Melio followed Clytus back through the dim room, lit only by the candles at each table and torches along the rear wall, where young men poured ale. The air oozed with the scent of it, mixed with pipe smoke and the pungency of garlic.
The table they stopped at was no different from the others, a circle centered around a thick-wicked candle. The yellow glow lit two men in sharp highlights. One of them rose and moved away when they arrived, without so much as a glance up. Clytus turned and followed the man, only turning back when he had seated himself at another table. The second man had stayed put. Large bone earrings, shaped like primitive fishhooks, dangled from his ears. His beard covered only his chin and had been oiled to a curving tip, something he kept shaped with caressing fingers. His face, behind all that, was forgettable. If Melio had turned away and had to describe him, he would only be able to recall the earrings, beard, the oily fingers.
“This is Kartholomé Gilb. Formerly a small ship pilot for the league. Now … what are you now?”
“I’m between employers at the moment. Working for myself.”
“A brigand, then.”
Kartholomé dipped his head in acceptance of the title. “Clytus already told me who you are, Sharratt. If you want a drink you’ll have to get it yourself. Ale only. We don’t drink the league’s wine here.” When neither man moved, he leaned back on his stool and motioned with his hand that they should feel free to sit.
“So … Clytus says you’ve come all the way from the monkey’s pucker itself. What brings you to Tivol? If it’s whores you want, you’ve come to the right place. Though I’m disappointed. I take it the princess doesn’t do the … interesting things. Royalty can be like that. With a little coin any girl in town will play the princess for you, though.”
Melio threw an angry look at Clytus. “I thought you said he was ready to talk.”
“He is. Kartholomé, stop shifting crap with your tongue and let’s get on to what we discussed.”
“But it’s not every day one meets the mighty steed a princess rides. He doesn’t look so—”
Melio lunged across the table so quickly that he had completed his attack and sat back in his seat before Kartholomé knew what had happened. Kartholomé touched his nose, the tip of which bloomed with a thin line of blood that quickly began to drip onto the table. He murmured a curse, but seemed more impressed than angry or pained. Melio’s hand lay on the wood, resting over the hilt of the short knife he had just cut Kartholomé with.
Clytus glanced around the tavern, and then broke the short silence. “Calm heads. Calm heads. Look, Kartholomé, Melio Sharratt isn’t only a Marah; he trains Marah. Understand that? He moves different, yeah? Walks upright and is … a little delicate with his hands.” Melio cocked an eyebrow. “But don’t think that just because he talks like a toff that he couldn’t remove your liver, cut it up, and feed it to you before you knew what you were eating. He’s not to be trifled with, and the princess is not a topic he’s interested in discussing.” Clytus leaned forward. Through gritted teeth, he said, “He’s here in the service of the queen.”
Kartholomé shrugged. “I was just making conversation.” He pinched the tip of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and seemed, if anything, more curiously amiable than he had been before receiving the injury. “All right, assuming you let me keep my nose hairs, let’s talk about what you want to.”
“I want to know what happened to Prince Dariel in the Other Lands.”
“You don’t ask much.” Kartholomé let go of his nose and dabbed it a few times, then put pressure back on it. “What I heard is that the prince was an offering. A deal sweetener. The Auldek just weren’t in the mood for making nice. Grouchy buggers they are.”
Melio stared at him. “What in the Giver’s name are you talking about?”
Kartholomé rolled his eyes and began again. “Fine. Try to follow, though. Sire Neen didn’t care a pear about Dariel, or about the Akarans. No leagueman does. He also didn’t give a pear about the Lothan Aklun. Hates them, truth be told. Neen came up with a grand plan to get rid of both of them. Kill the Lothan Aklun with some poison or something, and then he would go direct to the Auldek. You see it? Figured he would control both sides of the trade—quota or mist or whatever it was going to be. But, like I said, the Auldek didn’t like the look of him. Their chieftain chopped Neen limb from limb and took a bath in his blood. Wouldn’t have minded seeing that. You?”
“You see any of this with your own eyes?”
“Nah. I never went across. I worked the Outer Isles, the Thousands, mostly. That doesn’t mean I don’t know what happened. Thing like that, people talk.”
“And Dariel?”
Kartholomé, finally satisfied his nose was no longer bleeding, released it and sat back. “The prince. He was there when it happened. Neen was offering him to the Auldek, sort of a token of good faith. ‘Here, have a prince. Do with him what you will.’ He’s probably dead. Though—mind, I don’t really credit this—one of the Ishtat who survived claimed to have seen someone grab Dariel. Not Auldek. Not Ishtat. Just someone. Guy that looked like a boar. He was standing near the prince, he said, and the guy knocked into him as he passed.”
“Do you believe this man?”
Kartholomé dipped his eyes toward the table for a second. “You going to cut me again?”
Melio realized he had tightened his grip around his knife’s small handle. He released it, lifted his palm, and tented his fingers over the blue metal of the blade. “Can I speak to him?”
“Not a chance. He’s Ishtat. He talked too much even talking to me, but they were all spooked. Pretty big to-do if you ask me. I wouldn’t know where to find him even if I wanted to, and he wouldn’t talk to you anyway. Not a chance.”
“How do you come by this information? I thought the league never let anyone get out of their fold. You shouldn’t even exist to be here talking to me.”
“The league scrubs their own decks. No doubt about it. The league used to use contractors for interisland stuff. Not anymore. They’re keeping everything in the family now. I just got lucky, managed to get away before they permanently retired me. If they knew I was alive, I wouldn’t be.” He grinned. “They think I’m dead, and I’m happy with that. Look, Marah trainer, I’ve got more reason to doubt you than the other way around. I’m only talking because I know Clytus.” After a moment, he added, “And because I knew Dariel.”
In answer to Melio’s questioning look, Clytus nodded.
Kartholomé smeared drops of semidried blood onto the tabletop with his finger. “Anyway, there are more than a few reasons to hate the league. I could show you a few if you’re up for it. You all in the Inner Sea have no idea what goes on out here. At least, I hope you don’t.”
“You know I don’t. That’s why I’m here.”
“All right, then. Let’s go fishing tomorrow. You’ll have to show me that knife trick, though. That was something. Didn’t even see it coming.”
“What trick?” Melio smiled his crooked smile. “I just misjudged the distance.”
Melio had been on his share of dubious vessels in the Inner Sea—and even rafted out as far as the Vumu Archipelago, where he had found Mena that wonderful day years ago. Still, when they rowed through the breakers off Tivol the next morning he had to swallow hard to keep his breakfast down. The boat was too small. He could jump from gunwale to gunwale. It took—what—eight strides to teeter from the stern to the bow? Powered by a single square sail, the boat skimmed across the water at a good clip. Faster than he liked, considering the size of the Gray Slopes’ swell.
Geena from the Ballan joined them, making for a crew of four, a crowd in the tiny fishing skiff but the right number to look like they were working the yellowgill that passed between the mainland and the Outer Isles. That, in fact, is what they did. They spent the afternoon fishing the current that flowed through the channel, tacking into the northerly wind the whole time.
League transports passed in the distance sever
al times. Once a patrol clipper skimmed the horizon to the north. They were in a loose flotilla of fishing boats, though, and the clipper paid them no mind. Melio lost himself in the work that was their cover, baiting hooks, throwing out lines, keeping them from tangling, and then hauling them back in turn. The tiny eel-like fish he had crooked onto the hooks came back as lean slivers the length of a man’s arm, sparkling silver. There was no sign of the trait that gave them their name until they were unhooked and gasping in the water-sloshed bottom of the vessel. Each flare of the gills revealed a bright burst of yellow, a vibrant hue that would have made a beautiful flower.
Without knowing where the thought came from, Melio remembered Mena. He had letters from her wrapped in oiled paper and buckled tight within a case in his satchel back on the Ballan. He had read through them many times before. For in the space of the reading he heard her voice and could imagine where she was and knew her to be safe. That illusion held only when the written words spoke in her voice inside his head. Now, on a small boat in the salt air of a vast ocean, he knew that she could not have imagined he would be here. So how could he have any true idea where she was, what she was doing, or who with? Alive or dead? He hated it that he did not know. He should just be able to feel her. She should be able to speak his name and he should be able to answer. What did miles matter between two people in love?
The league brig appeared as if it had emerged right out of the water’s depths. To the north of them, heading southwest. It looked to be at a safe passing distance, but as it grew nearer its trajectory skimmed it closer. Figures appeared at the bow. The glint of glass catching the light betrayed their spyglass.
Kartholomé growled, “Bastards.”
“What? They’ve noticed us? They’re too big to—”
“Bastards!” The pilot leaped around the boat, adjusting the sails. Clytus leaned on the rudder, changing their tack so abruptly Melio nearly pitched overboard. Cursing, he spread himself low in the boat, half soaked by the warm water sloshing among the fish and tackle and salt-caked old ropes.
“A nervous bunch, brigands,” Melio mumbled. Looking back at the galley, he noticed that a school of dolphins leaped and dove in the wave surge pushed out from the prow. Beautiful. Then the galley’s bow veered toward them in earnest. Sails bowed as they caught a larger portion of the wind. The ship leaned with the turn, a sudden change by the big ship’s standards. Nothing to account for it as far as Melio could see from peering over the gunwale, especially as it brought them churning directly toward the fishing vessel. “Ah …”
Geena appeared beside him. “Grab on to something,” she said, worming her way under the seat slats.
“Grab …” He did not need to be told twice. He worked his hands under a beam, pressed against others with his feet. Like that, on his back, he could not see the water anymore, but he could see the frantic motions and darting eyes of the two seamen. The vast rise of the galley bore down on them. As tall as any building he had ever seen, it came yawning at a slow rhythm out of time with the speed it traveled.
“Furl the sail!” Clytus roared.
Whether or not Kartholomé managed this Melio did not get to see. The hull of the ship pushed before it a curling fury of water. The swell lifted the small boat up. The wave curled over them, terrifyingly smooth, glass green and translucent, frothed across the crest with white. Three dolphins leaped out of the glass and over the boat. Beautiful. Then the wave struck. The vessel went over. The hull bucked and the world tilted and water rushed in like a monster made of liquid muscle. Melio closed his eyes, held his breath, and clung as the boat churned over and over, jolting and shuddering when it contacted the hull of the great ship. For a time all was black motion. His lungs began to burn. Water yanked and smacked him. It felt like actual hands and fists battered him, trying to get him to let go.
When the boat popped into the air again, it did so with the bow pointed toward the sky, twirling. As water drained toward the stern, Melio clung to one of the low benches. Just as he began to doubt he could hold on any longer, the bow smashed back down. Geena got jolted away from her hold. One side of the boat dipped, and a gush of water washed in. It swept her with it, dragging her along the gunwale. She fought it, clawing for purchase. She began to slide overboard, one arm upraised and flailing, while the tongue of the sea slurped her in. Melio caught her by the wrist. He braced his feet against the submerged gunwale and hauled back with everything he had. She smashed into him. Their limbs entwined as Melio scrabbled back toward the rear storage compartment, Geena in his grip. She understood and crammed in next to him. The two of them knotted together and stuck fast just as the boat passed into the swirling chaos rushing around the galley’s rear end.
Again the small boat’s stern submerged, making the bow pirouette in the air above them. Melio watched it against the sky. Among the falling debris, water glistened as it dropped. The mast had snapped in half and the sail hung like a dead thing. A tide of hissing, bubbling air rose around them. Melio tried to breathe, but the air was foaming water in his mouth. He spit it out, but it rushed in again. He spit it out; it rushed in again. He gave up trying. He closed his eyes and clung to Geena.
CHAPTER
NINE
It could have been worse. Mór had been angry, fuming and spitting venom, on the verge of using those stubby nails of hers to rip new tracks across Dariel’s face. She danced through an improvised tribute to her anger. One of her eyelids twitched out a rant of its own. By the time it all ended Dariel had admitted his fault and claimed to be chastened. He swore he would never do something as foolish as sneaking alone into Amratseer again. Eventually, Mór left her exasperation at Dariel’s feet. She ordered the others into motion and she told the prince to leave the pups behind. He didn’t. Chastened, yes, but not without some resolve.
It took them a full day to circumambulate Amratseer. By the second morning they cleared the semiorder of the agricultural region outside the city and plunged into Inàfeld Forest. It extended all the way north as far as anyone had been, hemmed in at the west by the mountains of Rath Batatt. Tam claimed that they were following a route of sorts, but it was one of many that the People had developed over the years. Not wanting to leave a traceable path to the Sky Isle, they used a variety of trails, each of them trodden on rarely enough that they betrayed few signs of actually being trails.
They wormed over and beneath tree roots, along fallen old-growth trunks, and through dank waterways, stepping carefully on the moss-heavy stones. The forest grew thick enough that the sky was only a distant idea. The pups did not make it any easier. Fully half the terrain was unmanageable for them. Before long Dariel had given up on encouraging them forward and instead carried them in a sack slung over his back. When he complained about the weight of them one afternoon, Birké took one and walked with it cradled like a baby in his arm. “You’ll have to name them, you know?”
“Yes, I guess I will.”
“You must geld them. Not yet, but before too long.”
“Cut their balls off? No, I don’t think that’s—”
“Scoop it up, Dariel,” Birké cut in. “They’re cathounds. Male ones. The Anet used them to hunt lions. In six months they’ll be almost as tall as you are. At least they’ll be lighter without their balls.”
“Be sane! I saw their mother. She was—”
“Young. They birth children young. And the females are smaller anyway. No, Dariel, believe me, you’ve got more on your hands than you know. Snip them. I could do it for you if you like.” Birké made his fingers into shears and demonstrated the ease of the action. He smiled. What should have been fearsome—the thick hair that covered his entire face, the canine incisors that shone savagely through his grin—usually managed to cheer Dariel. Not so this time.
Dariel reached for the pup. “I don’t mind carrying him after all.”
He still carried them both an hour later when they stepped into a clearing in the woods created by an enormous fallen tree. A man stood atop it, arm
s crossed and still. Blinking in the unaccustomed bright light, it took Dariel a moment to believe that he was really there. Mór shouted something to him in Auldek; the man responded and pointed to a route up onto the tree. Without a word of explanation, Mór led them up.
The man was slight of build. His head was clean-shaven, with a splattering of tattoos across his scalp, patterning that Dariel had not seen before. “So this is him?” the man asked, switching to Acacian. “There is much talk of him in Avina. The destroyer of the soul catcher. The Rhuin Fá.” He studied the prince with a trader’s critical eye, as if he were considering a purchase. “Funny, he just looks like common Shivith clan, not even ranked. I hope he is what he promises.”
“I never promised anything,” Dariel said. The pups churned in the sack, trying to get a view of the stranger. Dariel tried to stand without flinching, but they really did have sharp claws. “And I’m standing right in front of you. You could address me directly.”
The man gave no sign that he heard him. “Last word from Avina was that the clans are squabbling and that league ships are patrolling the coastline. More each week. If this Dariel Akaran wishes to prove himself, he’ll have ample opportunity, and soon.”
Before Dariel could respond, Mór asked, “Tell me, messenger, why have you come?”
“With a message, of course.” He drew himself up and spoke more formally. “I carry an elder within, a voice meant for your ears.”
Mór said, “May the vessel never crack.”
As she and the messenger moved away together, Dariel unslung his sack. He poured the pups out onto the wide tree trunk, across which they surged with bumbling enthusiasm, greeting one person and then the next and then starting over again.
The Sacred Band: Book Three of the Acacia Trilogy Page 10