by Gregory Ashe
Chapter Three
The dagger flashed toward his face. Joaquim parried with his own short blade and thrust with his rapier. The rounded tip connected with Zirolo’s padded tunic.
“Point and match,” Etio said. “Pretty sloppy, both of you.”
“Easy to say when you’re always watching,” Joaquim said, dropping his dueling blades and then stripping off the heavy tunic. Sweat from the late morning sun soaked the light cotton shirt underneath. “You haven’t dueled me since I beat you six months ago. Not that I blame you, of course. It must be hard going up against someone who always wins.”
The clash of blades, accompanied by shouts and, just as frequently, oaths, filled the dueling hall of the gym. Ovals of white paint, stained in more than one place by dried blood, covered the floor of the room, marking off the individual dueling rings, and men parried and thrust with the traditional dueling weapons of Apsia—the rapier and the dagger—in almost every ring. Pillars, spaced widely along the perimeter of the hall, supported the arched ceiling while leaving the dueling hall open to light and air from outside. Even with this concession, though, the air of the dueling hall stunk of sweat and spit and blood. Once Joaquim had detested the odor; now he reveled in it.
“You only won three out of five,” Zirolo snapped, his round face flushed from exertion and irritation. “And one of those was close. If Etio hadn’t distracted me—”
Joaquim laughed. “Fine, fine. You’ll get another chance, don’t worry. Unless you decide to be like Etio. I’ve never seen someone so willing to watch instead of duel. You’d think he’d lost his sword,” and Joaquim made an obscene gesture, “instead of just a few rounds.”
Etio’s normally composed face darkened, and Joaquim realized he was pushing the line, but he felt too good to care. Winning felt good. Being better than others felt good. And angering Etio and Zirolo took his mind away from the more pressing anxiety of money.
“You’re going to push someone too far one day,” Etio said. “You’re lucky we’re your friends.”
“Lucky indeed,” Joaquim said. “Lucky you’re not as good at dueling as you are at drinking!”
“Very funny,” Etio said. “Now,” he picked up his light blue cape—capes were in fashion this summer in Apsia—and swung it around his shoulders, “I’m late for an appointment; you’ll have to celebrate your victory without me.” The tan man, shoulders still set angrily, turned and headed out of the gym.
“He didn’t have an appointment,” Zirolo said, wiping more sweat from his scarlet forehead. “You pushed him too far. You always do that, Joaquim.”
“You sound like my mother,” Joaquim said. “He’ll be fine; if he lets something like that get under his skin, he’ll never make it when he takes over his father’s shipping business.” He immediately cursed himself for bringing up business; he could see the question already forming on Zirolo’s lips. “Not that that would be so bad for me, I suppose,” Joaquim said hastily. “I’ll let him flounder for a few years and buy him out.” He caught Zirolo’s shocked look. Better than questions. “I’m just joking! Sisters defend me, you’d think I’d already sold him to some Manc slavers.” Mostly joking, he thought. I’ll have Bel’s luck if I’m not on manning a Manc oar by the end of the month.
“More likely Jaecan, considering who you like to deal with,” Zirolo said.
“Bloody Bel, that’s enough for one day,” Joaquim said. “I don’t have to spend time being nettled by you for whom my father chooses to trade with. I’ve told you a hundred times—the Dark Sister blind you—trade with Jaegal is perfectly legal; your father has more than one factor in Ghiynmar.” Zirolo laughed, and Joaquim could see the other man’s pleasure in having irritated him. “Fine,” Joaquim said, “bloody laugh, if you’re not too bruised from the drubbing I gave you.” He grabbed his own cloak, cut narrower than most and hovering on the edge between ridiculous and stylish, and tossed it over one shoulder. Then he grabbed his weapons and shirt and started out of the gym.
Zirolo caught up to him, sheathed dagger and rapier under one arm, still wearing his padded tunic. “Hold on,” he said. “Let me bloody change and we’ll go to a wine-house.”
Joaquim shrugged. “Hurry up, then; I’m going to wash up, but I’m not waiting for you.” He went on to the bath-house without stopping.
The gym sat on the western edge of Apsia, almost at the cliffs, and the sharp, cutting smell of the sea hung in the air constantly—even under the sweat and grime of the gym. The sun, hanging almost overhead as Joaquim left the dueling hall, sent waves of heat rippling up from the white paving stones. Chilled wine sounded perfect to him right now, but he knew that few of the proprietors would appreciate his patronage in his current, unwashed condition. Like Joaquim himself, the patrons of wine-houses tended to be from the upper-classes of Apsia, and he did not want to gain a bad reputation.
Etio was just coming out of the bath-house as he came into sight, the collar of his silk shirt—blue to match the cape—wet, and he gave Joaquim a half-irritated wave before heading out of the compound to the street. Joaquim acknowledged him with a nod; Joaquim would not be the first one to apologize. He entered the bath-house and found a barrel of water that still looked fairly clean and began to scrub himself as best he could. After dumping a couple of ladlefuls of water over his head, Joaquim threw on his maroon shirt and found a shady spot outside.
Zirolo appeared a few minutes later, his face beginning to resume its natural pallor, his hair wet. He still wore a light brown coat over his white shirt, an unfortunate leftover from last year’s styles, but Joaquim tried not to let his disdain show. Bel take him, it’s not as though he couldn’t afford better, he thought. His father had two ships in from Elese last year loaded with cishi and roshki. The Lesh dye and aromatic were worth their weight in gold. And his father would be first in line to send us all to the galleys if he caught wind that we were weak.
“To the wine-house,” Joaquim said.
“If you drink yourself under the table,” Zirolo said, “I’m not going to drag you home, certainly not in this afternoon heat.”
Joaquim laughed, but stifled the challenge on his lips. He did not have the money for a drinking contest, but there were still one or two wine-houses where he could open a tab.
Joaquim stumbled, certain he had seen a paving stone move. He stopped and stared at the offending stones. “If one of you even dares to move,” he said. He let the threat trail off. For a moment, they all looked like they were moving. He stumbled forward again, feet slipping on the stubborn stones.
Aside from his difficulty walking, which Joaquim knew was due more to the fickleness of paving stones in general, and perhaps of larger stones as well, Joaquim felt wonderful. The most delicious lightness buzzed through his head, through his arms, down into his belly, until he felt like he was floating. Wine was, by far, Lucanda’s greatest gift to the world.
The sun hung just behind the buildings ahead of him, lighting them up with brilliant halos, and the burnt orange of the horizon slid easily into the blue of the sky. The summer heat was fading, and a stiff breeze whipped through the city. Like every Apsian night, this one was beautiful. As he passed a row of well-pruned lilac bushes, the wind chose that moment to speed the smell of a nearby offal pile toward him. Joaquim gagged, then bent into the bushes and vomited.
“Are you done?” a hard voice asked him.
Wiping his mouth with the corner of his narrow cape, and, in the back of his mind, realizing it had been a bad idea to wear white, Joaquim turned. “Viane,” he said, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
She wore close-fitting black trousers, which showed off her legs wonderfully, and a tight black shirt. It was not stylish at all; Joaquim should have hated it, but, as usual, Viane sent something like a chill through him. No, not a chill, he thought. Like someone tied a string around my lungs and is tugging on them. Not very poetic, he had to admit to himself, but then, he was very drunk.
“Do you know what I like
about you, Viane?” he asked. The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“What?” she asked, her lips curving into a smile.
“Your breasts,” he said with a dumb grin. “You have beautiful breasts.”
She shook her head. Her long, dark hair was done up in a bun; he hadn’t noticed that. “If you would remember it tomorrow, Joaquim, I would slap you. As it is,” she paused, “I suppose a thank you is appropriate?”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “You do look terrible, though. Why are you wearing those clothes? You look like a dock rat.” He stepped closer, barely noticing as she took a corresponding step back. “Come back to my house with me, why don’t you? We didn’t finish talking earlier.”
Her big lips tightened into a line. “Telling me I look bad once is enough, Joaquim. Besides, I didn’t think you needed people like me. What did you say I looked like? A dock rat?” She turned and started down the street.
Joaquim almost did that the same; breasts or no, Viane had a way about her that infuriated him, and right then fury was tamping down drunken ardor. He walked after her. He needed money somehow. As a small consolation, though, the paving stones were behaving themselves better after his meeting with the lilac bush.
It was later than he had thought; the streets Viane took were quiet, almost empty, and the sun had already sunk behind the western cliffs. “Wait up,” he called after her.
For a while, he thought Viane was trying to escape him. She walked faster, and occasionally turned down side streets without any warning, but Joaquim trotted after, righting himself against the buildings that, every once and a while, seemed to lean out to meet him. The sea smell grew stronger, and he realized that, for all Viane’s detours, they were steadily going down the south side of the city, toward the heart of the vast docks that surrounded Apsia on three sides. The steep slope of the roads became smoother, and the descent more gradual, as they drew closer to the docks, and the tang of salt in the air became layered with the crash of waves and that almost imperceptible murmur of endless water that rode under everything else.
Viane halted at a corner of the street where the docks began, great stone quays jutting out into Apsia’s famed harbor. “You know what else I like about you?” Joaquim said as he caught up with her.
“Quiet. This isn’t the best place to be at night, in case you’d forgotten.”
“You’re smart,” he said, only slightly quieter, and as though explaining an unexpected twist in a play. “Really smart.”
“Smart and breasts, huh,” she whispered. “You know how to charm women. Women who look terrible, that is.”
“Well you do look bad tonight,” he said, “but not always. I mean, sometimes you dress nice.”
“Shut your mouth, Joaquim, before I leave you for the press-gangs to find.”
Joaquim realized, from the color mounting under her olive-colored skin, that his flattery was falling on deaf ears. The docks are quiet, he thought. Men wearing the sober black of the watch and holding shuttered lanterns walked up and down the quays, their forms barely visible in the twilight. Aside from the watch, though, the docks were empty.
“Where is everyone?” Joaquim asked. “I’ve only been down here in the day before. It’s dangerous down here at night, did you know that?”
“Everyone,” Viane said, “is probably where you were earlier today.” Then, as though to herself, she added, “And it’s a bloody shame you didn’t bring any of that wine with you right now, because I could use a drink, Sister of the Day help me.” She glanced over at him. “Take off that cape if you’re going to stay down here with me; it catches the moonlight worse than a mirror.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked, undoing the silver clasp.
“Roll it up and stuff it under your shirt,” she said. “I don’t care, just get it out of sight.”
He did stuff the cloak under his shirt, forming an uncomfortable, and unsightly, bulge over his stomach. They waited at the corner, hidden behind a pile of crates, for a good quarter of an hour, until darkness had fully settled across the city.
Viane headed onto the docks, walking parallel to the shore, past the warehouses and factor offices that, this close to the water, were owned by the richest and most influential of the merchants of Apsia. The light from a watchman’s lantern slid along the stones toward them. Viane dragged Joaquim into a darkened doorway, barely deep enough for the two of them. For several long moments Joaquim could feel nothing but the press of her breasts against him, and beneath them, invisible as the tides, her heartbeat—fast and frightened. The light moved on, and Viane stepped back into the street.
“Luck,” Joaquim breathed, head still spinning from the feel of her body.
Viane shook her head. “Just a little silver.” She led him down the quay and out along a wooden pier that ran perpendicular to the quay. They stopped at a small rowboat.
“This is your father’s,” Joaquim said, seeing the seal painted on the hull. “What are we doing? Bad time for fishing.”
“Are you going to help or not?” Viane asked.
He nodded and helped her untie the boat. As the boat slid away from the quay, Joaquim jumped in after Viane. At her shake of the head, Joaquim let the oars drop and leaned back. “You’re likely to bring every customs officer in the city down on us,” he said. “Money won’t do us much good when we’re rowing all the way to Mane.”
Viane let the oars into the water with barely a ripple, out again, then in. The rowboat moved slowly but steadily away from the pier and out into the harbor.
Sweat dripped from Viane’s face as they emerged from the harbor’s mouth. She was smart to choose black; anything else would have shown all that sweat. He turned around, stretching his back in the cramped boat, and saw the dark outline of a ship just outside the harbor, almost invisible until they were close. It rocked gently with the waves, the creak of its timbers barely noticeable over the distant crash of the breakers. It wasn’t one of the large trading ships that normally came and went from Apsia’s port, crossing Amala’s Heart to Mane, or very rarely, Elese; nor was it one of the local fishing boats that went out every day to supply the city. Joaquim had not seen its like before, and although he was indifferent to shipping aside from the money it generated, he had grown up in the largest port in the world, and yet he did not recognize this kind of ship.
“What is that?” he asked, turning back to Viane’s sweating face.
She grunted as she pulled the oars again. “Don’t worry your bloody head about it,” she said. “You need to learn not to ask questions in this business.”
“That’s the second time you’ve sworn tonight,” he said. “What business?”
“What?” she said, barely audible over the surf and the wind.
“THAT’S THE SECOND TIME—”
“Quiet!” she ordered. “Shut your mouth or the watch will have us. It’ll be the galley for you and branding for me.”
“Well you didn’t hear me,” Joaquim said defensively. In spite of the danger, he felt the same nervous tingle in his hands, the same breathlessness, especially when she leaned all the way back, arms straining to control the oars. The sea air, and his pounding heart, helped to clear his head. “Still, I suppose it’s not your fault,” he added. “It’s loud out here, with the waves and everything, and a little late for a night-time trip, although that doesn’t seem to have stopped you. Where are we going, by the way?”
“Did it occur to you that someone might hear you?” she asked in a grating voice.
“You worry too much,” Joaquim said. He thought his head was feeling better; to his surprise, he realized he had not been sick, in spite of the boat’s constant rocking and the sack of wine in his stomach. At Viane’s glare he slid back down against the hull, resting his head on the side of the boat and staring up at the stars as Viane rowed and grunted.
With a thump Joaquim’s head hit something hard. The boat. Everything spun around him for a moment. “Bloody Bel,” he s
wore, sitting up. He reached to check for blood and found a rising lump. “What were you thinking?” he asked. “Did you want to sink them with my head?”
Viane did not smile. She looked up at the ship expectantly. A rope ladder fell over the side, and a man, barefoot and with the loose trousers that only sailors wore in Apsia, climbed down toward them. He stopped with his foot on the last rung, turned to look at them, and said, “Money?”
Viane passed a small bag to Joaquim, who handed it to the sailor. Its weight surprised him. “How much was in there?” he whispered.
Silence was the response. The sailor climbed back up the ladder and disappeared over the rail. “What did you give him?” Joaquim asked. “And why? What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry about it, Joaquim,” Viane said. Her hands flexed nervously on the oars. “Just don’t worry about it and keep your mouth shut. What’s taking him, Night Sister curse him?”
Through the last of the wine fogging his brain, Joaquim could feel something not right about the whole exchange. A suspicion began to dawn in the back of his head, confirmed when the sailor clambered back down toward them, a box held carelessly under one arm. The sailor dropped the box with barely a glance to see if Joaquim was looking. Joaquim heard Viane’s sharp intake of breath as his hands flailed through the air, the drink making him fumble.
With a smack, his hands closed against the wood, his palms stinging. The box was much heavier than it looked. It slid between his hands, damp with sea spray, and threatened to fall into the sea. Joaquim clutched it tight and pulled it into the boat. The sailor was already out of sight, the rope ladder disappearing up the wooden hull. Joaquim set the box down in his lap. It was as long as his forearm and almost as wide, with a small latch holding it closed. Viane reached out to take it, but he flipped the latch and opened the lid before she could say anything.
Inside the box, packed from side to side so tightly that the individual pieces could not shift, he saw amber. Most of them, the pieces on the outside, were the common, yellow-orange pieces that brought a fair price at the market and came from all over the world. In the center, though, glistening in the moonlight, sat the rare blue and red ambers of Jaecan, The larger pieces were worth a small fortune.
The lid snapped shut, barely missing his fingers. Viane took the box. “That wasn’t for you,” she said.
“Smuggling?” he said. “You’re smuggling? By the Sisters, Viane, you’re putting your whole family at risk. They’ll take everything if they catch you.”
He thought he saw fear in her eyes, but she blinked, and it was gone. “They won’t catch me,” she said. “And you’d be a fool not to try and save your own family this way.”
“Bloody Bel,” he said. “Bloody, bloody Bel, Viane. This is dangerous. Why would you try to smuggle out of the harbor? The watch will be on us before we even tie up.”
“We can talk later,” Viane said. She eyed the low-lying ship behind him nervously. “We need to get away from here.”
“Switch places with me,” Joaquim said. Realization of his own danger came crashing down on him. “I’m sober enough to keep from splashing around.”
They awkwardly made the switch. In a few moments Joaquim had the small boat speeding back into the harbor. “Is this the first time?” he asked.
She nodded. Viane leaned forward, covering the box with her body. Whether out of shame or protectiveness, Joaquim did not know.
“Bloody Bel,” he said. “Bloody Bel. And why were you fool enough to do it this way?”
“There’s trouble on the docks right now,” she said. “Different gangs fighting for the beaches. This was the safest way.”
“And the watch is just going to look the other way when we come sailing back into the harbor?”
“One of them will; they paid him a small fortune.”
So, Joaquim thought. Not just a little silver, then.
Rowing gave him time to think. She could not be in that desperate of financial straits; her father had not lost any of his fishing boats, as far as Joaquim knew, and her mother ran a dry goods store that seemed busy enough. So not money, Joaquim thought. At least, not a real need. But what else did that leave? Joaquim understood women in general, and he knew Viane better than she knew herself. Which means the fool girl is trying to prove something.
“Thank you,” she said. He scarcely heard the words over his own thoughts.
Shrugging was difficult while rowing, but Joaquim managed. They made it back to the pier without speaking any more. By some stroke of luck the clouds moved in front of the moon, so that they made their entrance into the harbor under darkness. Viane jumped out of the boat and caught it before it hit the pier, then slowly pulled it the rest of the way. As she tied the rope, Joaquim grabbed the box from where it sat in the boat. There was a wealth of amber in the box, more than enough to cover his father’s losses. Bel take me, there’s enough to cover the losses and make a fresh start. Even if the stones were sold for less than half their value—little chance of anything else, Joaquim thought, since they haven’t been through customs—they would still be enough to live off for a year.
“Give me the box,” Viane said from behind him.
Joaquim hesitated. He could take the box, could probably even keep Viane silent. Knock her over the head when she’s not looking, he thought. But . . . There was a part of him that felt something for Viane. Something he had not felt for anyone else, no matter how frustrating she was. He was not ready to give that feeling up yet. He turned and passed her the box, but held onto it as she grabbed it.
“You owe me for keeping this silent, Viane,” he said.
She paled and licked her lips. Even that gesture of nervousness made Joaquim’s mouth go dry. “Fine,” she said. “Fine, just give me the box.”
He let go and jumped onto the pier. “And don’t do this again, Viane. You’re putting yourself at risk. I don’t even know why you’re doing it in the first place.”
She did not answer. They made their way back down the quay, the helpful watchman turning his lantern away as they passed, and then they were among the warehouses. When they reached the main road that led back up to the city, Viane ducked into a blind alley. Joaquim followed her.
She drew out the smallest piece of red amber and tossed it to him. Joaquim snatched it out of the air.
“Your cut,” she said.
“What?” Joaquim asked. “Your boss isn’t going to miss this?”
“He said I could hire someone,” she said. “He’s looking for new hands. I haven’t given him your name yet, but I will, if you want.” She looked up at him with those dark eyes. Joaquim felt his breath leave him.
“No thanks,” he said. “Marry me?”
“No thanks,” she said. “There’s better money here.”
She tried to brush past him, but he grabbed her arm. “Viane,” he said. “Just wait a moment—”
Viane twisted and Joaquim felt cold steel against his neck. He looked down at the dagger in her hand.
“Let me go,” she said. “Remember the bridge?”
“Bel take you,” Joaquim swore. He shoved her away.
She disappeared down the darkened street.
Joaquim touched his neck once in relief and hurried up the hill; the dark streets, even darker at this hour and with the clouds covering the moon, did not invite good company, especially this close to the dock. Joaquim realized with a curse that he had left his rapier and dagger somewhere. Most likely the wine-house, he thought. Bel take Zirolo. He would have to go back the next day and retrieve them.
With a grin, he pulled the cape from under his shirt and put it back on; no point looking foolish, even if there was no one to see him. The night had not been a complete waste, in spite of his early attempts with Zirolo to incapacitate himself. She owes me, he thought. And this is big; a word to her father, or, better yet, her mother, and she’s out on the streets. He tossed the red stone once before tucking it away in his belt. It would keep them afloat for a few we
eks. Not bad for one night.