Copyright
Copyright © Angelos Kyprianos, 2020
English Translation © Angelos Kyprianos, 2020
Translated from Greek by Zoey Tsoura
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
KINGDOM OF LOTHEN
City of Nalia
215 A.C.
THE ROPE
A crowd had gathered in the city’s largest square. The wooden gallows drew people there like flies to a honeypot. The ropes stood still, hanging from the worn wood, soaked in water, salt, and the last cries of those who’d been hanged in the past.
The gallows had been erected at a reasonable distance between Southcastle –the seat of the local baron– and the famous circus of Nalia: a falsely cheerful world, disguised under a colorful tent, that constituted one of the city’s most important locations.
Mascardi Berio looked between the south and the east, registering this miserable image. A circus and a castle and the gallows in the middle. Landmen are odd.
He tried to empty his mind of all thoughts before people gathered around in earnest. He’d made sure to be in charge of the preparations. The only job that wasn’t his responsibility was that of the executioner – the pathetic excuse of an executioner, that is. Nalia wasn’t Bladefall; it was Lothen’s port, which meant that life here was more fragile, more delicate. They didn’t behead prisoners with a wide, ceremonial blade; here, they hanged them. In fact, they didn’t even bother to change the ropes each time; they used the same ones, and if a prisoner’s neck happened to make the rope snap, it either resulted in the crowd’s laughter or was interpreted as a sign from the gods – depending on which side of the gallows you stood.
This, though, was a very special day, and Mascardi checked the quality of the three ropes several times. He wanted to make sure they were sturdy and would be effective enough during today’s execution. One of the prisoners was his good friend Basco, and for him and only him, he had moved heaven and earth to be in charge of the event.
Basco Ayal was a good friend indeed. Mascardi was fully aware that one didn’t come across many friends like him in their lifetime. They had shared exciting times in the past, and the bond between them had been forged the way iron is shaped on an anvil. Tested again and again until either breaking or becoming stronger, and Basco never yielded. At least, until today.
Clouds were gathering over the city, as if they, too, wished to bear witness to the men’s execution. The wind brought pleasant scents from the sea in the south. Mascardi dropped a coil of rope on the ground and gazed at the magnificent lighthouse on the southern city limit, at the place where the Rocks –the rich district of the city’s wealthiest– was licked by the waves of the Knights’ Coast, which marked the beginning of the Southern Sea.
Soon, he thought, and after a moment, returned his attention to the crowd thickening around him. Mascardi despised landmen but went along with everybody. His reputation had assisted him a lot during the last few years. He spent most of his time at sea and had fought all kinds of pirates during innumerous raids at Lothen’s shores and beyond. When he vanquished the legendary crew of Yassaul, his name traveled all the way to Bladefall. There, during a splendid ceremony, King Adam Whiteshield presented Mascardi Berio with a knight’s title and a grand estate in western Lothen. It was, perhaps, Mascardi’s most significant moment ‒certainly the most glorious one, since all of Lothen talked about him‒, but both of these honors were useless to him.
Mascardi had explained to Basco that a land title was just as worthless as a knight’s title, since both had value only if you stayed on dry land. He gave his estate away to his bastard children –there were at least ten of them– and the knight’s title became a joke among the seamen. Mascardi, of course, didn’t mind at all selling his armor for three gold coins – three times its original price, that is. Basco had asked him if he had blackmailed the merchant, but Mascardi was adamant.
“It was simply an exchange without the possibility of refusing, nothing more, nothing more.”
But Mascardi was now almost forty years old. His reputation had faded, he was unwed, and his children had grown up without knowing who or where he was. The last good thing that had happened to him was the sea, as the Baron Criden had assigned him the duties of a captain again. He couldn’t wait to be done with this bleak event and return to his ship.
Mascardi’s crew were present as well. After all, they also knew Basco Ayal well, and had shared a lot with him. Seeing them approach, Mascardi wondered if there had ever been uglier faces in the history of Lothen. As they passed in front of the large circus, they seemed to fit in there as if it were their natural habitat. These people had lost any interest in the joys of dry land. Dressed in rags, filthy and pockmarked, these men ‒who were missing many of their teeth‒ reeked of rum from miles away, and with their loud, raucous voices sent the Rocks’ fine ladies skittering away from them.
Mascardi had worn his white shirt and a black vest. His clean, straight, black hair reached his chin, and he was considered quite handsome. Unlike most seafarers, he had maintained all his teeth, and he made sure to always be bathed and perfumed whenever he was on dry land. As for the rum, he wouldn’t even touch it except to check its quality when it was meant for sale.
His crew had scattered among the crowd like small packs of wolves among sheep. He could see some of their ugly faces. There, near the gallows, next to the crew’s healer, Alaoso, he spotted the worst face of them all. Vario Darani was more of a beast than a man, let alone a seaman. If he had one redeeming quality, that was his strength.
“Captain,” he roared, approaching.
Mascardi wiped his hands on his breeches. “Vario.” They shook hands.
Alaoso stood next to him, with his gaze of sympathy twisting Mascardi’s stomach. “Don’t look at me like that, Alaoso.”
“Yes, captain.”
“Nothing changed.”
The sickly, young healer had the thinnest arms a man could have. He was weak in both body and soul – all the adventures in the world could not change that, but wandering healers were exceedingly rare everywhere, and if ship crews had something in abundance, that was illnesses and injuries.
The carriage arrived at the square, heralded by the whispering and gossiping of the crowd and the clopping sound of horses’ hooves, belonging to the steeds of the guards that escorted the vehicle. The three prisoners got off the carriage. The chains around their hands made them look similar, as if they were wearing some kind of uniform.
Mascardi spotted Basco right away. He seemed the one among them who’d suffered the least. His bald head had the fewest marks and it was shaved on purpose, as opposed to the heads of the other two, who’d been shorn for lice and looked like forests with random clearings.
His stomach clenched. His friend walked towards the noose and the moment was coming closer and closer. Mascardi leaned forward and supported himself on his knees for a moment, and then he quickly straightened up, fearing that the Baron Criden or another figure of authority would be able to see him. The crowd’s noise intensified. The Baron was indeed present. Him and his wife stood in the crowd, surrounded by a group of knights. Mascardi could see them distortedly, like a smudge on a painting. A sudden dizziness had taken over him, no matter how much he’d prepared for this moment.
The guards brought the prisoners closer. Mascardi continuously exchanged glances with Basco; the latter seemed equally upset. He muttered a few words, his eyes darting between the ropes and Mascardi. The other two convicts acted quite differently. They c
arried the weight of their impending death on their shoulders – inconsolable, they marched towards their end, in front of a crowd that was eager to see them perish, just as they were eager to watch a circus performance.
One by one, they took their positions on the gallows and waited for Mascardi Berio to tie the ropes around their necks.
***
Silence descended suddenly upon the square. The wind traveled between the viewers, who were waiting with bated breath for the order to be given, so they could hear the distinctive sound of necks breaking or throats constricting. Mascardi could hear the whimpering of two out of the three prisoners who had one foot in the grave. The executioner stood by his side; the poor figure of a middle-aged man, who would cut a rope and lift three bodies into the air. He was holding a short sword and waited for the signal.
Mascardi narrowed his eyes at him. The man seemed confused by the delay. Mascardi turned once to look at Basco, who was staring at him. He’s afraid. Damn this plan.
Mascardi was suddenly plagued by all the doubt in the world, but there was no time. This windless moment seemed endless. He turned towards the crowd and let his gaze travel to the Baron Criden. When their eyes met, the Baron’s strong voice echoed across the square.
“Sir Berio, don’t keep us waiting! Send these people to where they belong!”
Cheers filled the square that came alive suddenly, in the span of a moment. Mascardi faced the executioner and, with a hesitant, almost imperceptible nod, guiltily gave the signal.
The man severed the rope and the men were lifted off the ground, their feet kicking violently at the air. Gurgling cries escaped their throats – their deaths’ main reason was suffocation.
Basco’s eyes turned white as he left the world of the living behind. The crowd erupted into cheers, clapping and cursing, and after a few moments, there was nothing. No noise, no cries, no life. Three corpses hung lifelessly from the ropes. Their lives had evaporated, same way the crowd’s interest had – people almost immediately started leaving the square, searching for the next type of entertainment that could be worth their attention.
Mascardi remembered his part, feeling the alertness that every critical mission brought. He folded his tongue and whistled sharply. Six of his crewmen appeared by his side.
“Cut them down carefully,” he told them, panting, as he was trying to free Basco from his noose.
“Captain, why don’t we lay him down on a raft and send him sailing west? With a sword in his hand and a pouch full of coins?” Dizan wondered. Dizan knew a lot about music and showed great respect to the gods and religious ceremonies. Residents of the southern shore often sent dead bodies sailing away instead of burying or burning them.
“We ought to burn them,” suggested Alaoso, who mostly watched instead of helping. “This city doesn’t need any more diseases.”
Mascardi threw Basco’s body over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The rest grabbed the other two and followed him to the carriage.
“We aren’t going to burn them, and we aren’t going to send them out to the sea,” Mascardi chastised them. “At least, not Basco. Do whatever you want with the other two – embalm them, for all I care.”
The men exchanged looks. They loaded the bodies into the carriage and Mascardi climbed on the driver’s seat. Lined up, the men waited for his orders. In their eyes, there was only confusion.
“Don’t look at me like that. The plan is still on. I’ll meet you at the ship at dawn.”
Alaoso had acquired a sad expression of pity that irritated Mascardi.
“Captain, who is going to be your right hand now that Basco is dead?” Odet’s question seemed to shake things up a bit. Mascardi refused to spare him a look. Instead, he addressed Dizan.
“Make sure the Seagull is ready when I arrive. Provisions, weapons, sails, and deck shining. Patches, ropes and sacks, everything tidy and on time, you understand, Dizan?”
The sailor gulped. “Aye, aye, captain!” he replied firmly.
Mascardi flicked the reins and the carriage moved forward.
“I told you he’d put the bard in charge,” he heard someone saying behind him.
Mascardi followed the road to the graveyard. The sun sank like a red disk behind Southcastle as the city began its nightly ruckus. A lump had moved from Mascardi’s stomach to his throat as his worry turned to sadness. Did we just make a grave mistake, Basco?
His question unanswered, he kept on his course as darkness fell.
***
The bodies landed at the bottom of the pit with a horrible splash. Thick raindrops started falling on them and the surrounding area. Mascardi searched for the invisible moon through the summer rain.
The graveyard was empty. The raindrops echoed on the ground like tiny footsteps, their soft sound helping to alleviate the tension of the day. Their plan ended here. The instructions stopped. And now what? Simply waiting.
He squatted on the ground and waited, two shovels lying next to him.
“Basco, if you think I am going to do the burying by myself, you are sorely mistaken.”
He felt that incessant worry again. Mud had caked his boots, dirt had stained his shirt, and his hair had stuck to his face. He got up, walked the circumference of the pit, and sat down again. Two or three hours passed this way. The hour of the wolf. It was late in the evening now, and Mascardi hoped for some decent sleep before next day’s departure.
Basco stirred. Mascardi shot to his feet and focused in the dark. He didn’t dare believe it was true.
The stiff body moved again. Inarticulate cries escaped Basco’s mouth, and then he started coughing. Folding into himself in pain, he coughed and spat a great deal of dirt and blood.
“Basco!”
Mascardi dropped down into the pit and grabbed him. Basco used his arms for support and managed to stand up.
“My throat…” His voice came out weak and hoarse, like pebbles rubbing against each other. He put his hands around his aching throat.
Visibly emotional, Mascardi stared at him with wide eyes as he climbed out of the pit. Basco had never seen the captain’s eyes shimmering wet before. He looked at him, puzzled. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he grunted with difficulty.
“How…” Mascardi trailed off.
“Like a virgin that…” he groaned and spat a lump of blood. “Damn your ropes, Mascardi.”
“No, I mean how is this possible?”
Basco seemed to regain some of his strength. A large bruise had bloomed around his throat.
“I told you. There is a plan.”
Shaking his head, Mascardi gestured with his hands, doing a sign to ward off evil. “By all the Luvar and the Amar of the sea.”
Basco smiled.
“How could you be so sure that it would work?” Mascardi asked.
“It has happened before,” Basco admitted.
“You have died before?”
“Once. I woke up to see an old hag uglier than you. She was smiling at me like a madwoman, showing two horrible teeth, and I thought I was seeing Cerberus of the Underworld.”
Mascardi couldn’t help a smile. He said nothing, and Basco went on.
“She knew what I was better than I did, captain. She knew that I would come back to life, even when I was floating on the black waves of oblivion.”
Mascardi puffed up his cheeks. He was full of questions but didn’t know where to start.
“She told me I am a Gaal.”
“A Gaal?”
“Yes. A man who died and came back to life for some unfinished business.”
Mascardi frowned. “What unfinished business do you have?”
“How should I know? Debts?”
Mascardi threw his arm around his shoulders and they both laughed. Excitement had replaced the grief and the worry.
“Just in time, my friend,” Mascardi said. “We have a lot of work to do. We have to go to the Seagull.”
Basco nodded. “You thought Basco Ayal would miss this voyage
?” he smiled like a wolf. Mascardi returned the smile and then turned serious, touching his finger to his chin.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hmm… You can’t be Basco Ayal anymore. You died.”
Basco nodded, agreeing. “I’d better leave this name behind.”
“We’ll call you Ghost for now.”
Basco rolled his eyes.
“Don’t complain. It’s quite the fitting name for a pirate,” Mascardi teased him.
“Yes, but we’re not pirates,” Basco reminded him.
“Why do you say that?” Mascardi asked, offended.
“Because our banner is a fucking seagull, Mascardi, have you ever seen a flag worse than this?”
Despite feeling genuinely insulted, Mascardi grinned. “I happen to like seagulls.”
“But they are not frightening at all!” Basco exclaimed, causing his throat to hurt again.
Mascardi’s hand landed on his shoulder. “By the looks of it, that injury will take a while to heal. You won’t be able to speak much in the meantime. The gods have been generous!” he elbowed him and Basco retaliated with a punch on his shoulder.
“Enough,” Mascardi said. “Help me bury these poor bastards and let’s return to the ship. The others are eager to set sail.”
And they started shoveling dirt back into the pit as quickly as they could, hoping to be able to catch some sleep before dawn.
THE SEAGULL
They woke up much later than the others. The sun’s golden rays poured through the portholes, creating streams of sunshine on the cabin’s weathered wooden furniture. Mascardi gazed through the window glass at the port becoming alive with people coming and going on the docks, carrying sacks and wooden barrels. He woke Basco up and they went up to the deck.
Most chores had been finished, and the ship was ready to depart. The crew members were gathered on the deck, separated into little gossiping nests as they took their breakfast. Vario Darani wasn’t there, and the captain assumed he was still asleep.
21 Seagulls Page 1