The Black Coast

by Mike Brooks

  The full, unblinking attention of The Golden’s ice-green eyes fell on Rikkut. Bare feet walked over the dirt to stand in front of him, and Rikkut found himself acutely aware of the trembling in his muscles and the shallowness of his breathing as he focused on the floor just in front of The Golden’s toes.

  “Interesting,” The Golden said. Rikkut felt fingers come to rest on his scalp, and he tensed in fear and excitement as he felt the draug’s power wash through him, searching him, knowing him.

  “Rikkut Jumadazhin.”

  Rikkut’s gut spasmed as the draug said his name, and he had to try his voice once before it worked. “Rikkut Fireheart, master.” Not even The Golden could deny him the warrior-name he’d earned.

  “Look at me, Fireheart.”

  Rikkut’s blood was fire and ice as one. His mouth was dry, and he moved his tongue around to moisten it as he hesitantly raised his eyes. The Golden was stood a mere hand’s breadth from his face, and loomed over him like Ogongkoruuk itself. His gaze travelled up over the draug’s belly, over its chest, and obediently met its eyes.

  “West, you said?” The Golden was addressing Snowhair, but didn’t look away from Rikkut’s face.

  “There isn’t anything west!” Tyaszhin protested desperately, still being held in place. “Nothing but sea and sky!”

  “Shows what you know, shit-for-brains,” Snowhair sniggered. “Everyone knows Easterners can’t sail, don’t they? No, there’s lands to the west if you go far enough, if you’ve got the guts to go head-to-head with the Dark Father in his domain.”

  Now The Golden did look away, and Rikkut felt the loss like a man straying from the warmth of a fire during Long Night. “You’ve seen them yourself?” The Golden asked the Seal Rock chief.

  “Aye,” Snowhair said proudly. “I sailed to the lands of the setting sun, and returned to tell of it. You want proof? It’s stuck through the lad’s belt.”

  The Golden looked back at him, and Rikkut tried to hide the thrill that hit his lower belly. He handed the strange sword up to his master without even being asked.

  “Have you ever seen anything like that in Tjakorsha?” Snowhair asked softly as The Golden took the weapon in both hands and partially unsheathed it. “Have you ever seen anything like that in the Drylands to the north, or wherever it is you Easterners get your iron from? No. That’s western steel, that is, finest in the world. I took that from one of their best warriors, some forty years ago. I went on that voyage as a captain and came back chief, on account of the little shit who wielded that killing Old Chorak and five of his Scarred in less time than it would take me to say their names out loud.”

  “And your clan never spoke of these lands?” The Golden said, its attention apparently still on the half-drawn blade.

  “Why would we?” Snowhair asked. “Didn’t serve us to let anyone else know. Oh, Sattistutar’s lot knew—their damned iron-witch came from there, and how they grabbed him I’ll never know—and I’m sure I saw a Quiet Shore ship heading that way a time or two. But you don’t go singing about good fishing outside your own clan.”

  The Golden nodded thoughtfully, and finally drew the blade out the whole way. The steel shimmered, reflecting the firelight from all sides.

  “Rikkut Fireheart.”

  Rikkut’s heart jumped. “Master?”

  “I like this blade,” The Golden said calmly. “I’m going to keep it.”

  Rikkut fought down the sudden, biting disappointment. He’d been certain the draug was going to honour him. He’d at least hoped he’d get the sword back.

  “I suggest,” The Golden continued, “that you go and get another.”

  Rikkut frowned. “Master?”

  The Golden spun and swung the western blade one-handed, and the head of Amalk Tyaszhin hit the floor with a dull thud, followed a moment later by his body. Rikkut stared in awe as blood gouted into the dirt from the dead man’s neck. A steel blade could be near as sharp as blackstone, and keep its edge where blackstone would splinter or shatter, everyone knew that, but no mortal could have taken a man’s head off with one swing, delivered with one hand.

  “You brought me one chief,” The Golden said, fixing Rikkut with that icy stare once more. “Now I want you to bring me another. Take the Red Smile and whoever else was answering to this dead man, and fetch me the belt of the Brown Eagle clan. Sail west, and perhaps you’ll be able to get your own blade.”

  Rikkut felt like his chest might burst. “Yes, master! And the chief?”

  The Golden’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “She’s fled from me across an ocean most of my people think has no end. I doubt she’ll come back of her own will. Bring back whoever you can, but those that won’t come don’t get to live. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, master.” Rikkut bared his teeth in a smile. An ocean voyage at the head of his own fleet, a new land to plunder and a desperate clan to hunt down. When he came back, the name of Rikkut Fireheart would be sung across the five Great Peaks and beyond.

  “Then only one thing remains, Fireheart,” The Golden said, turning away from Amalk Tyaszhin’s body with the blood-slicked western blade still held loosely in its right hand. “I must mark you as my own.” It raised its voice, addressing the thralls lurking in the shadows.

  “Fetch my scarring blades!”

  JEYA

  JEYA’S HANDS WERE blistered, and hér arms and shoulders ached ferociously. Abbaz had given guidance, but shé’d learned just as much from watching Damau. Together they’d punted Abbaz’s small craft to the lock that raised them onto the Second Level, the next-highest of the canals that made up the waterweb. From there they’d progressed slowly, while Abbaz had shouted their wares: honeyed lemons, peeled and dipped—sticky, sweet and sour all in one; plump dates from Morlith, somehow still good despite the journey; and tiny dried, dark blue fruits from the northern islands that exploded sweetness onto Jeya’s tongue when shé snuck one behind Abbaz’s back.

  They’d passed through wealthy streets, with Abbaz hailing passers-by at the mooring places, or as they glided beneath the low bridges cutting back and forth across the canal. These were strange places to Jeya’s eyes, and not just because of the larger buildings and cleaner streets. Alongside people bustling about their work there were also richly dressed folk with nothing to do save walking, sitting, and talking. These were Abbaz’s customers; people who’d stroll down to the water to spend what seemed to Jeya like huge amounts of money on a snack.

  Then they’d reached the next part of the Second Level, where the canal wound away from the yeng shops and tailors, and began to pass the gardens of the rich.

  Since Jeya’s môther had died, shé hadn’t had any space to call hér own; not one shé could walk away from and come back to, at any rate. That was the way of the streets; you found the safest place to sleep you could, then moved on. You might sleep somewhere more than once, but you could never count on it being there for you again. If someone bigger or nastier had your favourite spot, or you didn’t have the money to pay for a space on Ngaiyu’s floor, you made do.

  These gardens were probably bigger than all the different spaces Jeya had ever slept in, all put together. Not that shé could see many of them, since there were walls between them and the canal towpath, but shé’d seen the steeply sloping roofs of the houses, and could tell how far they were from the edge of the property. Shé caught tantalising glimpses of lush green grass; fruit trees in blossom; a smaller, secondary building, perhaps half as wide across as Ngaiyu’s place. Was that garden so large the owner needed somewhere to rest while walking through it?

  And there, too, people heard Abbaz’s call and emerged from gates, or doors set into walls, and came down to the water to buy treats for themselves or their plump children. Sometimes the older children had come alone, clutching enough money in one hand to get them stabbed and robbed in some of the alleys Jeya knew. Shé’d rarely felt poorer, or more ragged.

  Then, as they’d rounded a bend in the canal, Damau
had crossed the boat muttering about swapping sides, and as Jeya had obliged they’d cast a significant glance towards a certain wall.

  It was green-grey stone, and taller than hér, but the boughs of a majestic paddleleaf reached out from within and drooped low and far enough that the great leaves nearly touched the water of the canal. The wooden gate set into the wall looked rarely used, judging by the grass that had grown up outside it, and no one had come out in response to Abbaz’s cry.

  IT WAS LATER, now. The afternoon had passed with another storm, and Abbaz had put a rain hat over their headscarf and complained about clouds covering the face of God, but the wind had carried those clouds away to leave the stars twinkling in the sky as though they too had been washed clean. Neither moon was full, but they provided enough light for Jeya to see by as shé picked hér way along the towpath.

  There it was, the big paddleleaf leaning out low across the water. Jeya walked as briskly as shé dared, because you should never look like you were sneaking, even if you didn’t think there was anyone watching. When shé drew level with the tree shé ducked under the first branch, then jumped up and grabbed onto the second before shé let hérself think about what shé was doing.

  The branch was sturdy and wide, and already resting on the top of the wall, so it didn’t even wobble. Shé kicked off the wall with hér feet to get hér legs up and over the branch, then hauled hérself up onto it. Shé’d always had good balance and the paddleleaf’s bark was rough, so it was easy enough to get carefully to hér feet and walk along it like a highrope acrobat on a festival day, especially when another branch converged close enough to use as a handhold.

  Shé crossed the wall but didn’t drop down. Perhaps rich people put traps inside their garden walls, just in case thieves tried to climb over them? Besides, if shé stayed in the tree shé wouldn’t risk being unable to climb back out again, and might also be able to get a good view of the house without getting so close…

  The fat main trunk would have surely taken three or four people to encircle with their arms, and where the branches met it looked almost like the body of an upturned dead spider, legs in the air. Jeya settled into the hollow the branches created and squinted towards the house. Shé could see its sloping roof, angled to shed the torrential rains, but other trees blocked hér view. A couple of lights burned somewhere inside, but the distance, and interposing leaves, meant they looked like nothing more than fireflies, faint sparks in the gloom.

  This was ridiculous. Shé was going to have to get a lot closer. And what did shé know about housebreaking, anyway? What had seemed like a good idea the previous night, and an exciting adventure when travelling the canals with Damau, now increasingly felt poorly thought-out.

  Shé froze as a shadow moved beneath a large shrub further up the garden. It disappeared for a moment into the deeper gloom, then darted across an open patch of grass bathed in the gentle silver moonlight.

  It was a person. And they looked to be heading for the bottom of the garden.

  Hér first thought was that shé’d been discovered. Hér second was that there’d been no shouted challenge, and the person looked to be trying to stick to the shadows. Had shé misjudged this? Had someone already robbed the house, and was even now making off with the valuables?

  Hér third thought, as the shadowy figure continued to approach at a cautious run, was that shé was sitting directly on the most obvious route out of the garden, apart from the gate that didn’t seem to open often.

  This was bad. Jeya wasn’t sure if shé dared move, as that would certainly give hér away. On the other hand, a thief who found their escape route blocked was likely to lash out in fear and alarm. Jeya hesitated, stomach knotting with tension, and in that moment the figure changed direction to head directly for the tree shé was sitting in.

  Jeya tried to scramble away, but it took hér a moment to sort hér feet out and turn, and before she could do so there was a huff of breath and a scrabbling as the other person hauled themselves up the trunk. Shé groped for hér small knife, felt the smooth bone handle under hér fingers, and pulled the blade clear of the wooden sheath just as a hooded head made of shadow appeared.

  “Nari’s teeth!”

  Still torn halfway between fight and flight, Jeya hesitated. That was a Naridan oath…

  “You!” The figure had swayed backwards for a moment, nearly losing their grip on the trunk, but now clutched at it more firmly. “Why are you in my tree?”

  The voice was urgent but hushed, yet Jeya recognised it despite the difference from its calm, confident delivery in the marketplace the day before. Sure enough, shé’d been discovered by the worst person imaginable; someone who had not only identified hér, but could still call for hér to be sent to the magistrates.

  And yet, there was a hot, tight spark in hér centre that flared up in excitement.

  “Why are yòu in yòur tree?” shé found herself demanding.

  “Why…? It’s my tree! This is my garden!”

  Jeya crouched back down onto hér heels, studying hìs hooded head. “So why were yòu sneaking across the grass, and why aren’t yòu calling for the guards?” Shé wasn’t at all afraid, shé realised with some surprise. Shé knew very well what someone trying to avoid attention looked like, and everything about the manner of the person currently hanging off the side of the tree screamed of it.

  There was a frustrated hiss from inside the hood. “Are you going to stab mè if Ì climb up there?”

  It was a clumsy dodge of hér question, but hè raised an important point. Jeya narrowed hér eyes. “Are yòu going to give me reason to?”

  “No!”

  “Make sure yòu don’t.” Shé sheathed hér knife and, on impulse, offered a hand. Hè still hesitated, and shé tutted. “The knife’s away. Come on.”

  Hè reached out and clasped hér hand, and shé pulled hìm up onto the mighty tree’s bole. Hè weighed a little less than shé’d expected, and seemed slightly smaller than shé remembered now hè was crouched directly in front of hér.

  Shé realised after a moment that shé still had hold of hìs hand and hastily let go, no matter what the spark in hér belly was telling hér to do. Shé could just make out the faint curves and shadows of hìs face under hìs hood, and shé swallowed. It had become quite hard to think.

  “Thank you,” hè muttered, with the air of someone acknowledging a debt to clear it. “Now, why are you in this tree?”

  Jeya hesitated. I wanted to see if yòur house had anything worth stealing wasn’t a good answer and, if shé was actually properly honest with hérself for the first time today, wasn’t a particularly truthful one either. Yòu’re beautiful and I wanted to look at yòu again was, now shé thought about it, rather more truthful, but also far more terrifying. Shé tried to moisten her dry mouth, and went for a compromise.

  “Someone I know saw what happened in the market and followed yòu here, then told me which house it was. Any other rich person would have sent me to the magistrates. Yòu didn’t. I wanted to know why.”

  Hè shifted uneasily, and Jeya got the impression it wasn’t just because hìs legs were twisted uncomfortably under hìm. “It should not be remarkable to not want someone hanged for being hungry.”

  “It shouldn’t be, but it is,” Jeya replied. “So, why?”

  “How did you expect to find this out by climbing into my garden?” hè demanded. Which was a fair question, but Jeya had a fair answer.

  “Look at me. I’d be chased away from yòur door as a beggar. This was the best idea I had. Also,” shé added suspiciously, “yòu’re dodging my question.”

  “It is a stupid reason,” hè muttered, “and not honourable.” Hè looked back over hìs shoulder in the direction of the house as hè spoke, and the moonlight glinted on hìs cheekbones as hìs hood pulled back a little from his face.

  “No reason that prevents me getting hanged is stupid,” Jeya said firmly. “I’m pretty definite about that. And I don’t give a moons’ kiss about hon
our.”

  Hè turned back to face hér, pools of shadow once more obscuring hìs features. “Very well.” Hè paused for a moment, and Jeya thought hè’d decided against speaking, but then hè found his voice again, stumbling and hesitant though it was.

  “Ì… thought you were very fair to look on.”

  Oh.

  Half of Jeya’s mind was laughing at hìs fanciful choice of words, while the other half was sitting in stunned silence. Shé made a small noise that held no meaning, although hè didn’t seem to notice.

  “It is not honourable, as Ì said.” Hè lowered hìs head a little as he continued. “Justice should be based on the law, not on… appearance. Ì am ashamed to say that had you looked different, Ì may have sent to you the magistrates. Truthfully, Ì do not know what Ì would have done. But—”

  “Are yòu saying this just because yòu’re in a tree with me, and I’ve got a knife?” Jeya demanded, coaxing hér tongue into action again.

  “No!” Hè bit down on the end of the word, as though it had come out louder than hè’d intended. “By my ancestors and Nari Hìmself, no.”

  “Right, then.” Jeya wondered if there was a God of Bad Decisions amongst the myriad of pantheons worshipped across Alaba. If so, shé probably owed them a few prayers. Shé leaned forwards.

  “What—?”

  Hè had time for one word before Jeya’s lips closed on hìs. Shé felt hìm tense and start to pull away, and hér heart sank, but then hè relaxed and melted into the kiss. Hér heart was thundering in hér ears. Shé reached out and wrapped hér arm around the small of hìs back, pulling them closer together. Shé felt hìs hand slide up, brushing over hér collarbone, and then hìs fingers were tangling in the hair at the back of hér neck, holding hér in place. Shé didn’t mind, and leaned in further; shé could stay here forever, drowning in this kiss, drowning in hìm…

  Hè twisted suddenly, making a noise in the back of hìs throat. Jeya pulled back in alarm, then nearly yelped as hè grabbed at hér arm. Shé didn’t understand what was going on, what had happened, until hè braced hìmself against a branch and extricated one of hìs legs from underneath hìm, where it had become caught and twisted. Jeya felt heat burn into hér cheeks.