by Anthony Ryan
“All your work?” Vaelin asked, gesturing at the array of statuary.
“In a manner of speaking.” Ahm Lin turned and moved deeper into the workshop, Vaelin following, his gaze drinking in the carnival of fantastic shapes, the seemingly endless variety of form and tableaux. “Are they all gods?” he asked.
“Not all. Here—” Ahm Lin paused next to a bust of a grave-faced man with a hook-nose and heavy, deeply furrowed brows. “Emperor Cammuran, the first man to sit on the throne of the Alpiran Empire.”
“He seems troubled.”
“He had good reason. His son tried to kill him when he realised he wasn’t going to be the next emperor. The idea of choosing a successor from amongst the people, with the gods’ help of course, was a dramatic break with tradition.”
“What happened to the son?”
“The Emperor stripped him of his wealth, had his tongue cut out and his eyes blinded, then sent him forth to live out his days as a beggar. Most Alpirans think he was being unduly lenient. They are a fine people, courteous and generous to a fault, but unforgiving when roused. You should remember that, brother.” He gave Vaelin a sidelong glance when he failed to reply. “I must say I’m surprised your song led you here. You must know this invasion is doomed.”
“My song has been…inconsistent of late. It has told me little for a long time. Until I heard your voice, it had been silent for over a year.”
“Silent.” Ahm Lin seemed shocked, his gaze becoming curious. “What was it like?” He sounded almost envious.
“Like losing a limb,” Vaelin replied honestly, realising for the first time the depth of loss he had felt when his song fell silent. It was only now it had returned that he accepted the truth, the song was not an affliction. Sella had been right; it was a gift, and he had grown to cherish it.
“Here we are.” Ahm Lin spread his arms wide as they arrived at the rear of the workshop, where a large bench was covered in a bewildering array of neatly arranged tools, hammers, chisels and oddly shaped implements Vaelin couldn’t name. Nearby a ladder was propped against a large block of marble from which a partly completed statue emerged. Vaelin drew up in shock at the sight of it. The snout, the ears, the finely carved fur, and the eyes, those unmistakable eyes. His song was singing a clear and warm note of recognition. The wolf. The wolf that had saved him in the Urlish. The wolf that had howled its warning outside the House of the Fifth Order, when Sister Henna came to kill him. The wolf that had restrained him from murder in the Martishe.
“Ah…” Ahm Lin rubbed at his temples, his expression pained. “Your song is strong indeed, brother.”
“Sorry.” Vaelin concentrated, trying to calm the song, but it was a few seconds before it subsided. “Is it a god?” he asked Ahm Lin, gazing up at the wolf.
“Not quite. One of what the Alpirans call the Nameless, spirits of the mysteries. The wolf features in many of the named gods’ stories, as guide, protector, warrior or spirit of vengeance. But it is never named. It is only ever just the wolf, feared and respected in equal measure.” He regarded Vaelin with an intent gaze. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? And not captive in stone.”
Vaelin was momentarily wary of disclosing too much to this man, a stranger with a song that had nearly killed him after all. But the warmth of his own song’s welcome overcame his distrust. “It saved me. Twice from death, once from something worse.”
Ahm Lin’s expression showed a brief flicker of something close to fear but he quickly forced a smile. “‘Interesting’ seems an inadequate term for you, brother. This is for you.” He gestured to a nearby workbench where a block of marble rested, a chisel sitting atop it. The block was a perfect cube of white marble, the same block from his vision when Ahm Lin’s song had laid him low, its surface smooth under Vaelin’s fingers.
“You obtained this for me?” he asked.
“Many years ago. My song was most emphatic. Whatever rests inside has been waiting a long time for you to set it free.”
Waiting… Vaelin flattened his palm against the stone, feeling a surge from the blood-song, the tune a mix of warning and certainty. The One Who Waits.
He lifted the chisel, touching the blade tentatively to the stone. “I’ve never done this,” he told Ahm Lin. “Can’t even carve a decent walking stick.”
“Your song will guide your hands, as mine guides me. These statues are as much the work of my song as my skill.”
He was right, the song was building, strong and clear, guiding the chisel over the stone. Vaelin hefted a mallet from the bench and tapped the butt of the chisel, chipping a small piece of marble from the edge of the cube. The song surged, and his hands moved, Ahm Lin and the workshop fading as the work consumed him. There were no thoughts in his head, no distractions, there was just the song and the stone. He had no sense of time, no perception of the world beyond the song and it was only a rough shake to the shoulder that brought him back.
“Vaelin!” Barkus shook him again when he didn’t respond. “What are you doing?”
Vaelin looked at the tools in his dust-caked hands, noting his cloak and weapons lying nearby and having no memory of removing them. The stone was radically altered, the top half now a roughly hewn dome with two shallow indentations in the centre and the ghost of a chin forming at the base.
“Standing here hammering away with no weapons and no guard.” Barkus sounded more shocked than angry. “Any passing Alpiran could have stuck you without breaking sweat.”
“I…” Vaelin blinked at him in confusion. “I was…” He trailed off, realising any explanation was pointless.
Ahm Lin and the woman who had answered the door were standing nearby, the woman glaring at the two soldiers Barkus had brought with him. Ahm Lin was more relaxed, idly guiding a whetstone over the tip of one of his chisels, favouring Vaelin with a slight smile of what might have been admiration.
Barkus’s gaze shifted to the stone then back to Vaelin, a frown creasing his heavy brows. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Vaelin reached for a piece of linen and draped it over the stone. “What do you want, brother?” He was unable to keep the irritation from his tone.
“Sister Gilma needs you. At the Governor’s mansion.”
Vaelin shook his head impatiently, reaching again for his tools. “Caenis deals with the governor. Send him.”
“He has been sent for. She needs you as well.”
“I’m sure it can wait…” Barkus’s hand was tight on his wrist, putting his lips close to Vaelin’s ear and whispering two words, which made him drop his tools and reach for his cloak and weapons without further demur, despite the immediate howl of protest from the blood-song.
“The Red Hand.” Sister Gilma stood on the other side of the mansion gate, having forbidden them from coming any closer. For once there was no trace of mirth in her tone or bearing. Her face was pale, her usually bright eyes dimmed with fear. “Just the governor’s daughter for now, but there’ll be others.”
“You’re certain?” Vaelin asked her.
“Every member of my Order is taught to look for the signs from the moment we join. There’s no doubt, brother.”
“You examined the girl? You touched her?”
Gilma nodded wordlessly.
Vaelin fought down the sorrow clutching at his chest. No time for weakness now. “What do you need?”
“The mansion must be sealed and guarded. No-one can be allowed in or out. You must be watchful for any more victims in the city at large. My orderlies know what to look for. Any found to have the sickness must be brought here, by force if necessary. Masks and gloves must be worn when dealing with them. You must also seal the city, no ships can sail, no caravans can leave.”
“There’ll be panic,” Caenis warned. “The Red Hand killed as many Alpirans as Realm folk in its time. When word spreads they’ll be desperate to flee.”
“Then you’ll have to stop them,” Sister Gilma said flatly. “We cannot allow this plag
ue loose again.” She fixed her gaze on Vaelin. “You understand, brother? You must do whatever is required.”
“I understand, sister.” Through his sorrow a dim memory began to surface, Sherin at the High Keep. He tended to avoid thinking of that time, the sense of loss was too great, but now he fought to recall her words that morning after the death of Hentes Mustor. The Usurper’s followers had trapped her with a false report of an outbreak of the Red Hand in Warnsclave. I had been working on a cure…
“Sister Sherin,” he said. “She told me once she had a cure for the sickness.”
“A possible cure, brother,” Gilma replied. “Based on theory only and beyond my skills to formulate in any case.”
“Where is Sister Sherin stationed these days?” Vaelin persisted.
“At the Order House, last I heard. She is mistress of curatives now.”
“Twenty days’ sailing with a good wind,” Caenis said. “And twenty days back.”
“For an Alpiran or Realm vessel,” Vaelin mused softly. He turned back to Gilma. “Sister, ask the governor to write a proclamation confirming your measures and ordering the city folk to cooperate. Brother Caenis will have it copied and distributed about the city.” He turned to Caenis. “Brother, see to the guarding of the gates and the mansion. Double the guard on the walls. Use our men only where possible.” He glanced back at Sister Gilma and forced an encouraging smile. “What is hope, sister?”
“Hope is the heart of the Faith. Abandonment of hope is a denial of the Faith.” Her own smile was faint. “I have certain instruments and curatives in my quarters. I should like them brought to me.”
“I’ll see to it,” Caenis assured her.
Vaelin turned to go, hurrying along the stone-paved path. “What about the docks?” Caenis called after him.
Vaelin didn’t look back. “I’ll see to the docks.”
The Meldenean captain was compact and wiry, sitting across the table from Vaelin with his lean features drawn in a suspicious glare. He wore gloves of soft leather, his hands clasped in a double fist on the table. They were in the map room of the old merchants guild building, alone save for Frentis, who guarded the door. Outside, night was drawing on quickly and the city would soon be sleeping, still blissfully unaware of the crisis that would greet them in the morning. If the captain had any complaints about how he and his crew had been hauled from their bunks, forced to strip and submit to an inspection by Sister Gilma’s orderlies before being brought here, he clearly felt it best to keep them to himself.
“You are Carval Nurin?” Vaelin asked him. “Captain of the Red Falcon?”
The man gave a slow nod. His eyes flickered continually between Vaelin and Frentis, occasionally lingering on their swords. Vaelin felt no desire to alleviate the man’s unease, it suited his purpose to keep him scared.
“Your ship is reputed to be the fastest vessel to sail from this port,” Vaelin went on. “Finest lines of any hull ever crafted in the Meldenean yards, so they say.”
Carval Nurin inclined his head but remained silent.
“You have no reputation for piracy or dishonesty, unusual for a captain from your islands.”
“What do you want?” The man’s voice was harsh, rasping, and Vaelin noticed the pale edge of a scar protruding from the black silk scarf he wore around his throat. Pirate or not, he had seen his share of trouble on the seas.
“To engage your services,” Vaelin replied mildly. “How fast can you get to Varinshold?”
The captain’s unease lessened but suspicion still clouded his face. “Done it in fifteen days before. Udonor was kind with the northerlies.”
Udonor, Vaelin knew, was one of the Meldenean gods said to have dominion over the winds. “Can it be done quicker?”
Nurin shrugged. “Maybe. With an empty hold and a few more hands to run the rigging. And two goats for Udonor, of course.”
It was common practice for Meldeneans to sacrifice animals to their favoured gods before a hazardous voyage. Vaelin had been witness to a mass slaughter of livestock before their invasion fleet left port, the blood had flowed so freely the harbour waters turned red.
“We’ll provide the goats,” he said and gestured for Frentis to come forward. “Brother Frentis and two of my men will be your passengers. You will carry him to Varinshold, where he will collect another passenger. You will then return here. The whole voyage cannot take more than twenty-five days. Is it possible?”
Nurin considered for a moment and nodded. “Possible, yes. But not for my ship.”
“Why not?”
Nurin unclasped his hands and slowly removed his gloves, revealing mottled and discoloured skin from fingers to wrist. “Tell me, land-bound,” he said, holding his hands up for Vaelin’s inspection. The lamplight gleamed on the waxy, misshapen flesh. “Have you ever beaten at flames with your bare hands whilst your sister and mother burn to death?” A grim smile twisted the Meldenean’s lips. “No, my ship will not sail in your service. The Alpirans call you the Hope Killer, to me you are the spawn of the City Burner. The Ship Lords may have whored themselves to your king but I will not. Whatever threats or torments you employ will make no—”
The bluestone made a soft thud as Vaelin placed it on the table, spinning it around, lamplight flickering on the silver-veined surface. Carval Nurin stared at it in astonished and unbridled greed.
“I’m sorry about your mother and your sister,” Vaelin said. “And your hands. It must have been very painful.” He continued to spin the bluestone. Nurin’s eyes never left it. “But I sense you are, above all, a man of business, and sentiment is hardly profitable.”
Nurin swallowed, his scarred hands twitching. “How much do I get?”
“If you return within twenty-five days, all of it.”
“You lie!”
“On occasion, but not right now.”
Nurin’s eyes finally shifted from the bluestone, meeting Vaelin’s. “What surety do I have?”
“My word, as a brother of the Sixth Order.”
“Pox take your word and your Order. Your ghost-worshipping nonsense means nothing to me.” Nurin pulled his gloves on, frowning in calculation. “I want a signed assurance, witnessed by the governor.”
“The governor is…indisposed. But I’m sure the Grand Master of the Merchants Guild will be happy to oblige. Good enough?”
The Red Falcon differed markedly from any other ship Vaelin had seen. She was smaller than most, with a narrow hull and three masts instead of the usual two. There were only two decks and she carried a crew of just twenty men.
“Built for the tea trade,” Carval Nurin explained gruffly when Vaelin remarked on the unusual design. “Fresher it is, the more profit you make. Small cargo of fresh tea makes three times the price of the stuff shipped in bulk. Quicker you get from one port to another, the more money you make.”
“No oars?” Frentis asked. “Thought all Meldenean ships had oars.”
“Got ’em right enough.” Nurin pointed at the sealed ports on the lower deck. “Only use ’em when the wind dies, which it rarely does in northern waters. In any case, the Falcon’ll shift with even the smallest breeze.”
The captain paused to cast his gaze around the docks, taking in the rows of silent and empty ships and the cordon of Wolfrunners guarding the quayside. The crews had been ordered from their vessels during the night, not without some trouble, and were now nursing their bruises under heavy guard in the warehouses nearby. “Can’t remember the Linesh docks ever being so quiet,” Nurin observed.
“War is bad for trade, Captain,” Vaelin replied.
“Ships came and went at their leave over the past month and now they sit empty with their crews imprisoned. And yet the Falcon alone is permitted to sail…”
“We can’t be too careful.” Vaelin clapped him on the back affably, provoking a shudder of fearful repugnance. “Plenty of spies about. When do you sail, Captain?”
“Another hour, when the tide’s right.”
“Th
en don’t allow me to delay your preparations.”
Nurin suppressed a sneering response and nodded, walking up the gangplank to assail his crew with a barrage of curse-filled orders.
“Do you think he knows?” Frentis asked.
“He suspects something, but he doesn’t know.” He gave Frentis an apologetic smile. “I’d send more men with you, but it might arouse even more suspicion. Sister Gilma’s orderlies told you what to look for?”
Frentis nodded. “Swelling in the neck, sweats, dizziness and rashes on the arms. If any of them have it, they’ll start showing within three days.”
“Good. You understand, brother, that if any of the crew, including yourself, shows signs of the Red Hand, this ship cannot land in Varinshold, or anywhere else?”
Frentis nodded. Vaelin could detect no fear or reluctance in him. The blood-song spoke of only a basic and unshakeable trust, an almost unreasoning loyalty. The thin, ragged boy who had pleaded for his support all those years ago in the Aspect’s room was gone now, forged into a seasoned and fearfully skilled warrior who would never question his orders. There were times when having command of Frentis felt more of a burden than a blessing. He was a weapon to be used only with great care, for there was no sheathing him once unleashed.
“I…regret the necessity of this, brother,” he said. “If there were any other course…”
“You never gave me that lesson,” Frentis said.
Vaelin frowned. “Lesson?”
“The throwing knife, you said you’d teach me. Thought I’d learned enough myself. Was wrong about that.”
“You’ve been taught much since.” Vaelin felt a sudden surge of guilt. All the battles fought by this blindly trusting young man, the wounds suffered. All the lives he had taken. “You wanted to be a brother,” he said, failing to keep the guilt from his voice. “Did we do right by you?”
To his surprise Frentis laughed. “Do right by me? When did you ever do wrong?”
“One Eye scarred you. The Tests hurt you. You followed me here to war and pain.”