Isles of the Forsaken

by Ives Gilman, Carolyn

  I believe I’ve written about him before. Now I think I underestimated him at first, and assumed he was more unsophisticated than he is. It’s true, he is totally uneducated—can barely read a simple text. But he has a sharp, enquiring mind, and grasps a concept faster than most law students I know. He is quite curious about Inning custom and law, and I have now read him the whole of the law twice over, with commentary.

  It has given me a little uneasiness, whether I ought to be informing him, or whether it could be construed as collaboration. But in thinking it over, I have decided that this is exactly why I was sent to the Forsakens: to instruct the Adaina about Inning law, and encourage them to solve their differences through peaceful and constructive means. The circumstances are unanticipated, but the obligation remains the same. Besides, it makes the time go faster.

  Harg has been quite eloquent to me about the perceived injustices that have led to this revolt. It may surprise you to learn that they don’t, in fact, wish to throw off Inning rule; they simply wish to be accepted into our commonwealth with the same rights and autonomy that we have granted other territories. They wish to be independent from the Inner Chain, not ruled by the government in Tornabay. As soon as he understood that we are a government of laws, not of men, Harg asked why the Adaina could not have their own courts. It was an interesting question.

  Nathaway stared at the wall, remembering the scene. Harg had been pacing restlessly, as if he found the small room intolerably claustrophobic. “You want to impose your law as if you could do our thinking for us,” he argued. “We want to work it out for ourselves. How can we do that unless you let us have Adaina courts, Adaina judges?”

  “You intention’s admirable,” Nathaway had said, “but there can’t be separate courts for separate races. It undermines the whole concept, and isn’t even to your advantage.”

  “Why not?” Harg said.

  “If you define yourself as a separate group before the law, then you give others permission to define you that way as well, and to give you a different kind of treatment because of it. You must always think not ‘What is just for Adainas,’ but ‘What is just for everyone, including Adainas.’ Don’t settle for anything less than universal justice. That is the only way to achieve a world where we’re not cutting each other’s throats.”

  At last Harg came to a halt, looking demandingly at Nathaway. “If we asked, would they grant us perfect equality under the law?”

  “I don’t know. But you won’t get it if you don’t ask.”

  Nathaway didn’t put that in his letter. When Harg was in the room, he found it hard not to see the situation from their perspective; as soon as he was alone, he always wondered if he had crossed the line.

  He resumed writing.

  In short, there is very little in their demands that could not be worked out if only some negotiations could be undertaken. There is a great deal about our system they simply don’t understand, but assume the worst from having experienced only the roughest side of it, administered by arrogant and self-interested parties. If we approached them with a spirit of enlightened compromise, and offered amnesty in exchange for a cessation of hostilities and release of prisoners, then I think this crisis would be short-lived.

  There, he thought, perhaps that would do some good, considering who was sure to read it. At least it couldn’t do any harm. He was running out of paper, so he added some greetings to family and signed it. If Harg was as good as his word, it would get posted to Fluminos by the next available boat.

  *

  At that moment, Harg was sitting in the room directly below Nathaway’s, trying to keep himself from speaking up.

  The twenty-odd people around the long table in the private meeting room of Rosenry’s tavern were supposed to be hammering out a set of demands for a delegation to present to the Innings in Tornabay. Out of necessity, most of the people in the room were Tornas. It wasn’t the Adaina way to debate or make demands, and few of them were willing to sit and wrangle with a tableful of Tornas. So the politics of this rebellion was going to be a Torna creation, and therefore accommodationist.

  Up to now, Harg had not been taking part in the discussions. But the demands were taking so long he was losing patience, so he had decided to stop in and see what the problem was.

  Now he knew. They had spent the entire morning arguing over a demand he considered a complete side issue, the release of the Heir of Gilgen. Until the last week, Harg hadn’t even known there was a living inheritor of that ancient title. Now, news of the man’s captivity was distracting everyone from more important issues. The discussion today hadn’t even touched on the demand Harg considered most critical, independent courts. The Tornas just couldn’t see the importance of it. But then, they hadn’t had the pleasure of being indoctrinated by the legal zealot in the upstairs bedroom.

  The debate was lagging now. When Harg shifted restlessly in his seat, half a dozen people looked at him, hoping for something to energize the meeting.

  Majlis Callow, the practical, middle-aged woman who usually spoke for the Torna merchants, said, “Harg, you’re the only one who hasn’t said anything. What’s the matter, do you think this won’t affect you?”

  “It’s not my decision,” he forced himself to say. “You’re the ones doing the demands.”

  “But we’re asking your opinion.”

  He stared hard at the tabletop, then finally decided to give it to them, consequences be damned. “Well then, I say forget the Heir of Gilgen. Let them have him. We don’t need him.”

  There was a silence. He had just confounded all their expectations; it was the Adainas who were supposed to care most about the traditional ways. At last Majlis said, “We can’t have an Ison without the Heir of Gilgen.”

  “Then we won’t have an Ison,” Harg said. “We’ll do fine without. Why should we want a leader chosen and controlled by the Grey Folk, anyway? We don’t need the Lashnura meddling in our affairs.”

  When the Adainas learned what he had said, they would be scandalized, he thought. Well, so be it. He stood up. “I’ve got to get some fresh air,” he said. “Go ahead, don’t wait for me.”

  He passed out through the smoky common room of the tavern, which faced onto the Market Square. Out on the porch he paused, sheltered from the slow drizzle. He checked the harbour; Barko had not yet returned from his training run with the renamed Industry, now the Ison Orin. Harg wished he had gone with them in the Pimpernel. Out on the sea, it was just himself and his crew. The instant he stepped on shore, he was surrounded by expectations.

  There was a story taking hold of everyone’s minds. They all thought they knew where events were leading: upward to glory and the recapture of ancient power and unity. They had all forgotten the last time they had followed that story, to conquest and execution.

  We need a new story, Harg thought. We need to break out of this old one, and do something unexpected.

  He became aware of a commotion in one of the side streets. Shouts and catcalls echoed from between the buildings. As he watched, a rowdy mob of pirates erupted into the square, dragging a protesting figure toward the dock. They had wrapped a noose around their victim’s neck, and were propelling him on at dagger point. They looked like they intended to string him up from the yard arm of one of the boats.

  Exasperated, Harg left the shelter of the porch and set out after them. When he called out, they stopped. Harg had never seen the man they were harassing; he looked Torna, and his face was blanched with terror. His hands were tied behind him.

  “What the fuck are you hoodlums doing?” Harg demanded.

  “Executing a spy,” said the ringleader of the mob. The man holding the noose gave it a jerk, making the victim stumble.

  “Stop that!” Harg ordered. “How do you know he’s a spy?”

  “He came on a boat from Tornabay last night. He’s been nosing aroun
d ever since, asking questions. He was asking about you, Harg.”

  On hearing Harg’s name, the Torna turned to him with a desperate look of hope. “I’m not a spy!” he cried. “Yes, I’m from Tornabay. I never denied it. If you’re Harg Ismol, I came here looking for you. But I’m not a Tiarch’s-man, I’ll swear it!”

  “Give me that,” Harg said to the man holding the rope. He took the cord and loosened the noose, lifting it from around the man’s neck. “What are you, a pack of barbarians? Are you going to hang every foreigner who comes here? Blessed backside of Ashte, use your brains.”

  Seizing the Torna by the arm, he propelled him forcefully across the square toward the customs house, away from the mob.

  “Thank you, sir, thank you!” the man babbled in relief.

  “Shut up,” Harg said. He didn’t think the pirates would follow them, but he wanted to get inside before it occurred to them.

  They mounted the customs house steps and got through the door without further incident. Harg shoved the captive into the room he had been using as a headquarters and closed the door. It was sparsely furnished with a few chairs. He left the Torna standing with his hands still tied, and sat in a chair facing him. “Now convince me I didn’t just waste my time,” he said.

  The stranger was utterly forgettable: small and pale, with a head of curly black hair and a little moustache. Harg watched as the realization crossed the man’s face that he wasn’t yet out of trouble. He looked around the room, a little jittery, and cleared his throat. “My name is Jobin Dugall. I came on the merchant cog Fairweather Friend, from Tornabay. It was two weeks ago we first heard what happened here—the attack on the warships and the fort, the capture of Inning prisoners. I work for a merchant firm that has interests in the South Chain—”

  “Which one?” Harg interrupted.

  “Sorrell and Sons. Mr. Sorrell sent me here to see if a mutually advantageous arrangement might be possible.”

  Sorrell was well known as an importer of arms and munitions. Harg watched Jobin through narrowed eyes. “Your company would risk the Innings’ justice by dealing with us?” he said.

  Nervously, Jobin wet his lips. “No,” he said. “The bargain we have in mind is to the Innings’ advantage; it’s just one they can’t approach you about themselves, at least not directly. We are acting in the capacity of an intermediary.”

  “Do the Innings know you’re here?”

  Hesitantly, Jobin replied, “Not yet.”

  “All right,” Harg said. “What’s your offer?”

  Jobin glanced at his bound hands. “Would you mind untying me?”

  “Maybe. Tell me first how you knew my name.”

  “It’s in all the reports, Harg Ismol is leader of the revolt.”

  Not terribly pleased to hear this, Harg nevertheless got up and untied the man’s hands. Jobin rubbed his wrists and wriggled his fingers to restore the circulation. “Thank you,” he said. “They said you were more civilized than the rest.”

  “Don’t bank on it,” Harg said.

  Jobin looked up, studying him closely, so he turned his back and strolled behind his chair, finally turning around and leaning on its back. “Well?”

  Drawing himself up straight, Jobin said, “You have some Inning prisoners.”

  “I know that.”

  “You have one in particular that I am authorized to offer a ransom for.”

  “What sort of ransom?” Harg didn’t need to ask which prisoner; he could guess that.

  Jobin named a handsome sum in money, but Harg was unimpressed, and showed it. “I have a limited range in which to negotiate,” Jobin warned him.

  “What makes you think we want money for him?” Harg said.

  Taken aback, Jobin said, “What do you want?” Then, apprehensively, “Arms? That’s a bigger risk for us.”

  “We have some demands,” Harg said.

  After a momentary pause, Jobin said, “The Innings won’t negotiate political demands.”

  “I’m not talking to an Inning. Or am I?” He frowned at Jobin’s studiously blank look. “You know, I believe you, that you’re not a Tiarch’s-man.”

  “It’s true,” said Jobin.

  “Because I think you’re Native Navy. You’re working for Admiral Talley, aren’t you?”

  Jobin looked like he was poised to leap, but couldn’t decide which direction. He was watching Harg’s face for some clue. At last he looked down. “You’re right, in a way,” he said. “I was in the navy. I resigned a few weeks ago, and went to work for Mr. Sorrell.”

  “Why did you resign?” Harg asked.

  Jobin’s face flushed; it was obviously a sore point. Reluctantly, he said, “I was . . . encouraged to. Otherwise, I’d be demoted for something that wasn’t my fault. The Tornabay command is in total turmoil. Everyone knows the occupation’s being mishandled, and it’s not always the right heads rolling for it.”

  “Is Talley there yet?”

  “Yes,” Jobin said with a mix of fear and resentment that rang true.

  “The Southern Squadron?”

  “Not all of it, yet. Only three ships.”

  “Who’s in charge of it?”

  “An Inning, Commodore Tenniel.”

  “I thought the admiral was going to nativize the officer corps.”

  “It was all just talk,” Jobin said bitterly. “There was a Torna named Joffrey in charge of the Northern Squadron for a little while. Now he’s out, and the admiral’s in charge himself.”

  “I was wondering why they hadn’t moved.”

  “Complete organizational breakdown, that’s why,” Jobin said.

  “Some things never change,” Harg said with a grim smile. “What do they know about us?”

  “I wasn’t in a position to know,” Jobin said. “All I know is, the admiral’s hot as a firesnake. He’s taking it personally, they say.”

  Harg pondered this. He couldn’t imagine Admiral Talley being less than professional. Perhaps his brother’s captivity made things different. “Do you know the admiral?” he asked.

  “No,” Jobin said. “Don’t you?”

  Harg shook his head.

  Jobin was watching him curiously. When their eyes met, Jobin said, “You were in the navy?”

  “That doesn’t mean I hobnobbed with the admiral,” Harg said drily. “He didn’t exactly invite us round for tea. I met him once, the day I resigned.”

  “Lucky you,” Jobin said.

  Harg wasn’t yet sure whether Jobin was what he said. One thing he strongly suspected, though: if he spoke to Jobin, there would be ears listening on the other end, perhaps important ones. He had to take the risk—very, very cautiously.

  “You said Mr. Sorrell was willing to act as go-between,” he said.

  “What do you have in mind?” Jobin said carefully.

  “A peaceful resolution,” Harg said, “if the Innings want it. But they’ll have to listen to us.”

  The fact that Jobin didn’t answer at once increased Harg’s impression that the man was more than just a messenger. Messengers didn’t have to think about their answers.

  “There are people in Tornabay willing to listen to you,” Jobin said at last, slowly. “War’s not good for everyone’s business.”

  “We want to send a delegation with a list of demands.”

  “What sort of demands?”

  Harg didn’t want to admit that they were still wrangling over the demands. He wanted Jobin to think they were firm and united. So he said, “We want to be an independent territory under the Empire, with full political rights. That means our own civilian governor, with power equal to Tiarch’s. We want independent courts with Adaina judges. We want to be policed by our own squadron of the Native Navy, with Adaina officers. We want a promise of full ci
tizenship rights. And we don’t want to pay tariffs on our goods.”

  Jobin looked thoroughly taken aback. Harg said, “Why, what did you expect us to want—permission to go naked and pound drums?”

  “They’re ambitious demands,” Jobin said at last.

  “We’re ambitious people.”

  “I can see that.” He was obviously still trying to reconfigure his expectations. “And what about you? Where do you fit in this independent territory?”

  The question was typical of the mindset of Tornabay, where corruption was the scaffolding on which everything was erected. Harg’s first reaction was disgust at the implication that he was doing this for personal gain. But he caught himself before expressing it, because he was curious to know what Jobin would offer. “That’s not up to me,” he said.

  “Who is it up to?” When Harg didn’t answer at once, Jobin said, “The Heir of Gilgen?”

  It was the closest anyone had come to asking point blank what his ambitions were. Scowling at Jobin, Harg said, “Did I say the word ‘Ison’?”

  “No, you said ‘governor.’ I was wondering if it was a euphemism.”

  The fact was, no one outside this room was saying “governor.” They were all saying “Ison.” It really wasn’t up to Harg. That was his dilemma. What he wanted and what the Adaina wanted were not always the same.

  “You know that Tiarch has the Heir of Gilgen?” Jobin said.

  “We’d heard that,” Harg said.

  “You may not know that the Innings are going to take over custody of him. There has been talk of quietly getting rid of him for good.”

  Harg shook his head. “They’d be idiots to do that. There would be no surer way of making the Outer Chains explode into rebellion.”

  “From the Inning point of view, it would be eliminating one festering source of coalition.”

  Harg wasn’t sure where Jobin was going with this, but he wasn’t following.

  “You’re not concerned? Even as a fellow Yoran?” Jobin said.