by A. C. Cobble
She had no interest in the slow-plodding animal, and after her first attempt at a meal, neither one of them had an interest in her cooking. She hadn’t cooked for herself regularly since she had been fifteen winters, which led to an awkward explanation of why she had cooked for herself then, which led into an even more awkward, though probably just as untruthful, discussion of val Drongko’s upbringing.
After a week on the road, they’d seen nothing but fellow travelers and merchants. She’d asked Ivar about bandits, and the man had laughed, gripping his belly and shaking his head. Evidently, over the last decade and at the behest of Enhover’s Crown, Ivalla had instituted harsh penalties for banditry. The first violation led to an unceremonious hanging on the roadside. Attacks were down, Ivalla saved continentals because they were able to reduce the number of patrols, and tax revenue was up. All in all, it seemed to have worked, unless you were one of the bandits.
But, Ivar had said, the other merchants had a terrible habit of sabotaging the competition. He’d claimed it would be no problem as no one could approach his cart while he slept next to it. She’d asked why he had paid to bring her along then, and he’d merely grinned and shrugged. You never know, he’d told her.
She’d thought about leaving the perfumer so she could make better time on her own, but she decided it would be imprudent for a woman alone to travel along the open highway. Ivalla seemed safe, but it wasn’t that safe. Not to mention, the perfumer really could cook.
Sitting across their small fire from him, sipping on a jug of crimson Ivallan wine, Sam pondered how such a man had gotten to be where he was. He was wealthy, no question. Even if his jewelry was stained glass, his wares were worth a fortune. The small cart was filled with cupboards packed full of vial after vial of perfume. The scents were worth good sterling, more than their weight in silver, in some cases. So much of it, even if it was second quality, was more wealth than she’d ever held. But the man was alone, with no employees, and evidently not many friends.
He plucked at his colorful doublet and tsked. “It’s impossible to keep silk clean on the road, don’t you find?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
Glancing at her, the perfume merchant snorted. “Leather trousers, surely more practical than silk in southern Ivalla.”
“I’m not the one complaining,” mentioned Sam.
Ivar grunted, kicking a silk-slippered foot. “Are you going to drink all of my wine?”
“We’re in Ivalla,” declared Sam. “Wine is cheap. If you can afford to change into those slippers every night and stomp around camp in them, then you can afford to share a jug of wine with your only guard.”
“The slippers are comfortable,” grumbled Ivar. “Have you tried… No, of course you have not.”
Sam glared at him. “No, Ivar, I have not tried silk slippers.”
“You should,” he suggested.
“Next time I stop by my tailor, I will order a pair,” snapped Sam. She leaned forward and tossed another stick onto their fire.
“What are you doing, girl?” asked the perfume merchant.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you traveling from Enhover to Romalla?” he pressed. “It is rare for a woman such as you to be alone in Romalla.”
“Is it?”
Ivar val Drongko rubbed his mustache, pinching the hairs, twisting them into curls.
“My business is my business,” she said.
“Of course it is,” he said. “You are working for me, though, so it’s not unfair to say your business is also my business. What secrets do you keep?”
Using both hands, she tilted up the wine jug. Around them, a dry breeze stirred the cypress and wild lemon trees that bordered the empty dirt highway they’d camped beside. When she lowered the jug and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, the silk-clad merchant was still watching her, waiting. Anyone clad in silk was someone she’d learned to distrust, but the man’s colorful attire was as far from the black silks of Isisandra as she could imagine. Ivar val Drongko may have been many things, but he did not appear to be a sorcerer. She had no secrets from him. Not many, at least.
“I’m a priestess of a sort,” she admitted. “I’m traveling to the Church in Romalla.”
Ivar pursed his lips but did not comment.
“It’s true,” she insisted.
“I believe it,” he replied. “It’s still unusual to see a priestess, of a sort, traveling alone. Does the Church not provide an escort for her daughters?”
“Not in this case,” remarked Sam.
“Ah, you’re choosing to be alone?” wondered Ivar. “An adventure seeker, are you?”
“I will not share your bedroll,” declared Sam.
“I wasn’t asking,” said Ivar, looking offended. “You are a beautiful girl, but I hired you because you nearly took that soldier’s head off, not because I hoped to bed you.”
“You prefer men?” questioned Sam.
“Why do you think that?” asked Ivar.
“The silk slippers, that ridiculous mustache, you sell perfume…” mentioned Sam.
“Fair enough,” murmured Ivar.
“Am I right?”
Ivar frowned, the first time she’d seen it. “My preferences… I spend my nights alone. This world prefers tradition, and I prefer… Well, I am not sure what I prefer. I prefer the unknown.”
Sam rolled her eyes and raised the jug again.
“Have I offended you?” asked Ivar.
“I prefer women,” acknowledged Sam.
“A lonely life indeed,” consoled Ivar.
“Not as lonely as you think,” responded Sam. “I’ve found… I’ve found friends.”
“You have?” questioned Ivar. “A marvelous thing, I imagine.”
“Surely there are many men who’d be willing to do whatever it is that two men do together,” said Sam. “In my experience, men are not choosy creatures.”
“You are a stunning woman, one even I can appreciate,” replied val Drongko. “Any man would choose you. I, though, am a bit overweight, a bit old, and inexperienced in the art of giving pleasure to another man. I’m afraid it’s not quite as easy for a man as it is a woman.”
“If you say so,” allowed Sam, not believing a word of it. “At least you smell nice.”
The merchant cackled with mirth, flopping onto his back and kicking his silk-slippered feet in the air.
Sam watched as he rolled in laughter. Later, she imagined, he’d be upset about the dirt clinging to the back of his silks, but now, the man was truly enjoying himself. It might have been the first time in a long time.
As he stilled and regained his breath, she asked him, “Why did you hire me?”
He sat up and blinked at her, wiping tears from his eyes. “I needed a guard.”
“I don’t know this land,” she replied, “but I know one female guard is going to do little to dissuade any bandit gang or these rival saboteur merchants you’ve told me about. It’s quite possible seeing me might even encourage them.”
“The roads are safe enough,” mumbled Ivar, looking away from her. “I’d like you to stay with me when I sell my wares in Romalla.”
“What?”
“A woman like you would attract wealthy men like flies to dung,” insisted Ivar.
She frowned at him.
“Sorry. That’s a bad analogy,” he admitted, “but you would attract them! The clean, subtle scent of my perfumes means nothing to those men, but you… for you, they will make a purchase.”
“Are you attracting wealthy men or women?” questioned Sam.
“Whichever pays,” declared Ivar.
“If a man purchases his woman a bottle of perfume, what is the message he is giving? He’s telling her she smells bad, no? If a woman purchases a bottle of perfume, the message is that she wants to be desired. That, Ivar, is not something I can sell.”
“You cannot?”
Sam brushed back a lock of jet-black hair. “I will not.”
“What if… what if there was something in it for you?”
“I do not need your sterling. I only need to get to Romalla,” advised Sam.
“There are many strange and rare ingredients in perfume,” said Ivar, “ingredients that may be of interest to someone like you.”
Sam’s lips pressed together and her hand twitched.
“Specialty scents and specialty potions share many of the same characteristics,” claimed Ivar. “A priestess like you, I imagine you know a little bit about potions.”
“What are you saying?”
“Your daggers, your spear, I saw the runes there. This is Ivalla, girl, the seat of the Church. The moment I saw you accosting that guard, I knew you were the one I needed.”
“Needed?” asked Sam, confused. “The guard… What are you talking about?”
“A guard, yes, that’s what I’m talking about,” said Ivar. “When we arrive in Romalla, there will be many guards there. Guards with swords. Guards with training and the senses to detect the supernatural. A woman like you, though, with the taint of the underworld on you but the blessing of the Church? They’ll know you and know to avoid you. My cart full of potions will roll in unnoticed and unsearched.”
“Hold on,” said Sam.
Ivar val Drongko tilted his head and waited.
“You mean to use me as… as a distraction?”
“Yes, was I not clear?” wondered val Drongko. “No mundane guard will accost me if I’m accompanied by one such as yourself. Churchmen are like feral dogs. They tuck their tails when a bigger animal walks by.”
Sam glared at him. “You were clear, but why do you think I will agree to such a thing? Calling me a dog is of no help, Ivar.”
“You’re a Knife of the Council,” stated Ivar. “Don’t protest. I can tell. An important role, but a thankless one in Ivalla, and I assume Enhover as well, no? The Church has made the tools necessary to do your job illegal. The supplies you need are impossible to come by, unless you happen to know someone.”
“You were waiting in Valerno for a Knife to come strolling by?”
“This is not my first trip to the capital and it’s not my first time to work with a Knife of the Council.”
“You know other Knives?”
Ivar shifted. “I’ve met them.”
“Can you introduce me to them?” asked Sam.
Shaking his head, Ivar replied, “It does not work like that. Don’t you… You haven’t met another, have you? You’re from Enhover, eh? No sorcery? I can sense the cold of the underworld around you, though, so you must know something of the dark path.”
“I had a mentor,” she explained, deciding there was no sense in hiding that information from the merchant. “He’s dead. I’ve never been to Romalla, but I have need now. I need help from the Council and the other Knives.”
Ivar pinched his mustache. “I’m afraid it is not so easy. The Knives, the Council, they operate in secret. I can sometimes sense the taint of the underworld on them, as I can on you, but I cannot tell you where to find them. I could walk around in the city, I suppose, hoping to stumble across someone, but we don’t know each other well enough for that. I’m of no use to you.”
Sam frowned.
“Can you not just knock on the door of the Church?” wondered the merchant. “You are one of them, are you not?”
“It’s not that simple for me, either,” muttered Sam. “I am one of them, but they do not know me. Some of what you sense around me, they will sense it as well. I need to approach them in a way where I can explain myself.”
“As I said,” replied Ivar. “We both need to get into the city, and we both fear we will be unwelcome. Let’s start from that point, and as we walk tomorrow, perhaps we can find a way to help each other out.”
Sam tipped up the wine jug again and gulped. Approaching a Church that may consider the markings on her body against their laws. Traveling with an illicit potion peddler who was certainly against their laws. Trying to find a powerful sorcerer before they realized she was hunting them. No, it wasn’t simple at all.
The Cartographer VIII
“Smoke,” said Captain Ainsley.
“I know,” responded Oliver.
He was leaning against the gunwale of the Cloud Serpent, watching the speck on the horizon that was Imbon. Hanging above the place was the tattered remnants of a pillar of smoke. Several days old, guessed Oliver. Several days and the column still drifted, blown by the constant tropical breeze, but not gone.
“Marauders?” wondered Ainsley.
“There’s no way to know, Captain, not until we draw close,” replied Oliver. “Either way, it’s best if the men took stations and got ready for action.”
“Understood, m’lord,” replied Ainsley, steel in her voice.
“What’s our complement, Captain?”
“Ten brass cannon, m’lord, with eight-inch-wide barrels,” the captain informed him. “We can load them with cannon balls or scattershot. We have four three-inch deck guns that we can set on swivels. Two-dozen small arms, but while we’re in the air, they’ll be nearly useless. We’ve got cutlasses and other bladed weapons to outfit the entire crew, which is two score of us, m’lord.”
“Bombs, rockets?”
“None, m’lord,” replied the captain. “Our armament is intended to be defensive, what we’d need for protection in the Westlands. We’re not outfitted for a true battle, Duke Wellesley.”
“Understood, Captain,” replied Oliver. “Anything on the water or an emplacement on the shore, we ought to be able to wreak havoc on with our cannon, but you’re right, in dynamic combat we’re not much more use than a vessel on the water.”
“Correct, m’lord,” agreed Ainsley. “We can defend ourselves against almost any force and escape to safe skies, but…”
“But we’ll see what we’re up against as we draw close,” responded Oliver. “I don’t mean to risk the ship or crew unless we have to, but get the men prepared at stations. I want the cannon primed and the shot at hand. I want blades on hips and firearms available on deck. See to it, Captain, and let’s offer a hope to the spirits it is not necessary.”
Spinning on her heel, Captain Ainsley began to bark orders, and the crew began to scramble.
Two-score men, outfitted for an exploration expedition. They weren’t prepared for combat, but to their credit, Oliver only heard one complaint behind him as the men readied for battle. A meaty smack and a shout from Pettybone quieted the cantankerous Mister Samuels.
They sailed closer, propelled by steady winds. Oliver collected a leather-bound brass spyglass from the first mate and peered through it, scanning over the town of Imbon where the smoke originated from.
A boiling churn rose in his stomach as they drew closer. The village had been burned. Smashed and burned. The fire had threatened the Company’s compound as well. The tall bamboo barricades were charred black. He was relieved to see the gate was fastened shut and there was motion inside. Men were in the towers, on the walls, and moving about the yard in the center of the structure. He frowned. The cannon at the corners of the fort had been turned, and instead of toward the sea, they pointed down into the village below.
“Something’s gone terribly wrong,” he muttered.
“What do you mean?” asked Captain Ainsley.
He glanced over, surprised the captain had approached and he hadn’t heard. He handed her the spyglass.
Putting it to her eye, she surveyed the destruction. “It’s as if… as if they fired upon the town.”
“That was my thought as well,” said Oliver.
“Do you think raiders took the compound and then turned on the town to destroy any resistance, or were the raiders able to take the village but the fort was successfully defended?”
“If it was raiders, they wouldn’t have holed up in the compound. They would have sacked the place and left,” surmised Oliver. “Whoever barricaded themselves inside is hoping for a rescue. They must be Company men.”
“Then who is outside the compound?” wondered Ainsley. “The only ships in the harbor appear to be Enhoverian. There are people in the village… You’re right, m’lord. Simple corsairs would have fled. If they could not breach the compound immediately, they would not have waited patiently for someone like us to arrive.”
“And if we had caught them still in the village, they’d be fleeing now,” added Oliver. “No one familiar with these seas would attempt to stand against an airship. Pirates would be on their boats now, sailing in opposite directions so we couldn’t sink them all.”
“What does it mean?” wondered Ainsley.
Oliver didn’t reply. He knew, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“When close, drop sail and run out the sweeps. Float us low and slow over the town,” instructed Oliver. “We’ll make sure everyone sees us. While we maneuver over the Company compound it will give them time to think things over.”
“Them who?” questioned Ainsley. “What will they think over?”
“Surrender, I hope.”
They hung one hundred yards above the Company’s compound. Down below them a flag flapped in the wind signaling an alert. It was a bit unnecessary. From their position, there was no doubt a rebellion had risen in the town below and the natives had rushed the Company’s fortress. Somehow, the defenders had managed to shut the gates in time. With elevation and superior weaponry, they’d fought back into an apparent stalemate. The efficacy of their defense was apparent from the scores of bodies littering the ramp up to the compound and in the streets below.
Oliver grimaced, looking away from a cluster of women and children that lay dead and defiled. Cannon shot had ripped through them, mutilating their bodies into something barely resembling humans. The size of the corpses gave away which piles of blasted meat had been something smaller than a full-grown man.