The Shewstone

by Jane Fletcher

  Eawynn rolled out of bed and got dressed. What had she been thinking? But no. She had not been thinking at all. It had been a case of get out of the cabin or attempt to throttle Matt. Bad call. By comparison, Insightful Sister Oracle ranked as mildly irritating.

  With a bowl of porridge from the galley as breakfast, Eawynn started to climb the short run of steps to the foredeck, but stopped. Her favourite spot had been taken. All the while Matt had been suffering from seasickness, Eawynn had been free to treat the area as her own. However, now the thief had her sea legs, she had stolen Eawynn’s place.

  Eawynn dithered. Should she go and demand first taker’s rights? That would be not merely childish but unreasonable. Not least because there was plenty of room for two. However, Eawynn had no intention of sitting any closer to Matt than could be helped. The entire length of the ship was less than she would have liked.

  Eawynn took her porridge to the aft deck, close by where the helmsman stood. She spooned down her breakfast while scowling at the opposite end of the ship, an activity all the more galling in that the object of the scowls appeared completely oblivious.

  This became the pattern for the following days. Whoever got up first would claim the foredeck, with the loser consigned to the rear. At Matt’s insistence, they alternated use of the bunk. Eawynn suspected this was partly because one tended to wake earlier after an uncomfortable night on the floor. The person sleeping on the bed missed out on the foredeck, more often than not.

  On the fourteenth day out of Fortaine, the mainland came briefly into view, before a blanket of grey mist swallowed everything. The wind stayed low throughout the night and into the following morning.

  Eawynn stood in the cabin doorway, peering out. Rain fell in unbroken sheets. The sails hung slack from the mast, billowing in the most desultory fashion in the occasional damp puff of breeze. She was second to rise that day, but could still have the foredeck to herself. Matt had found a seat under a triangle of awning, the only dry patch on deck. Eawynn bit her lip. Should she stay in the cabin? But why must she be the one cooped up all day? She wanted fresh air, and there was enough space.

  Matt looked up as she sat down. “Morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  Eawynn stared at the rain. Maybe sitting here had been a bad idea. Sooner or later, she was going to have to say something. Meanwhile, Matt was studiously honing a set of three knives. They were short, no more than six inches long. The stumpy handles had open hoops for pommels. The blades were leaf shaped, sharpened on both edges. Weapons, Eawynn realised, not tools. For the first time, she fully faced the idea she was helping on a mission to kill another human being. She would be an accessory to murder.

  “Do you really think it’s going to make you feel better, killing this man you’re after?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “When you’ve found him, you can go to the authorities, tell them what he’s done. Have him tried before a judge.”

  Matt looked up from the knife. “I’m going to be in Rihtcynnedal, accusing a Rihtcynn priest of killing a Thraelas gang boss, two thousand miles away. Do you honestly think any judge I find will give me the time of day?” She went back to honing. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. This is something I have to do.”

  “It’s murder.”

  “We didn’t start it.”

  “That’s all the justification you need?”

  “Yes.”

  Trying to reason with Matt was pointless. “I guess breeding tells. You’re the daughter of a murderer. Killing is in your blood.”

  “If you believe that bullshit.”

  “And you don’t.”

  “I hope not. Otherwise I’ve inherited the blood of a piece of shit passing itself off as a man.” Matt gave a humourless laugh. “And a murderer as well.”

  “But you’re still going to avenge him?” Now Eawynn was confused.

  “I wasn’t talking about Edmund. He adopted me when I was nine or so.” Matt put one knife down and moved to another. “I was living on the streets and stole some food from his house. It amused him, so he took me in. Or maybe he saw something in me.”

  “Were your parents dead?”

  “My Ma was. I can’t prove it, but the whoreson who called himself my father murdered her. I know it. He used to knock her around when he’d been drinking. Then one day she was gone. He said she’d run off with another man, but Ma would never have left me and Emmy with that pig.”

  “Emmy?”

  “My big sister, four years older than me. The shit got her pregnant, then started eyeing me up. So I ran away.”

  “You were nine?”

  “Maybe ten. I don’t know exactly when my birthday is.”

  “What happened to your father? Didn’t you report him?”

  This time Matt’s laugh was for real. “You have a wonderful idea of how justice works. He was a sergeant in the city watch. Who was going to arrest him? Anyway, he wasn’t my father. He sired me, and that’s it. And as for what happened to him, Edmund saw to it he got a swimming lesson in the bay.”

  Eawynn rested her head in her hands as she struggled with the upside-down morality. Maybe this was one murder that could be excused.

  Meanwhile, Matt finished honing and slid the knives into a sheath strapped around her calf. She was barefoot, but when wearing her normal boots, the knives would be completely hidden.

  “Edmund Flyming was my true father.”

  “Do you even know what that word means?”

  “What?”

  “Flyming. It’s a word in Cynnreord. It means an outcast, or fugitive.”

  “Figures.” Matt did not seem put off. “His great-grandfather was one of your lot, son of a noble whatever. The family threw him out. So he started the Flyming gang.” She fished inside the neck of her shirt and pulled out a heavy gold ring on a chain. “This was his.”

  It was clearly an old family signet ring, bearing a crest—an heirloom. Did it matter which family it belonged to? Probably not as far as Matt was concerned. She pressed the ring to her lips. Suddenly, her expression crumpled. Her mouth worked, like a child about to start bawling. Her eyes glistened. Before Eawynn could say any more, Matt let go of the ring. Her hand dropped to her ankle and then shot out. One of her knives thudded into the wooden side of the boat and stayed there.

  Heedless of the downpour, Matt walked over and tugged it free. She stayed out on deck, her back to Eawynn, and her face to the sky. Letting the rain mask her tears, Eawynn realised.

  Matt continued speaking, without turning round. “You think he was a gangster who deserved to die, but he never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. He played true with those who played true with him. He answered for his own mistakes. He stood up for himself and his family. He took me in when I had nothing. Edmund was the one who cared for me, and kept me safe, and loved me. And I loved him.” Raw grief was in Matt’s voice. “And that’s why I am going to gut the shithead who murdered him.”

  *

  After days on the Blue Puffin, dry land felt strange beneath Matt’s feet. She had become so used to the heave of the deck it now seemed as if the flagstones were also bobbing up and down. Finally, she understood why sailors walked the way they did.

  The port of Hyth Diepu was both like and unlike Fortaine. The buildings showed the greatest difference. Their functions were easy to recognise, but instead of the grey stone of home, they were coated in white daub. The roofs were orange tiles, rather than slate. High on the hill, overlooking the port, were the stark ruins of a Rihtcynn castle. It was reminiscent of the one at Fortaine, except the one back home had been well maintained and still commanded the town. No king or queen lived in the castle here, Matt suspected.

  The ships, sailors, and stacks of cargo were the same. Activity churned up and down the quay to a roar of voices that was also familiar. Yet the differences snuck in. Mostly, she heard Tradetalk, but the local merchants and longshoremen spok
e the native language among themselves. For clothing, loose knee-length tunics were common, with either baggy pants or bare legs underneath.

  The town was also noticeably poorer. Many buildings looked at the point of collapse, and the repairs to the dock were slipshod, if they were done at all. The contrast in clothes and health between beggars and workers was less marked. Sailors had told Matt that Pinettale faired better than most in the aftermath of the Rihtcynn Empire. Now she had the chance to see it for herself. Maybe King Swidhelm’s dynasty had worked out well for the island, although she was not about to admit it to Eawynn.

  However, once she made allowances for wealth, the spectrum of humanity was identical. Apart from the upstanding folk, Matt had no trouble picking out the dock handlers, the rovers, and the sneaks. She soon spotted the sort of people she wanted, three old codgers of the female variety, gossiping on the steps of the harbourmaster’s office. They were the best source of news in the world. A thief could never have too much information about her target.

  The rain had tailed off, and although the sky was overcast, the air was warm enough. Matt took a seat beside the elderly women, who eyed her inquisitively. No opportunity for fresh gossip would ever knowingly be turned away.

  “Morning,” Matt started.

  They nodded, agreeing with her assessment of time of day.

  “I was hoping for some advice and wondered whether you goodwives could help me.”

  “Maybe. What do you need advice about?” the youngest asked.

  “I’m heading along the coast to Sideamuda. I wondered what the word is from there.”

  “Not good.”

  “How so?”

  “The Rihtcynn are getting ideas again.”

  “That was what we were hearing in Fortaine. How bad is it?”

  “They’ve always been prickly. Now they’re doing it in style. It’s getting uncomfortable, if you ain’t got red hair.”

  “Uncomfortable?” How much of a euphemism was it?

  “Lot of new rules.”

  “That’s always a pain.”

  “They’re backing it up with hard knocks.”

  “Is it safe to walk around?”

  “As long as you walk where they tell you.”

  Matt frowned. They were unlikely to tell her to walk to Cyningesburg. “Supposing I wanted to head inland?”

  “Then you’d be heading into a tight spot. I’d stay away if I was you.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve got business there. Someone I have to see.”

  They nodded sympathetically.

  “What’s your advice? Who should I ask for in Sideamuda, if I need help?”

  “What sort of help?”

  “Somebody who can handle things on the dock.”

  Matt was subjected to a long, hard examination before anyone spoke. “Fish Eye Ellis would be a good name to remember. He might help you.”

  She had passed the test. “Thanks.”

  “So you’re from Fortaine, you said?” The middle crone took over.

  “Yes. I’ve just arrived on the Blue Puffin.”

  “What’s the word from there?”

  It was only fair, turn and turnabout. “Edmund Flyming is dead. Murdered.”

  “So we hear.” Bad news travels quickly. “We also heard that Gilbert, boss of the Three Rings had a hand in it.”

  “Just a hand, and not the one holding the knife. That was a redhead from the mainland.”

  “Ah.” Three sets of eyes lit up. “Has this redhead returned home?”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  The eldest spoke for the first time. “Flyming. He had a daughter, didn’t he? She’d be about your age.”

  “Yes. She would.” Matt stood and smiled. “Thank you for your time.”

  The Blue Puffin would make two more stops before Sideamuda. Two more chances to cross-check information. Matt had made a good start, and she was not yet finished. Loading and unloading the cargo would take a while. She had plenty of time to wander around the market, listen in on conversations, and see what she could overhear.

  The flow of traffic took her to the main town square, laid out with rows of stalls. The air was filled with the shouts of traders. The market was an onslaught of sound and colour, and Matt was not the only one checking it out. The chance to explore a new town had drawn Eawynn off the foredeck. Matt spotted her, standing on the steps of the city hall, leaning against a pillar and studying the activity around the stalls with the expression of a natural philosopher studying an anthill.

  Matt stopped at the side of the square and watched her. Having a Cynnreord-speaking redhead along might be even more helpful than Matt had anticipated. Eawynn’s hair was now nearly an inch long, at the point of changing from spiky stubble to a softer crop. The dark green shirt emphasised the whiteness of her skin, and though she was too far away to see, Matt knew it matched the colour of her eyes. Her face in profile was delicately chiselled.

  Matt felt her pulse start to thud. The rhythm was a hammer blow, driving an aching spike, deep into her core. With each day, the effect Eawynn had on her grew stronger. She had been attractive enough when bald and swamped in a shapeless robe. With a full head of hair, she was utterly stunning. Though it was a pointless exercise in self-torment, Matt could not stop herself lingering over the details—the set of Eawynn’s narrow shoulders, her straight back and thighs, hips with just enough flare to count as womanly, the suggestion of small, firm breasts beneath her shirt. Eawynn’s whole body was neatly put together.

  Matt braced a hand on a wall for support, and it was not just the aftereffects of half a month at sea, troubling her balance. Forget it. She hates you.

  So easy to say sensible things to yourself, but since when did being sensible have anything to do with it?

  *

  The Blue Puffin dropped anchor offshore from Sideamuda. They would dock the next morning on the high tide, The gentlest of breezes ruffled the waves. Eawynn sat on the foredeck and watched night claim the port. Light from an array of torches glinted across the water, blossoming as the sky darkened overhead.

  Centuries ago, her ancestors had set out from here. Some would have been in the army that conquered Pinettale, overthrowing the feuding chieftains who had previously battled for control of the island. Others would have been the governors, scholars, and judges who followed, imposing order. As part of the Rihtcynn Empire, the island had known peace, security, and the rule of law for the first time ever. It was said a naked woman could walk from one end of the empire to the other, carrying a gold bar, and need fear nothing but the cold. Eawynn pursed her lips, then smiled. All right, that was probably poetic licence.

  What would her father have said? She was returning to their ancestral homeland. The childish urge to skip and dance was hard to repress. She was really here. Tomorrow they would land, and then they would go on, across the Rihtcynn plains to Cyningesburg. Eawynn could feel herself shaking at the thought. How would it look? She tried to imagine the pictures in her father’s books, brought to life.

  A sudden burst of ironic cheers interrupted her fantasies. A knot of sailors sat, playing dice in the circle of light cast by a lantern hanging off the mast. Matt was among them. Eawynn watched her accept a bottle from a sailor, take a long swig, then pass it on.

  When they got to Cyningesburg, Matt would attempt to murder someone, and Eawynn would stand back and let her do it. Because then, if Matt kept her word, they would reclaim the Shewstone, so that maybe, just maybe, she would be allowed to return to the temple—the temple Eawynn was no longer so sure she wished to rejoin. Did she really want to spend the rest of her life sweeping floors?

  Now that she was not hungry, or terrified by the risk of imminent assault, now that she had the time and comfort to review things, what did she want to do—other than sightseeing in an ancient city and dreaming about her ancestors? Was that really as important as a man’s life?

  What were her options? With the right clothes and a small cushion of funds, cou
ld she find work as a scribe? Would Matt let her go? If she parted company with Matt, how would she get back to Fortaine? Her options were limited.

  Eawynn sighed and rested her head on her knees. She knew what she ought to do. When she got to Cyningesburg, she should warn Oswald Husa Eastandune. Maybe she could claim a reward. Then Matt would be captured and executed. This was not an outcome Eawynn was willing to think about.

  With all her twisted ideas, mistaking revenge for justice, Matt had genuinely adored her adopted father. How would I be reacting to my father’s death, if I had actually cared a fig about him? The gangsters had their own warped sense of honour. At least one murder that Matt’s father committed had made the world a better place.

  Eawynn groaned. What was happening to her morals? Right and wrong were simple enough concepts, or they used to be. Why could she not see a straight path to follow?

  At the root, Matt was responsible for the confusion. The woman was uneducated, stubborn, and utterly insufferable. She was dangerous. Eawynn had known it from the moment Hilda of Gimount was introduced to her—enticingly dangerous. And now nothing was simple.

  Eawynn opened her eyes and forced herself to look at Matt, half drunk and hunched over the dice. She was a lowlife thug, drinking and gambling in public. She did not have a trace of noble blood in her veins. So how could there possibly be anything attractive about her? But there was. Not just in her looks. Matt was exciting, and before meeting her, Eawynn would never have guessed how easily she would succumb to the lure.

  Matt treated theft as a game. She treated me as a game too. Eawynn closed her eyes. Tears could still catch her by surprise. The memory of how Matt used to make her feel was still so powerful. She cheated me. She used me. She tricked and trapped me. She is utterly untrustworthy. I hate and despise her. Eawynn had to cling to the memory, summoning her anger and hurt, because whenever she stopped working at it, she could feel things softening at the edges. She clenched her jaw. It would be easy to fall into that trap again, if she let her guard down.

  What sort of pathetic fool have I turned into?