm, loose gravel, and said, ‘Don’t interrupt me, Captain. Remember your place.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mirron, General Oaklen’s healer, joined them, and immediately spotted the blood. ‘Good rutting lords, sir, you’re bleeding again. I told you to stay in bed! I said going about on deck was a mistake – you have opened that wound again, sir, you have to-’
‘Shut!’ Jacrys whispered, then doubled over in a prolonged coughing fit. When he finally raised his head again, the front of his tunic was splattered with blood, and a trail of blood-stained saliva dripped from his lower lip. With an effort, he spat, then whispered, ‘Just get me upstairs.’
Together Mirron and Thadrake helped Jacrys up the ramshackle staircase and into the small apartment. It was sparsely decorated, with a simple cot against the back wall, a small chest of drawers and a chair near a window overlooking the quay and twin wardrobes flanking the wooden doorframe. Inside one, Mirron found bedding, a rack of expensive clothes and a ceramic basin, which he placed on top of the chest of drawers. In the other, he discovered several shelves of outlawed books, science, history and even storybooks, all generations old, printed before Prince Marek closed the universities.
In a bedside table, Thadrake found several candles and a tinder pouch. He kindled a small fire in the tiny hearth and when it was burning nicely, he added a couple of logs from the woodpile next to the fireplace, just enough to warm the room.
All the while, Jacrys lay on the cot, staring out of the window towards the harbour. Finally, he tilted his head far enough to find Mirron, standing with his back pressed against one of the wardrobes. Unwilling to minister to the wounded spy without permission, Mirron waited for instructions.
Jacrys nodded at him and the healer crossed and knelt at his bedside.
Jacrys fought to lift his head from the pillow; he didn’t want to give orders lying down, not any longer. ‘Mirron… leave the querlis,’ he managed, then, haltingly, ‘You are relieved of duty. Find a transport back to Orindale. Tell Colonel Pace that I dismissed you.’
Mirron flushed, indignant, and started, ‘But sir, you-’
‘Don’t argue,’ Jacrys cut him off. ‘I don’t care what you have to say. You’re dismissed.’
The elderly man stood stiffly, trying to preserve a measure of dignity, and said, ‘Very well, sir. Good luck with your convalescence.’
Jacrys tried not to laugh. Mirron had been quite right: he had done this to himself. If he hoped to live through the next Twinmoon, he needed to proceed cautiously; laughing was banned. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, ‘although I think we both know there isn’t going to be any convalescence.’
Mirron said nothing, just started for the door.
‘Ah, Mirron,’ Thadrake said, ‘the querlis?’
The irritated healer stomped down the rickety stairs and into the crowds moving along the Pellia waterfront. Thadrake retrieved the bags, did some unpacking to avoid the uncomfortable silence in the small room, then added more wood to the fire.
‘Leave it be,’ Jacrys whispered.
‘But sir, it’s too cold-’
‘It’ll warm up when they stoke the ovens downstairs. They’ll bake bread for this evening. It gets plenty warm in here when they do. If you make me a querlis poultice, I’ll most likely sleep through the night. That should give you some time to look around a bit, perhaps find someone who can tell you about the goings-on here in the capital, or even at the palace. And I know you’re not a healer, Captain, but I’m glad to be rid of that horsecock Mirron.’
‘Me too, sir.’
‘Excellent. Now, please look beneath the third plank from the left, there near the window.’
‘This one?’ Thadrake heard a hollow thud when he thumped the board with the toe of his boot. ‘Something under here?’
‘Silver, copper, some tobacco – although it’s probably no good any more – and a bit of root.’
‘Fennaroot?’ Thadrake looked surprised. ‘You don’t seem like the kind of man who would use that stuff.’
‘Not for me,’ Jacrys rasped, shaking his head slightly, ‘but it can be an excellent aid in interrogation.’
‘Really?’ Thadrake used his knife to pry up the length of old wood. ‘I would have guessed that your methods of interrogation were a bit more… well, rough.’
‘There are many ways to conduct interrogations, Captain.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said as he withdrew the contents of the hidden storage chamber. ‘Did you want some of this root now, sir?’
‘No, you blazing fool,’ Jacrys murmured. ‘I want you to take some of the silver and get us something to eat, some wine, the best you can find, more querlis and maybe a pair of willing young women.’
‘That’d kill you,’ Thadrake smirked.
‘Ah, but what better way to start towards the Northern Forest?’
‘How about much older, and in your sleep?’
‘Good point.’ Jacrys found to his surprise he was enjoying the banter. ‘Forget the whores, but maybe bring back-’
‘A pastry or two?’ Thadrake risked the interruption. Pastries were one of Jacrys’ weaknesses.
‘Yes, please.’ The spy rolled into his blankets and closed his eyes. ‘I’ll be here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Thadrake pocketed a handful of copper Mareks – there was no need for silver.
‘Thadrake?’ Jacrys didn’t bother opening his eyes. ‘Nothing for the morrow. I take only bread and tecan in the mornings, understand?’
‘Very good, sir.’
Later, with the remnants of their shared dinner on the table, Thadrake, still in uniform, sat near the window, watching a team of sailors and stevedores prepare a three-masted schooner tied up at the wharf. He swallowed a mouthful of wine, the finest he had tasted in his life, and propped his feet up on the chest.
Thinking Jacrys asleep, Thadrake poured another goblet and nibbled at what meat remained on the gansel leg. From the darkness behind him, the spy asked, ‘What’s happening out there?’
Thadrake jumped, spilling wine on his leggings. ‘Rutters, you scared me.’ He put his goblet on the table, mopped up the wine and moved to beside Jacrys’ bed. ‘Not much, sir,’ he reported. ‘The dockers are making that three-master ready to sail. Customs officers have already been on to check her hold. I expect they’ll be pushing off shortly.’
Jacrys’ breathing sounded worse. He wouldn’t live much longer if he didn’t get to a sorcerer with knowledge of the healing arts. There was too much blood pooling in his lung and attempting to cough it out would only exacerbate the injury and kill him more quickly. ‘I’d like to see that,’ he murmured.
‘Would you?’ Thadrake considered the cot. It was a simple wooden skeleton with leather straps to support the thin mattress. ‘Hold on, sir.’ He hefted the head of the small cot and dragged it to the window, then went to the wardrobe and collected the rest of the bedding to prop up Jacrys’ head and shoulders, giving Jacrys an unimpeded view of the quay, the waterfront and the harbour beyond.
When he’d finished, he asked, ‘Are you all right, sir?’
At first Jacrys didn’t respond, and Thadrake was starting to fear he’d actually killed the spy. Finally, Jacrys made a sound that, a Twinmoon earlier, would have been a sigh of contentment but now sounded like something broken. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he whispered.
Thadrake drained what was left in his goblet. ‘I worry, sir, that perhaps you shouldn’t be at the window for too long. It is quite draughty here.’
‘I’ll be fine right here,’ Jacrys said. ‘Good night, Captain.’
‘Good night, sir.’
‘And Captain,’ Jacrys turned his head and found Thadrake in the candlelight and repeated, ‘thank you.’
Within the aven, Jacrys was back on the slip of sand across the Welstar River. Brexan was with him.
Thadrake sat up until the candles burned out, finishing the wine as he watched the schooner push back from the pier and disappear into the night. Listening to the Malakasian spy struggling to breathe, even in his sleep, Thadrake eventually drifted off himself.
Garec stepped on deck and immediately regretted it. Roiling black clouds filled the sky with the promise of freezing rain. What would be a pleasant dusting of snow on the Falkan plains was a bone-chilling drenching for the passengers and crew of the Morning Star, and just to exacerbate the discomfort, the ship was running north under a steady Twinmoon wind, heeling over in a way that – to Garec – felt dangerously close to capsizing. He braced his boots on the canted deck, gripped the gunwale and made his way carefully towards the helm. I will never get used to this, he thought grimly. Give me the mountains any Twinmoon; this is madness.
Captain Ford was at the helm, looking absurdly happy with their tailwind and the following tide. ‘Good morning,’ he shouted over the din.
Garec grabbed the wheel to keep from falling. ‘Do we have to be tipped quite so far over? Is this normal?’
‘Perfectly normal,’ the captain assured him. ‘Just a bit of heel – we want to make good time; so I had Marrin and Tubbs haul the sheets in tight. We’re rutting near flying before this wind. You don’t feel it while you’re asleep, because your hammock acts as a plumb: the ship rolls around you. It’s not a good way to get your sea legs, though. You ought to sleep in a bulkhead bunk. By the time you wake up, you’re already used to the swells.’
‘Is that what you call these terrifying waves? Swells?’ Garec sounded incredulous; it felt like a full-fledged flood tide to him.
‘They’re not the big ones.’ He grinned and wiped the spray from his eyes. ‘We’re saving those for up north.’
‘Oh, good,’ Garec forced a smile, ‘because I was worried that perhaps this would be too easy. I mean, we’ve had such a quiet and enjoyable journey so far.’
‘I noticed your head. How is it? Getting better?’
‘Sure, and if I don’t drown when this boat rolls over, I’ll probably have Kellin take the stitches out in the next day or two. Right now it itches more than anything.’
‘I know the feeling.’ Captain Ford made a slight adjustment to their course, forcing Garec to release the helm for a moment and trust his footing. ‘I’m sure Tubbs or Sera have some tecan brewing if you want some. They’ll be in the galley.’
‘No thanks.’ Garec swallowed hard. ‘I don’t think I could eat anything right now. I like to swim on an empty stomach.’
‘The ship is fine,’ the captain assured Garec with an avuncular smile. ‘As a matter of fact, this is the way she likes to run, just like a horse; loose her reins and let her go.’
Garec thought of Renna, his much-loved mare. It was true; the fiery beast was never happier than when he let her have her head. ‘Can I bring you some tecan?’
‘No thanks, that’s a port drink, a luxury. Out here we drink our own brew, something Sera dreamed up about fifteen Twinmoons ago. It’s mostly rosehips; they grow all over southern Praga, right up to the waterline, too. They’re easy to find and we dry them over a beam in the for’ard hold.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Marrin tried smoking them once, just for laughs. He looked like his face was on fire.’
Garec looked anxiously across the rolling sea to where waves were shattering against the granite cliffs of western Falkan. ‘How much further?’
‘At this rate?’
‘Or a bit slower,’ Garec said. ‘Too many people hurry too much these days. It’s not healthy.’
‘We ought to be in sight of the fjord in about two avens, just after midday.’
‘What? That’s too early,’ Garec cried. ‘We’re here too early; it needs to be late tonight, or tomorrow morning.’
‘Sorry, my friend, a couple of avens and we’re there.’ He fixed his gaze on Garec, ignoring the ship for a moment. ‘Unless you want to make a run in there.’
‘Into the shallows?’ Garec shouted over the wind. ‘It looks rough.’
‘It won’t be the high point of your trip.’
‘Is there a way to wait out here for them?’
‘To stop? No. But we can reef the main, foremain and topsails. In this wind, the topgallants will keep us on course, but-’
‘But what?’ Garec was turning the colour of mould-cheese.
‘You’re going to feel every one of those swells; it’ll be like riding on driftwood.’ He hid a smile. Normally he would be angry at losing time with such a following sea, but he had agreed to take on additional passengers and that meant waiting.
‘Fine.’ Garec started for the galley. ‘Thank you, Captain. I’ll bring you some of your rosehip concoction.’
But the captain was already shouting, ‘Into the shrouds! Let’s go, all of you! Reef the main, fore and tops! I want to hit a wall! Let’s get the brakes on!’
‘Gilmour?’ Steven was at the tiller, double-checking that the sail was lashed to a wooden cleat near the stern. Gilmour sat in the bow, leaning against the mast with his legs extended, his ankles crossed, utterly comfortable. Steven thought he looked like he was sunning himself in a poolside lounger. ‘Do you remember when we talked about maybe crossing in this little catboat?’ Gilmour opened one eye and Steven went on, ‘I lied. I’m not going out there. It’s insane.’ They were at the mouth of the fjord, having enjoyed a pleasant, if chilly, run through the cleft in the Falkan cliffs. The swirling breezes inside the fjord had been tricky, and more than once Steven had cursed and changed course moments before splintering the sailboat against the sides, but compared with what lay before them, the fjord was a milk-run.
A narrow channel of deep water appeared to roll west to east with the rising tide, while the shallows on either side of the granite gates looked like they were closing in. Whitecaps were forming well out at sea, breaking, rolling and breaking again before reaching the cliffs in a noisy crash of spume and saltwater.
Steven was seriously thinking about turning back. ‘This is insane,’ he repeated. ‘We won’t make it beyond the breakwater.’
‘Of course we will,’ Gilmour said. He was irritatingly calm. ‘Just keep the boat inside the channel there in the middle and we’ll pass right through.’
‘The channel? You mean that tightrope of deep water swelling up and rolling in here, Karl Wallenda?’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind,’ Steven said, ‘but look at how the wind’s blowing; it’s a frigging gale. Once we clear this southern cliff, we’re either going to capsize or we’re going to start hauling arse to Gorsk like we’re being chased by the goddamned hound of the Baskervilles.’
‘Just think about what has to happen. Use your knowledge; use your determination and make it happen.’
‘This is too big, Gilmour. This is too much. I can’t-’
‘Yes, you can.’ Gilmour sat up and looked at his apprentice. ‘It’s just wind and water, that’s all.’
Steven watched the Ravenian Sea hurtle past the mouth of the fjord like traffic on a highway. Beyond the granite gates the scene was a seamless grey background for a dreary Expressionist painting; whitecaps and black storm clouds were the only things distinguishing sea from sky.
He thought about what he knew of physics and wave motion. The whitecaps crashing against the shore were not striking at right angles, but coming in on a diagonal tack, pushed by the wind and tide, and then they bounced, out of phase, back into the fray for another turn around the dance floor. If he could capture that breeze first, the reflected breeze off the cliffs, he would have a tailwind – granted, on an angle – but a powerful tailwind that would hopefully push Mark’s toy sailboat far enough into the crosswind that they wouldn’t find themselves splashed flat, like Wile E. Coyote, against the northern cliff face. With the fjord ending, there was no time to come up with another option.
‘I think I’ve got it,’ Steven said.
‘Do you need my help?’
‘Just keep your head down; try and stay dry.’
‘No, I mean my help. Can I do anything?’
‘No magic this time. I don’t want to risk Mark sensing us.’
Gilmour sat up, genuinely surprised; he’d decided to risk a bit of magic to reach Garec and Kellin, and then belay it entirely until their arrival in Pellia. ‘Really?’ he whispered, shrugging out of his cloak and kicking off his boots. ‘This ought to be interesting.’
Steven hauled the little sheet in and reached out to take hold of the boom himself. He held it steady, pointing directly east into the fjord.
The catboat slowed almost to a stop, her sail flapping, empty and ineffective.
‘Steven?’
‘Just wait for it, Gilmour, one more second…’ The little boat rode up one side of a huge swell, hung on its crest, hesitantly overcoming inertia, and then slid into the trough. Just enough of its snout peeked into the crosswind for the sail to fill with the tendrils of the northerly breeze.
At first, it was a gentle gust that tugged at the sheet and took up the slack in the rigging; the sail puffed out a bit, and Steven let go of the boom but clasped the rig line, keeping the sheet close and the bow pointed directly through the channel. ‘This isn’t bad,’ he murmured, as much to convince himself as anything, ‘we can do this.’
As the little skiff cleared the granite gates of the fjord, the full force of the crosswind slammed into them like a broadside cannonade. The sail, surprisingly tough, took the punch and held on. The boom ran out to starboard and the rig line tore through the flesh of Steven’s palm, leaving a red stain on the last few inches of hemp.
‘Holy shit!’ Steven shouted, ignoring the blood and clamping his injured hand down on the rope. He hauled it back in as far as he dared and quickly made it fast to the tiller cleat. ‘Mother of Christ, that hurt!’ he yelled as they began to pitch hard to starboard; they were going over.
‘Let it go, Steven!’ Gilmour yelled, ‘we’re going to sink!’
‘Get to port,’ he called back, ‘throw your weight against it. Get up on the gunwale; sit on the bastard if you have to!’ Steven pressed his back and shoulders against the port rail himself, pushing the tiller as far to starboard as he could with one foot. He watched the rig line strain against the cleat and cursed himself for tying it off too soon. There was no way to reach the line and let the sheet out, even a few inches, to ease their starboard pitch. ‘Come on baby,’ he urged, ‘come back, just an inch or two, you can do it!’
For a few seconds, the little sailboat balanced on a knife’s edge. With the sheet filled to bursting, the tiller hard to starboard and all the ballast Steven and Gilmour could muster far to port, they waited, holding their breath and praying that they would right themselves.
‘Stay over, Gilmour,’ Steven cried, ‘and pray to all the fucking saints in Christendom! Just another breath-’
They were being blown northwest, the deep fjord slipping away to the south and the rocky shallows off the northern gate closing fast.
‘We’re going to hit those rocks!’ Gilmour cried.
Steven smiled despite his terror; this was exhilarating, and any thought of giving up and using magic to guide the little boat through the channel was lost in the excitement of the moment.
When the keel finally gave, correcting to port, Steven shouted, ‘Woo hoo! What a ride, Gilmour! Goddamn, that was something!’ He started for the cleat, wanting to let the sheet out, just a little, when they started to pitch back to starboard. ‘Stay over, Gilmour,’ he cried, ‘straddle the rail if you have to!’ He loosened the rig line and let the boom slide a bit further out; with the tiller still pressed to starboard, the keel righted and they slipped through the channel like quicksilver.
Gilmour stood in freezing ankle-deep water and looked questioningly at Steven. ‘And for your next trick?’ he asked, grinning.
Steven smiled and wiped his face. ‘Get bailing. We don’t want to swamp.’ He too grinned, and when Gilmour looked quizzical, he added, ‘It’s just that I’m staggered at how often my maths obsession has saved our necks on this little vacation. Be glad I wasn’t a poetry junkie!’
Gilmour started cupping handfuls of water and shovelling them over the side, but there was twice as much coming in. He growled, then stood up and shouted a quick spell. The bilge-water suddenly turned into a miniature tidal wave, rolled from stern to bow, and then up and over the gunwales into the sea.
‘That’s better,’ Gilmour said, retaking his seat beside the mast. ‘Tell me again why we didn’t use magic to get through there.’
‘Mark might find us, and anyway, I was too distracted by the physics of the whole thing.’ Steven watched the water bailing itself over the side. ‘Can he detect that?’
‘No, it’s a carnival trick. It would be like him finding a burning candle.’ Gilmour pushed his matted hair away from his face and said, ‘Distracted, huh? Weren’t you distracted when the floodtide swallowed us in the river outside Wellham Ridge?’
‘That was different; I was afraid of dying and the magic just burst out of me in an explosion of frantic self-preservation.’
‘And you weren’t – aren’t – afraid of dying today?’
Steven smirked. ‘Mathematics can be pretty distracting, Gilmour! Now hold on, we’re about get clobbered again.’
‘Do you want me up on the railing? I don’t think I can get any wetter than I am right now.’
‘No, this one shouldn’t be that bad. We don’t need the tailwind here; so I’ll let the sheet out, come about, and then haul it in gently. We’ll get kicked, but it won’t be anything like that last one. You start watching for Garec and Kellin. They’ll likely be the only ship out there – any captain would be near-on suicidal to be in this close today-’
They plunged into a deep trough, burying the bow beneath the waves. ‘Shit and shit and shit,’ Steven said, ‘I didn’t see that one coming. Keep bailing will you, or we’re screwed running.’
‘Got it,’ Gilmour muttered, repeating his spell, but adding a lilting phrase to the end of his incantation, something he hadn’t said before. The water, deeper this time, began receding almost immediately. ‘That ought to keep us dry, but watch the bloody road, will you?’
‘You sound like my mother,’ Steven said. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, a captain would have to be raving mad-’
‘Or exceedingly well paid,’ Gilmour finished.
‘Exactly. So we’ll signal the closest ship we see and hope to hell it isn’t the Malakasian navy.’
‘Or your roommate.’
‘That would be awkward, too.’ Steven checked the sheet, let go the boom and pulled the tiller slowly to port. As they came about, he hauled the sail in and caught the wind before the northerly swells overwhelmed their bailing spell. It was a clumsy tack, and the little boat jolted as Steven held fast, tearing a bit of fresh flesh from his already bloody palm. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to mix up another couple of gin and tonics after that one. I guess I’m rusty.’
‘Rusty? At sailing a rickety skiff through a gale? I’m disappointed; I had such high hopes for you.’
‘This isn’t a gale; this is just… bumpy.’ They were running north now, canting steeply to starboard but making way with alacrity. Steven let the sheet out a few inches more; he didn’t want to be stuck out here having to make repairs, especially with the fjord fading behind them.
‘Just watch for anything hull-up on the horizon,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ve thought up some creative way to signal them.’
‘I’ll handle it.’ Gilmour dug in his tunic, withdrew his pipe and a pouch of dry tobacco.
‘Does that stuff ever get wet?’
‘Once, yes, some fourteen hundred Twinmoons ago. Southern Malakasia. It wasn’t a good day.’
‘There,’ Sera said, pointing over the starboard cathead, ‘d’you see it?’
‘Pissing demons,’ Marrin said, ‘what is that? Fire?’
‘That’s them,’ Garec said. ‘Can we get in that close?’
Captain Ford watched the fireballs leap over the swells, climb as high as the Falkan cliffs and then explode in colourful pops. He didn’t like it. For a moment he considered turning about, giving back the silver and making the near-impossible run to Orindale, close-hauled on the wind.
Garec said, ‘It’s just them, maybe a few satchels of extra clothing. Apart from a knife or two, neither of them carries any weapons.’
‘So what is that?’ Captain Ford was angry. ‘What haven’t you told me?’ He searched the deck for Brexan. ‘Who are these people?’
‘We agreed, Captain Ford, that you were not going to ask any questions.’
‘I understand that, but these aren’t Resistance leaders, or soldiers. At least one of them has significant magic at his disposal.’
‘He does,’ Garec said.
‘What are you doing in Averil?’
‘None of your whoring business.’ Garec wasn’t about to be bullied. ‘Suffice to say that we have engagements in Malakasia that don’t concern you or your crew.’
‘Magical engagements? Or are they transporting some sort of explosive? Because if I get one sniff of anything that might blow a hole in my ship, I’ll cast the lot of you overboard.’ Captain Ford glared at him, but Garec was unimpressed.
‘Did you hear me?’ he shouted again.
Marrin and Sera backed off a few paces, while staying near at hand, ready to assist the captain in any scuffle – not that either of them thought he would need help to subdue the younger, smaller man.
Garec lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And you’d be dead before you took two paces. Pay attention, because I don’t have time to argue with you. I’ll kill you, your crew, your dog if I have to, and I will take your ship and sail it anywhere I please. Now, I am happy to pay for your services, and I assure you that neither of my friends is carrying anything explosive. Both of them have a bit of magic they can summon from time to time, but nothing that represents a threat to you or your ship. The only threat you need to be concerned with is me.’
Captain Ford stopped, considering Garec’s threat. He was not one to be bullied either, especially on his own ship and in front of his crew, and he silently cursed himself for agreeing to carry passengers, regardless of how much silver he stood to make. He had promised himself he would never get involved in politics, and apart from the occasional illegal passenger tucked behind a pallet of lumber or vegetables, he had never broken his vow. This was not going to end well. ‘Listen, you snot-nosed little brat-’
‘Pay attention!’ Garec shouted again, then lowered his voice. Without averting his eyes, he looked at Captain Ford and said, ‘You have one man working on the forecastle, one in the rigging. Sera and Marrin are flanking us, waiting for any sign from you that they should tackle me or heave me over the side. Tubbs is still below with Kellin and Brexan, and I promise you, Captain Ford-’ his voice rose ‘that I could kill all of them before you cried out a warning.’
Captain Ford laughed and took a menacing step forward. ‘That’s impossible, you pinch of grettan-’
‘Not,’ Garec interrupted, ‘if I start with you.’ Neither Captain Ford, Marrin nor Sera had seen the arrow appear in his hands, but he held it to the captain’s throat, a makeshift skewer. Rotating it gently in his fingers, Garec ground the tip into the leathery flesh until a trickle of blood ran under his collar.
Captain Ford’s hands were trembling. He tried to see Marrin and Sera, but he couldn’t find them. Finally, he said, ‘Stop.’
Garec lowered the shaft and said pleasantly, ‘Let’s go and get my friends. That’s a little boat they’re in, and I don’t believe either of them wants to spend all day waiting for it to capsize.’
‘Tell me who they are.’ Captain Ford hadn’t moved. ‘Resistance leaders?’
‘Yes, powerful ones.’
‘Magicians?’
‘Yes, powerful ones.’
Captain Ford felt the Morning Star beneath his feet and vowed to make the run to Averil in record time, even if it meant staying at the helm the entire trip. ‘What do they do for the Resistance?’
‘Espionage, mostly, no real military entanglements.’
‘Brexan and Kellin?’
‘The same, I guess.’ Garec shrugged. ‘Kellin was part of a military unit until she accompanied us south from Traver’s Notch.’
Captain Ford nodded, swallowing something bitter. ‘And you?’
‘I kill.’
‘Very well,’ Captain Ford said. ‘But I don’t take orders on my ship, Garec Who Kills.’
‘I have no interest in ordering you to do anything, Captain,’ Garec smiled, ‘and I am happy to take orders, swab decks, fillet fish, haul lines, polish brass, and dig ditches, just as soon as you stick to your end of our agreement and sail over there to collect my friends.’
Captain Ford turned away. ‘Marrin, Sera.’
‘Sir?’ they replied in unison.
‘Make your heading zero, six, five, and prepare to take on passengers.’
‘Very good, Captain.’ They were already moving away.
‘Thank you, Captain, honestly,’ Garec said. ‘If it’s any comfort, I don’t enjoy my role with the Resistance. Not ever.’
‘I don’t find that especially comforting.’
‘I don’t suppose it is, but I am telling you the truth.’
Captain Ford dabbed at the wound in his neck. He held up a finger, looked at the blood, then wiped it on his cloak. ‘That’s fine, Garec. Let me just say that I hope it haunts you for a hundred lifetimes.’
‘It already does.’ Garec started below. ‘I’m going for some tecan. Would you like some?’
Captain Ford was taken aback, but after a moment, he said, ‘Some of the rosehip, if you would be so kind.’
‘Right away.’ Garec disappeared below.
Hannah saw Hoyt stumble, but he kept his feet and they continued running through the serpentine coils of Pellia’s northeast district, a largely residential area with roads that looked they’d once been goat paths before being cobbled over when civilisation arrived.
‘You all right?’ Hannah wheezed.
Hoyt was pale and dripping sweat, too winded to answer as he half-ran and half-staggered through the twisting confusion of alleys. He was weak; his shoulder hadn’t healed, despite his efforts with querlis and Alen’s medicinal spells. He ran with his arm tucked against his ribs, making him look ungainly, disfigured. Hannah guessed the Seron who stabbed him had dipped her knife in something deadly, not magical, for Alen could disentangle even the worst magic a Seron could concoct. This must be bacterial. Hoyt’s fever had been raging for days, and though querlis brought his temperature down at night, during the day he could barely stand by himself. He was running now on pure will.
Halfway across a junction of five roads, he stopped and bent over, trying to catch his breath. ‘Do you see them?’ he gasped.
‘No.’ Hannah put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You should stop.’
‘We can’t, we have to catch up. Who knows what that horsecock will do with her?’
‘Erynn won’t let anything happen to her.’
‘Erynn?’ Hoyt looked up. ‘She’s the bloody nuisance who got us here in the first place. She’s a ninety-Twinmooner; you think the Seron are going to listen when she asks them to please keep their hands off the little girl? No, Hannah, Erynn is in this as deep as the rest of us.’
Hannah turned a full circle, looking and listening. ‘Which way?’
‘Down there, across the northern neck?’
‘No, we went there once already; it goes out to that little beach, and I bet this one does, too.’ Hannah pointed to her left, along a westbound alley.
‘That leaves these three.’
‘Eenie, meenie, meinie, mo.’ Hannah pointed east. ‘Let’s try this one.’
Hoyt wiped his eyes. ‘Remind me never to learn that language of yours.’
‘Come on.’ She helped him up. ‘The houses are too small along these others; I’m betting something as big as a warehouse is east of us, maybe even on the water.’
‘I’m going to kill that docker when we get back.’ Hoyt started running again. ‘His directions were ganselshit.’
‘Maybe Alen got lucky,’ Hannah said, trying not to give in to her fear that it was already too late, that Milla was right now on her way upriver, bound for child slavery in the bowels of Welstar Palace.
‘I hope so,’ Hoyt said, ‘because if Alen finds them, they’re all dead.’
The cobblestone road narrowed, and Hannah’s hopes fell: this was the wrong way. They’d have to double back all the way to the roundabout. There were too many ways to get lost in here.
‘Hoyt, this can’t be right,’ she said sadly. ‘We have to go back.’ The buildings had closed in on either side; it was too narrow now even for two carts to pass.
‘Wait,’ Hoyt panted, ‘look down there. Is it brighter, or am I dying?’
‘Okay, we’ll try it,’ she said. Hoyt wouldn’t make it all the way back to the intersection, not running, anyway.
The cobblestone street widened into a public marina with squat warehouses on either end. This was more an elaborate dry-dock and smokehouse than a storage facility, but they had guessed right. Wooden longboats and bulky trawlers were moored in the cove, their masts canted over like trees in a gale. Along the shore, dozens more were resting belly-up, waiting for shipwrights to patch them up in the spring so they’d be good for another season’s work.
‘There it is,’ Hannah said, ‘that one, over there, with the hole in it.’ By hole, she meant the seaward access door, where those needing repairs or winter dry-docking could sail in and, using a clever system of pulleys and belts, have their longboats lifted from the water, later to join the others lined up and frozen outside.
Here.’ Hoyt handed her a hunting knife he had stolen in the last Moon.
‘Terrific, another knife.’
‘Just take it,’ he said. ‘And don’t think about it, just slash anyone – anything – that gets too close.’
‘Fine,’ she murmured to herself, ‘super, “just slash”, lovely. Can’t wait.’ She followed him across the marina. ‘Hey, how are we going to do this?’
‘If it’s just Erynn and whatshisname-’
‘Karel.’
‘If it’s Erynn and Karel,’ Hoyt said, ‘we’re going to scare the dogpiss out of them, take Milla, and threaten to turn them in for abduction.’
‘And if there’re Seron?’
‘Then we’re going to die.’
‘Oh. Good.’ Hannah considered the hunting knife. Just slash. ‘Why don’t we go and find Alen?’
‘No time,’ Hoyt said, and stumbled again. Hannah propped him up, holding him around the waist. ‘If they take her out of here, we’ll never get back inside Welstar Palace, certainly not into that slave chamber,’ he pointed out grimly.
Inside the warehouse, Hannah nearly vomited at the unholy stench, a grim concoction of rotting fish guts, seagull guano and charred hickory. The facility obviously doubled as a smokehouse as well as a shipwright’s dry-dock before the onset of winter. Bracing herself, she ushered Hoyt down a short hallway and into the main chamber where a wooden dock, about twenty feet across, lined three sides of a vast open workspace. The fourth side, while still protected beneath the cathedral-style roof, was open to the sea, and a twelve-foot drop separated the dock from the water below. The sea was comparatively still inside the dry-dock station, and it had actually frozen in places. The pylons were coated in a thin sheet of ice which reflected the late-day sun and brightened the inside of the warehouse. Across the open rectangle of sea water they could see Erynn and Karel standing next to a brazier. A heap at their feet could only be Milla, wrapped in a blanket from the inn. With one side open perpetually to the sea, and the chilly northern waters lapping about underfoot all day, Hannah could not imagine a colder place than this to work. For a brief moment she envied the smokers; at least they could huddle around their aromatic fires.
‘Erynn!’ Hannah shouted, her voice bouncing about the cavernous room. ‘Erynn, what are you thinking? Do you know how much trouble you’re in? How worried your parents are?’
‘Leave us alone!’ Erynn shouted, shocked that they had been discovered.
Hannah ignored her and started around the pier. ‘Milla? Are you okay, sweetie?’
‘It’s cold in here,’ Milla replied, ‘but I’m all right.’
‘We’re coming to get you, Pepperweed,’ Hoyt said.
‘Stay there,’ Karel warned, drawing his sword, but still looking like a child playing soldier in his father’s clothes.
‘And Karel, you stupid shit,’ Hannah was too angry to stop, ‘what’s wrong with you? Are you so lovestruck, you ignorant little bastard, that you’ve lost your mind? What are you planning to do, hand her over to the army? Sell her to a seaman? I’ll tell you this, Karel, you’re in over your head. Officers don’t take clandestine meetings in abandoned smokehouses. So do you know who’s coming here? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’
Still snarling and brandishing the blade, Karel puffed up his chest to respond, but Erynn cut him off. ‘It’s you, isn’t it? You and Hoyt and Alen? You’re not her parents, you’re terrorists. I know it was you; I heard Hoyt saying he was going to bury them. He said it that night in the front room. I told you, I don’t try to overhear things, but sometimes I do. And, anyway, I know it was you who attacked that wagon train. You killed those soldiers, and you burned all that wheat. There are people in Treven who needed that wheat, Hannah! My grandfather is there, and he needs that wheat. He’s sick; you knew that. How could you be a terrorist?’
Hannah continued to make her way around the rectangular dock. ‘Erynn, you have it all so wrong – that wasn’t wheat, and it wasn’t headed for Treven.’
‘Liar!’ Karel shouted. ‘Don’t listen to her, Erynn.’
‘You’re wrong, Karel,’ Hoyt said, staggering beside Hannah. ‘It wasn’t wheat, but enchanted tree bark on its way to Welstar Palace, where it will be used in a monstrous spell. There are unimaginable horrors going on at the palace, and if you’ve got any bit of brain left in that empty head of yours, you’ll try to avoid being stationed there, ever. Tell me you haven’t heard rumours.’
Karel looked down at Milla. ‘They’re liars, Erynn. They’ll say anything to get her back.’
‘So what exactly are you planning to do?’ Hannah asked, trying to sound concerned, friendly. ‘You’ve kidnapped a little girl. How can you imagine this will end well for you?’
‘They’re just going to keep her until you tell the truth,’ Erynn said. ‘You have to turn yourselves in and tell them where the others are hiding.’
‘"They’re going to keep her"?’ Hannah echoed. ‘Who’s they, Erynn?’ Hannah and Hoyt were nearly all the way across the interior pier, rounding the final corner.
Erynn started to cry.
‘Who are you waiting for? Who’s meeting you here?’ Hannah realised she and Hoyt been so desperate to rescue Milla that they had come through the building without checking their flank. She looked now, quickly, for other routes to the outside.
‘We thought you would go quietly if you knew they had Milla,’ Erynn tried to explain, ‘otherwise you might have been hurt.’
‘You’re nothing but a pawn in their evil game, Erynn, and you too, Karel.’ Hoyt sounded disgusted. ‘They know Milla at Welstar Palace. They’ve been searching for her for the past Moon – surely you’ve seen them in their black and gold leathers? They’re Malagon’s personal police force. You think you’re heroes; you’re not. You’ve done nothing but endanger an innocent child, and you’d better pray to the gods of the Northern Forest Alen doesn’t find you.’
Exactly on cue, three men emerged from the smokehouse. Their black and gold uniforms outshone even Karel’s polished army leathers. Hannah had seen soldiers like these before, with their distinctive ceremonial capes; she flashed back to those chilling moments astride the flying buttress, hearing Churn call for her and then watching him slip away. ‘Oh shit, Erynn, what did you do?’ she said softly, despairingly.
‘Are these the ones?’ the tallest of the soldiers, a sergeant, by the markings on his sleeve, demanded of Karel.
Don’t do it, you prick, Hannah thought, please don’t turn us in.
‘Yes, Sergeant; that’s them,’ the boy said, shaking. And there’s another. He’s here somewhere, here in the district, anyway. His name is Alen Jasper and he’s from Middle Fork.’
‘Disarm her, and take them into custody,’ the sergeant ordered. ‘If they resist, kill the sick one; keep the woman. She can explain herself to the captain.’
Hannah had forgotten the knife, which she was still holding loosely; Hoyt had his scalpel beneath his cloak but he was in no condition to wield it, especially against these two. When the soldiers started for her, Hannah smiled nervously and tossed the blade into the sea. She held her hands up in surrender.
‘Wise decision, girlie,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘You’re going to live through the day. How about that?’
Hoyt mimicked Hannah, lifting his cloak over his shoulders and raising his arms.
‘Some terrorists, huh?’ The soldier elbowed his squad mate.
‘Deadly dangerous, eh?’ He twisted Hannah’s arm behind her back, ignoring her cry of pain, and ushered her towards Erynn and the others.
‘You injured, son?’ the second guard, a lean fellow with a rapier, asked Hoyt.
‘Just my shoulder,’ Hoyt replied, ‘a stab wound, but I’ll come quietly.’
‘Then I’ll lay off the arm, how’s that?’
‘Seems fair,’ Hoyt said and fell in behind Hannah, the soldier following with his rapier drawn.
The sergeant crossed to Karel and Erynn. ‘Surprisingly good work, soldier.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Sergeant,’ he corrected the boy.
‘Sergeant, sorry, Sergeant.’ Karel flushed.
‘What’s going to happen to Milla?’ Erynn was still crying.
‘She’s going to Welstar Palace where she’ll be enslaved by Prince Malagon,’ Hoyt said. ‘All thanks to you, Erynn.’
‘Shut him up,’ the sergeant ordered. The soldier guarding Hoyt stabbed him through his already injured shoulder.
‘Ah, gods!’ Hoyt screamed as he fell, hitting his head on the chilly planks as blood soaked his tunic.
‘Hannah?’ Milla said, trying to disappear inside her blankets. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Don’t worry, sweetie.’ Hannah kept her voice calm, despite the pain in her elbow. Another inch and she was sure her arm would simply pop off.
Erynn stepped between the sergeant and the little girl. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you can’t have her until you tell me the truth. You have these two; why do you need to take-?’
The sergeant backhanded Erynn hard enough to knock her reeling. She stumbled to one side and Karel tried to catch her.
‘Hey,’ the boy shouted, ‘keep your hands off her! We’ve done our duty!’ He drew his sword, a toy compared to the array of weapons the Welstar guards carried.
‘No!’ Hannah screamed, but the boy was already staggering backwards, the sergeant’s short blade hilt-deep in his chest.
The sergeant picked up Milla and rewrapped her protectively in the blanket. ‘Come, my dear,’ he said. ‘We have a long trip home.’
Karel stumbled then collapsed. Stupid bastard, Hannah thought bitterly, he never had a chance.
The soldier holding Hannah’s arm said, ‘You, too, girlie. Let’s go.’
‘Let me help him, please,’ she said, nodding towards Hoyt.
‘He’ll be all right,’ the soldier said, then just stared at Hannah, a look of shock and confusion on his face. He released her arm as he cried out and fell, clutching his ankles.
Hoyt rolled onto his back after he’d used his scalpel to slash the guard’s heel tendons. The man stood for a moment, then folded up, cursing, and tugging at his short-sword. The guard with the rapier tried to run Hoyt through, but the moment’s distraction as he’d watched Karel die had allowed Hoyt to slice into the man’s knee, straight through the ligaments.
Hoyt would have preferred to disable both legs, but he had lost the element of surprise and had no option now but to dive outside the rapier’s range before attempting a second attack. He didn’t know how he would deal with the sergeant; the man already had Milla in his arms and might kill her before Hoyt could get off the floor. He was dizzy, sweating with fever, and bleeding, but he had to stay lucid.
What would Churn do? he thought, but came up with nothing except: Beat the grettanshit out of everyone. That wasn’t much of an option for the weary would-be surgeon.
‘Stop!’ the sergeant screamed, drawing his sword. He was still holding Milla, but he knew he could best Hoyt one-handed. He didn’t give Hannah a passing glance as he hurried to assist his men.
‘No,’ a small voice interrupted imperiously, ‘don’t you hurt him.’
The sergeant felt pressure in his chest, but he ignored it. This fight would be over in two breaths. One of his men lay crippled, the other was bravely trying to attack while dragging a bloody leg.
‘I said no!’ The voice was angry this time, and the Malakasian felt an iron fist grip his heart. He gaped at the little girl in his arms. She had a tiny hand pressed flat against his chest and was pouting up at him, her bottom lip trembling in the cold.
He dropped his sword, ignoring his men as they fought on, determined to kill everyone in the warehouse, and stumbled around. He stared at the tiny girl, little more than a baby, frowning back at him and held her tightly – he had no other choice – as he staggered to his left and fell into the freezing waters of the North Sea.
‘Milla!’ Hannah shrieked. She turned to Hoyt, but he was already crawling to the pier’s edge. The rapier-wielder, still armed and deadly despite his knee injury, thrust as Hoyt passed; he missed, but only by an inch or two. Hannah saw an opportunity and took it, shoving into the guard with her shoulder. As she crashed into him, they seemed to hang in mid-air, then went over the side and through the thin sheet of ice.
‘Milla,’ Hannah choked, and kicked away from the injured Malakasian. The cold hit her like a train; she would only have a few minutes before hypothermia set in. ‘Milla! Sweetie, where are you?’ she called urgently.
‘I’m over here,’ the little girl said, ‘watch me, Hannah! Watch this.’ She was swimming furiously, kicking and paddling with her determined little chin thrust out of the water. ‘I’m doing the scramble!’ she howled with pleasure, completely ignoring the dead body floating beside her. ‘Watch me, Hannah, watch how well I’m doing.’
Certain her skin had already turned blue, Hannah turned to look at the second soldier. He’d managed to get to one of the slippery supporting pylons, but couldn’t get a grip on the ice. He was shouting up to his comrade, the one with the severed Achilles tendon, but apart from calling down words of encouragement, the third Malakasian was able to offer little help.
Hannah paddled over to Milla, and wasn’t surprised to find the water around the little girl was as warm as a summer bath. ‘You are a great swimmer,’ she said, and dropped a kiss on her head.
‘We have to tell my Mama, and Alen,’ Milla said excitedly, and then she remembered the sergeant. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah,’ she started to say, downcast, ‘but he wanted to get Hoyt, and I thought-’
‘Milla, it’s fine, sweetie,’ Hannah said, and kissed her again. ‘Don’t you think about it another moment, all right?’
‘All right!’ She looked around. ‘Do we have to go now?’
‘We should. How about we swim together to that wooden ladder outside the big doors?’
‘All right,’ Milla repeated as she started to paddle away. ‘Do you think there are sharks?’
‘No, sweetie, no sharks; it’s too cold.’
‘Good, because I’m afraid of sharks.’
‘I’m afraid of sharks too,’ Hannah told her, then shouted to the Malakasian guard who was screaming and tearing his fingernails on the pylon, ‘Hey, hey! You want to live? You’d better come with us.’
‘I can’t- I can’t do it… I need-’
‘Shut up!’ Hannah shouted, surprising herself. ‘Get over here, the water’s warmer.’
Hoyt was kneeling above her, watching through glazed eyes. ‘You sure you want to do that?’
‘We’ll be fine. How are you?’
‘Never better,’ Hoyt murmured. ‘I’m just going to lie down for a bit while you two climb out of there.’
‘Stay awake, Hoyt,’ Hannah shouted, then to Milla said, ‘come on, Pepperweed. We’ve got to hurry.’
Captain Ford drank his third beer. It wasn’t enough to get him drunk but it would soften up his corners a bit. He never got drunk before going to sleep; he needed to be able to get on deck in a hurry should the overnight watch cry out. He skewered a piece of Tubbs’s jemma, simple but hearty fare, and with the schools running south, there were plenty for the taking. He never tired of watching the old sailor heave his ancient net over the rail. Tubbs would never allow anyone to help him, and sometimes he had a hard job of it to keep from being dragged overboard.
Save for two lamps the captain’s cabin was dark. The Morning Star, riding the heavy, rhythmic swells towards Averil, rocked gently. Other than when he was at the helm, this was Captain Ford’s favourite time at sea.
He thought of Kendra, back home, and wanted very badly to be with her. She wouldn’t mind if he came into Southport with an empty hold; she knew the run from Strandson to Orindale had been a gamble, but she also knew that he had to take it. They had plenty of money to see them through the winter Twinmoon, even without an inbound shipment, but Captain Ford had his crew to think of. He needed to keep them working, earning enough that they wouldn’t need to consider leaving the Morning Star for a bigger, more lucrative boat. He was happy with the brig-sloop; she was not the biggest of ships, but she was quick. His crew knew their jobs, got on well with one another, and were invariably ready for the next run. He was lucky; there wasn’t much turnover of manpower on the Morning Star, so he rarely had to worry about new people getting used to the culture established over time and adventures together.
But this journey had put all of that in jeopardy. He had put everything in harm’s way – his lifestyle, his crew, his ship, everything – for a bag of silver, and he felt sick to the stomach about it. He regretted ever letting Brexan talk him into delaying his Orindale contracts for this ‘daisy-run’ into Averil – daisy-run? He was shipping sorcerers, partisans, killers to Malakasia. What would Eastland partisans want with Averil? Were they planning to burn the city down? Poison the flour shipments, maybe sink a few galleons? Who knew what these people were capable of? He propped his elbows on the table and rested his forehead in his palms and sighed. ‘But you brought them there, didn’t you?’ he said out loud. ‘You rowed them to shore, even gave them a big, wet slathery kiss as they said farewell and began planting their explosives. So they all get killed, but not before they mention you and your boat during the interrogation. Then you get to spend the rest of your life shipping dirt to dirt farmers in Dirt Village for free, because no one in Eldarn will hire you. Or, even better, you get to run from the Malakasian navy until they finally corner you in some gods-forsaken cove at the arse-end of nowhere and burn your ship to the waterline. And all because Marrin Stonnel got you thinking about tits one night after one too many beers. And maybe it would have been different if she had just walked over to the table, but no, the place was crowded, and she almost danced her way to us. That’s all there was too it: bad luck, bad timing and bad decisions.’
Captain Ford finished his beer, tried to steer his thoughts back to his wife, and considered opening a fourth bottle. Maybe it would help him sleep after all. He stabbed another mouthful and cursed, ‘No, you bastard, no easy rest for you tonight.’
A knock at the door derailed his thoughts. ‘Marrin,’ he growled, ‘bugger off-’
Brexan stepped inside. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you were eating.’
‘Of course they sent you,’ he muttered.
‘Of course who sent me? For what? Did I miss something?’ she sounded genuinely confused.
Have you not been huddled all day in the forward cabin with Garec, Kellin and those new fellows, the two young men we picked up this morning?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘So they sent you.’ He reached into his crate for another beer. It was heavy, clumsy to ship in bottles, but he didn’t care for fennaroot, and wine was a luxury, like tecan, a port drink. And I’m certain I know why they sent you. I’ve had my dose of Garec Haile and his esoteric brand of diplomacy. Does he kill everyone he meets, I wonder? So that wouldn’t work; after all, I’m already in fear for my life, my crew and my ship. So you wouldn’t get any further with me by sending Garec. But you’re not stupid, are you? You know I’ve taken a fancy to you, call it a schoolboy crush, maybe, or a feeling of getting a bit older and losing a step and wanting badly to have it back. And ka-blam, you enter my life, bat your pretty eyes at me and ask me to ship your friends to Averil. Of course, I say yes. What else can I say? It’s a huge amount of silver for almost no work, and I get to spend the better part of the next Moon watching you, Brexan, I watch you hauling lines, and mopping decks and even helping Tubbs dole out the evening crud for supper. I’m getting older, and I should know better, I should have known better, but I didn’t, and now I’m here, waiting to see what bucket of grettanshit they’ve sent you in here to sell me.’
‘No one sent me,’ Brexan said. ‘I came on my own.’
‘An honest answer? Or are you just softening me up? That tunic isn’t nearly as flattering as the one you were wearing when you asked me to take you on this little pleasure-cruise.’
‘I didn’t lie.’
‘But you didn’t tell the whole truth, did you?’ Captain Ford leaned forward, then relaxed back into his chair. He had been taken for a fool; now he wanted to salvage what dignity he could. ‘What’s happening in Averil, Brexan?’
‘I can’t-’
‘Or are we not really bound for Averil?’ He saw her involuntary reaction and sighed. ‘Rutting whores, that’s it.’ He poured the beer. ‘You want one?’
‘No, th-’ She paused. ‘Actually, yes, why not?’
‘Have a seat,’ he said politely. ‘We can discuss our destination.’
‘They meant to tell you,’ she said. ‘I was just coming to apologise. I didn’t want you to think-’
‘Well, I’m thinking it. So you can take what little conscience you think you have and toss it over the side. What do you do for the Resistance? I know you’re not a scullery-maid. And was the old lady, Nedra, in this with you, or is she the reason you’re trying to salvage your self-esteem?’
‘I’m a… a spy, I suppose,’ Brexan confessed, ‘and yes, Nedra’s one of the reasons I came to talk to you.’
He was shocked at her admission, but he wasn’t sure what he meant to do about it. ‘You must not be much of a spy; I don’t know of many spies who go around admitting it’s their job.’
Brexan half-grinned. ‘No, I’m not a very good spy, but you should have seen me in the beginning. I was downright wretched.’
Captain Ford didn’t join her in celebrating the thimbleful of honesty. ‘So where are we bound?’
‘Averil, if you insist. I can talk them into it. I know I can.’ Garec’s words came back to her: 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. There’s much, much worse waiting for us in Malakasia.
‘Don’t do that.’ Captain Ford was angry. ‘Don’t try to make amends now. Where are we bound?’
She hung her head, remembered Garec again, and forced herself to look the captain in the eye. ‘Pellia,’ she said quietly.
‘Pellia!’ Now he leapt to his feet again, shouting, ‘Pellia? You’re joking, aren’t you? Why not just sail upriver to Welstar Palace? I can hear the Malakasians manning the blockade already – they have one, you know, a gods-whoring net as tight as my uncle’s arsehole. “Where are you bound, Captain Ford?” “I’m bound for Pellia, sir.” “What are you shipping, Captain Ford?” “Oh, nothing!”.’ He was raging as he spat out the little scenarios. ‘And that’s where the road ends, Brexan, in case you were wondering where and how your life would unfold over the next two hundred Twinmoons. Nope. It ends right at that exact moment. And not just yours, but mine, Garec’s – well, thank the gods of the Northern Forest for that one – and the rest of us. We’ll all be taken prisoner and escorted into the blackest, most foul-smelling nightmare of a pit you’ve ever imagined.’
‘It’s important,’ Brexan said quietly.
‘I knew you were going say that. Of course, you think it’s important. You wouldn’t be sitting here with your guilty heart bleeding all over my charts if you thought it was a “daisy-run”. But let me share a secret with you: It’s not important to me or my crew!’
‘Actually, it is,’ she said, trying not to sound as desperate as she was. ‘Your life depends on it – all our lives depend on it. Without this trip, we will all die.’
‘We’re going to die up there anyway.’
‘Not just us,’ Brexan shouted, ‘all of us, every single person in Eldarn, everyone! That means your wife and family as well.’
Captain Ford lunged across the table and took her by the throat. ‘Don’t you dare mention my family, Brexan Carderic, not ever. Do you understand, spy?’ He spat out the word as if it were an obscenity.
‘They’re all going to die,’ she repeated, her eyes watering and her face flushing red. ‘I’m sorry.’
Trembling, Ford let her go, gulped the rest of his beer and rooted in the crate for a fifth. ‘Tell me-’ His voice was shaking; he took a long swallow before continuing, ‘Tell me how we’re all going to die.’
Brexan fell into her seat, gulped a mouthful herself and rubbed feeling back into her neck. Wiping tears from her face, she said, ‘The three frigates that shipped north from Orindale, you remember them?’
‘Apart from the naval cruisers, they were the only ships in the harbour left untouched by the storm.’
‘They’re shipping a stolen Larion artefact, something with the power to open the Fold and usher into Eldarn an evil so destructive that we will all be killed in an instant, or, worse still, enslaved forever in a foul, never-ending nightmare.’
‘Larion?’ he said, disbelieving.
‘It’s true, and the two men we picked up this morning have the power to destroy it and kill the man who’s stolen it. They can’t defeat him if the artefact is in operation; they don’t believe they could even get near it, but if we can arrive in Pellia before those frigates, Steven and Gilmour could be at the wharf when the stone table is transferred.’
‘And kill the thief before he has an opportunity to begin using this artefact?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So your friends, these magicians, are on their way to Pellia to kill another sorcerer?’
‘Yes.’ Brexan didn’t see any point in confusing the situation by telling him Steven was determined to save Mark Jenkins.
‘And all we have to do is to reach Pellia and get through the blockade with no cargo and no reason for being there so that your boys can be on the wharf when three ships carrying what looks to be a whole division of Prince Malagon’s soldiers pulls into port.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Have you forgotten that they left before we did? They have a significant head-start.’ Captain Ford had calmed enough to return to his supper and finished another mouthful before asking, ‘How will we get past them? The Northeast Channel is a rutting highway this Twinmoon. We’ll be held up just by the amount of traffic running through there, that’s if we get there in time to catch the northern tides. And while we might be able to put on all sorts of sail and run the channel faster than most other ships heading north, bullying our way through the archipelago is just another way to draw the attention of the Malakasian navy. It won’t fly, Brexan.’
‘It will if you hug the coast and skip the Northeast Channel.’
Captain Ford laughed, a great burst of genuine disbelief. ‘Oh, that’s a much better option,’ he said, almost choking. ‘You’ll avoid the edge of the blockade right enough, but Brexan, a rowboat can’t get through that way. We’ll be kedging off every mud flat and rock formation the gods saw fit to sprinkle along that coastline. Have you ever kedged off in a brig-sloop? I know it isn’t a very big boat, but hauling it over a sandbar, even with the capstan and the anchor-line, you realise it’s a touch heavy. And during this Twinmoon, the water is quite cold. So scurrying about out there in all that nasty mud, we’re bound to catch a sniffle or two.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘You’re talking about suicide.’
‘I’m talking about the end of life in Eldarn as we know it,’ she said, deadly serious.
If nothing else, she obviously believes wholeheartedly in what she was doing, he thought. ‘You lied to me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I liked you.’
‘I hope you might again some day.’
‘If I refuse, Garec will kill me and take the ship?’
‘He probably won’t kill you, but they will take the ship.’
‘You lied to me.’
‘You said that, and I’m sorry.’
Captain Ford sighed, letting his shoulders slump. He was tired and frightened. Considering Brexan in the lamplight, he said, ‘I’ve never been anything but… My wife and I are…’
Brexan closed the door latch; it slipped noisily into place: warped wood on warped wood. Turning to him, she pursed her lips and unfastened her tunic belt.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t need your sympathy, and as much as I might need your… company, I don’t want it. I want to-’
‘What do you want?’ she asked as she went on removing her clothes.
‘I want you to go.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ It was hard for him to say. ‘You don’t want this, and if you don’t want this, I certainly don’t want this.’
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
You’re going to die, Brexan. Don’t thank me. I’d just as soon wear about, drop you with Nedra and make way, empty, for Southport and my family. This whole thing makes me want to run and hide.’
She buckled her tunic belt and finished her beer. ‘There is no place to hide.’
Captain Ford closed his eyes; it was easier if he didn’t have to look at her.
‘And I’ll make you a promise, not as a spy or a partisan or whatever you think I am, but as a scullery-maid and a friend of Nedra Daubert. I won’t lie to you again. It isn’t much, especially now, but I’ll be straight with you, about anything you ask.’
‘Do you find me attractive?’ Captain Ford murmured, unsure why he had asked, but hoping that perhaps chasing his emotions into this business might not have been an old man’s folly.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to sleep with me?’
Now Brexan sighed. ‘No, but I will.’
‘Very well then.’ He ushered her to the door. ‘Thank you. You can tell the others we’ll make for Pellia.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’
‘Again, I don’t want you-’
Marrin Stonnel crashed through the hatch, catching his foot on the doorframe and tumbling to the deck. ‘Captain,’ he cried, frantic, shaking.
‘What is it, Marrin?’ Captain Ford’s demeanour changed in a heartbeat as he became again the man he had been before Brexan’s unexpected visit.
‘A ship, northwest of us, was running off the wind, but she must have caught sight of something, because she’s just jibed to cut us off.’
‘Horsecocks!’ Captain Ford pushed past Brexan into the companionway, giving orders as he went. ‘It’s probably a naval cutter, or a schooner, maybe. If they’re running full, it’ll be a close race. Douse every flame, every light, and dump a bucket over the galley brazier.’
‘The coals, Captain?’
‘We’re upwind, Marrin; we don’t want them smelling smoke.’ Ford paused at the hatch, briefly making eye-contact with Brexan. ‘I want us in the dark, as dark as you can make it. And no smoking, no leftover food, nothing. Make our course due west; I want us running for the Pragan coast like a shadow. We’ll heel to the bloody scuppers on this beam reach, but we need to be hull-down by dawn. With luck they’ll think we doused the lights to make a run past them to the north. This wind is tempting; lots of captains would try it.’
‘But we’ll turn west?’
‘Right,’ Ford said, ‘and even if they catch sight of us at sunrise, we’ll come about and put on every bit of sheet we’ve got and make a sprint up the Pragan coast. Now I need to talk to these sorcerers.’