Bakune and the priest remained standing amid the wreckage. The priest hung his head, sighing. He motioned Bakune onward. They picked their way through the broken crockery.
* * *
Shell was surprised that it was only a few days before she became acclimatized to the stink and the shocking lack of hygiene on board the boats of the Sea-Folk. Her gorge no longer rose. She even became rather casual about squeezing the ubiquitous fleas, all the while trying not to think about where they’d been biting her. The boats were open to the elements and so the sun roasted her during the day while the wind sucked all the warmth from her through the night. The flotilla kept to the south shore, putting in every other night at secluded coves and beaches. As they travelled the Sea-Folk caught fish and other creatures that they sometimes gutted over the sides and ate raw – a practice Shell could not bring herself to share despite their constant pressing upon her of the limp and tentacled delicacies.
Some lines should not be crossed.
These Sea-Folk also practised the revolting custom of rubbing animal fat over themselves; they lived perpetually in the same coarsely sewn hides, which they never took off or washed; their hair they never cut or washed but oiled instead into thick ropes. She felt as if all this filth were a contagion she would never rid herself of. Yet none of the huge extended family was ever obviously sick as far as she could tell.
Travelling on another of the boats, Blues and Fingers appeared to share none of her qualms. Closet barbarians, they happily rubbed fat upon themselves and ate raw things that had more eyes than was proper for any animal. Only Lazar shared her reserve; the huge fellow, taller and broader even than Skinner, his Sea-Folk hides bursting at the seams, sat with arms crossed, frowning at the family as they scampered over the boat and just shook his head as if perpetually amazed.
The young girl-mother, Ena, who seemed to have adopted her, came to her side carrying a bowl of that rancid fat. ‘Cold, yes?’ she asked. Shell, arms crossed, shivering, shook a negative.
‘No. Fine.’
The girl got a vexed look as if she were dealing with a stubborn child. ‘You are cold. This will keep you warm.’
Some privations are better endured. If only as the lesser of two evils. ‘No. Thank you.’
Ena set a hand on her broad hip. ‘You foreign people are crazy.’ And she moved off, taking wide squatting steps over the heaped gear and belongings.
We’re not the ones rubbing animal fat on ourselves.
Shell threw herself down next to Lazar at the pointed stern. She looked him up and down. ‘You’re dirty, but at least you’re not all greased up.’
He raised then lowered his shoulders. ‘I layered.’
‘Can you believe this? Some people are willing to live in absolute filth.’
The hazel eyes shifted to her. ‘Seems to me we coulda used some of that grease out on the ice.’
‘You think it works?’
The look he gave her echoed Ena’s. He raised his chin to the nearest of the clan, an elderly uncle on the boat’s tiller arm. ‘See that outer hide jacket, the leather pants, the boots?’
Shell studied the gleaming greasy leathers. ‘Yes. What of it? Other than they’ve never been washed for longer than I’ve been alive.’
‘You raised on the coast, Shell? I forget.’
‘No.’
Lazar grunted. ‘Ah. Well, all that oil makes his clothes practically waterproof. No spray or rain can get through that, so he’s toasty warm. I’m thinking these lot know what they’re doing.’
Fine. But there’s gotta be a cleaner way to do it.
Later that day Shell was roused from a doze when all at once the Sea-Folk jumped into action. The men and women went to work rearranging the gear, giving tense quiet orders. Shading her eyes, she peered around and spotted a vessel closing: two-masted, long and narrow, no merchant boat.
Ena came to her and Lazar. ‘Say nothing, yes? No matter what.’
‘What is it?’ Shell asked.
‘These navy ships, they stop us whenever they wish. Steal what they like. Call it fees and taxes.’
‘What country are they from?’ Shell asked.
Ena blinked her incomprehension. ‘How does that matter?’
Lazar barked a laugh. ‘She’s got that right, Shell.’
Shell waved her reassurance. ‘We won’t interfere – unless we have to.’
‘Good. Our thanks.’
The girl waddled away, awkward in her pregnancy.
Shell and Lazar watched while the warship trimmed its sails. Boats of the flotilla were ordered to come alongside. Marines climbed down rope ladders and ‘inspected’ the cargo. Studying the worn and begrimed gear of her own boat, Shell didn’t think the pickings very rich. Something did startle her though: a gleaming brass teapot now rested amid the blackened cooking pots, and a roll of bright yellow cloth peeped from beneath a frayed and stained burlap covering. And a tall female figurehead, painted white, now graced the boat’s prow. When had that appeared? She nudged Lazar and indicated the figurehead.
He nodded. ‘Like I said.’
Two more inspections proceeded as the first: the marines ransacking the boats, tossing goods up into their ship. The afternoon waned. A cold wind blew though the sun was hot. Thankfully so far neither their boat, nor the one carrying Blues and Fingers, had been waved over. As the third inspection finished, Shell half rose from her seat: the marines were dragging someone with them. A young man or woman. Elders on board clutched at them, only to be thrust aside. ‘Lazar! Do you see that? What’re they doing?’
‘Looks like a head tax.’
Shell clambered to where Ena sat beneath a wind-rippled awning. ‘What’s this? What’s going on?’
Her gaze shaded, the girl said grimly, ‘It happens sometimes.’
‘Happens? What’re you going to do about it?’
The girl’s voice tightened even more. ‘What would you have us do? There is nothing we can do. The strong prey upon the weak – that is how it has always been.’
Shell spun away. If only they could get Blues or Lazar on board that ship, then these Sea-Folk would see the strong preying upon the weak! And then – she let go her held breath … and then she would only have proved Ena’s point.
And what would these Sea-Folk do with such a ship anyway? How would they explain it? They just found it? No. Distasteful as it was, Ena was right. There was nothing they could do. Being what she was, Shell was used to being on the taking end of such exchanges. How much harder and galling it was to be on the giving!
The youth had been urged on board at sword-point. Sailors climbed the warship’s spars to give out more canvas. The vessel pulled away.
‘Now what?’ she snapped, unable to hide her anger and frustration.
‘Now we wait.’
‘Wait? Wait for what?’
‘We shall see.’
‘Shell!’ a voice called across the waves; it was Blues. The Sea-Folk were oaring his boat closer through the tall slate-grey waves.
‘Yes?’
‘Did you see that?’
‘Yes.’
‘A tough one to swallow.’
‘You did nothing?’
‘Almost did. Orzu and the others here begged us not to interfere.’
‘Same here. What now?’
‘Orzu says we have to wait a time.’
‘What in Hood’s name for?’
‘Don’t know. No choice.’
The boats bumped sides and the Sea-Folk lashed them together. Supplies were handed back and forth. Shell waved to Fingers, who was a miserable shape at the stern, near prostrate from seasickness. Poor fellow; she had at least found her sea-legs.
‘So who were they?’ she asked Blues.
‘Some country called Jasston.’ He pointed south. ‘That’s their shore.’
‘And the north?’ The coast to the north was dark, and not once had she seen a fire or a settlement.
‘Some land called Remnant Isle. No one lives th
ere. Supposed to be haunted.’
Shell saw that the figurehead of the white woman was now gone, as was the gleaming brass teapot: secreted away for the next ‘inspection’. She frowned then and wiped her hands on her thighs, but the problem was her trousers were as dirty as her hands. ‘And the youth? What will happen?’
Blues’ face seemed even darker than usual. ‘Orzu says almost everyone taken prisoner in all these lands ends up on the wall, sold to the Korelri.’
The wall and its insatiable thirst for blood. And Bars was on it. Had he fallen? No. Not him. Yet they could die – all of them. They were of the Avowed, yes, but they could still drown or be hacked to pieces. Could he be dead already? Their mission a failure?
A hardening in her chest told Shell that should that be the case, these Korelri Stormguard might find themselves swept from their own Hood-damned wall.
The Sea-Folk untied the lines securing the boats. Blues waved farewell. The flotilla idled, tillers and oars used only to hold steady. Yet they were moving. She’d heard they were in a narrow stretch of water called Flow Strait. The coast to the south was crawling ever so slowly past.
The sun was approaching the horizon almost due west. Shell shaded her gaze from its glare. The wind picked up; it would be a damned cold night. Then shouts from ahead – excited yells. Everyone in her boat stood to scan the waters. Shell likewise clambered up, her feet well apart. What was this?
The lead boat was under oar, moving south with stunning speed. Shell stared. So far this journey all she’d seen was a lackadaisical nudging of the oars. Seemed these Sea-Folk could really charge when they needed to. Of course – why exert yourself unless necessary?
The lead boat back-oared now, slowing. Shell squinted, and as the intervening waves rose and fell, she thought she glimpsed a dark shape and splashing amid them. A fish?
Figures leaned over the side of the boat, gesturing, waving. Shell flinched as someone jumped overboard. Queen preserve them! They’ll drown!
She turned to Ena and was surprised to see her amid her kin, everyone hugging and kissing one another. Seeing her confusion, Ena came to her. She waved ahead, laughing. ‘It is Turo. He found us.’ She cupped her hands to her mouth, shouting, ‘Finished playing in the water, Turo?’
Shell felt her brow crimping as her gaze narrowed. ‘I do not understand, Ena.’
The girl-woman giggled, covering her mouth. ‘You do not know, do you? Why, everyone in these lands knows the Sea-Folk hate to be captive. We throw ourselves into the sea rather than be prisoner.’ And she grinned like an imp. ‘So many of us taken away disappear like that.’
Shell felt her brows rising as understanding dawned. She looked at Lazar, who was smiling crookedly in silent laughter.
High praise indeed, coming from him.
Beneath the setting sun a dark line caught Shell’s eye and she shaded her gaze. ‘What’s that ahead to the west?’ she asked, her eyes slitted almost closed.
Ena’s smile was torn away and a hand rose in a gesture against evil. ‘The Ring!’ she hissed. Turning, she yelled orders at her kinsmen and women. All were galvanized into action. Hands went to mouths and piercing whistles flew like birdcalls between the boats. Gear was shifted and a mast appeared, dragged out from beneath everything to be stepped in place. Tarps covering equipment and possessions were whipped free, rolled and mounted as shrouds. The speed and competence of the transformation dazzled Shell. She tried to find Ena to ask what was going on, but was brushed aside as everyone on board seemed to be holding a line or adjusting stowage. She finally reached the girl towards the bow, where she was twisting a sheet affixed to the sail.
‘What’s going on? What is it?’
She shot a glance ahead. ‘You do not know? No, of course not.’ She sighed, searching for words. ‘It is, how do you say … a cursed place. A haunt of the Lady herself. The Ring. A great circle ridge around a deep hole. Some say bottomless. And it is guarded. Korelri Stormguard are there. None dare approach. It is very bad luck we come to it so late. Those thieving landsmen delayed us half the day!’
Shell nodded, allowing her to return to her work. She found a place where she could sit out of the way at the bow and peered ahead, trying to separate some detail from the sunset. Stormguard here! Just within reach. What would these Sea-Folk say if they knew they were carrying four outlanders intent upon challenging this military order that so dominated the region? They would probably think us insane. All these generations they have survived beneath the very gaze of the Lady through strategies of trickery and deception.
Perhaps, she thought, hugging herself for warmth, they would be wise to follow suit.
* * *
Kiska dreamt of her youth on Malaz Island. She was walking its storm-racked rocky coast, with its litter and treasure and corpses of wrecks from three seas. And she was reviewing the ruin that was her life. My childishness and wilfulness. Yet who isn’t when young? My foolish decisions. Yet how else does one learn? Her loss on the field at the plains. I failed him! She picked her way through the bleached timbers and crab-picked bones while all around her the island appeared to be shrinking. Eventually she could complete a full circuit in a mere few strides.
And it was closing even tighter.
A sharp pain such as stepping on a nail woke her. Groggy, she blinked up at jagged stone above. Her cave. Her prison. She was still here.
‘Hist! Kiska! Are you still with me?’
She raised her head. Jheval was there, silhouetted against the slightly lighter cave mouth. ‘Yes,’ she croaked. Her mouth felt as dusty and dry as the cave floor itself. ‘Regrettably.’
‘I’m hearing something new,’ he murmured, keeping his voice as low as possible.
There is nothing new in Shadow, Kiska pronounced to herself. Now where had she heard something like that?
‘And I haven’t seen our friends for some time now.’
Meaningless. Without significance. Empty. Futile.
‘Kiska!’
She blinked, startled. She’d dropped off again. She levered herself up by the elbows. ‘Yes?’
He gestured her to him. ‘Come here. Listen. What do you make of this?’
Crawling to the cave mouth was one of the hardest things Kiska had ever forced herself to do. She thought she could hear her every sinew and ligament creaking and stretching as she moved. She fancied she could see the bones of her hands through her dusty cracked skin. She planted herself next to Jheval, who appeared to be watching her carefully. ‘Yes?’ she demanded.
He glanced away and seemed to crook a smile as he turned to the silvery monochrome landscape beyond. ‘Listen.’
Listen? Listen to what? Our flesh rotting? The sighing of sands? There’s nothing—
She heard something. Creaking. Loud abrasive squeaking and creaking like wood on wood. What in the world? Or – in Shadow?
‘Perhaps we should have a look, yes?’
‘It does sound … close.’
The man was grinning now through the caked-on dirt of his face. How pale the son of the desert looked now, dust-covered. Like a ghost. Though a lively one. She felt a kind of resentful admiration: he seemed to not know how to give up.
‘Very good. The both of us, yes? Side by side.’
She nodded, swallowed to sluice the grit from her mouth. ‘Yes. Let’s go. I have to get out of here.’
‘Yes. I feel it too.’ He edged forward, hunched, then straightened outside the narrow crack. Kiska picked up her staff and followed. Out on the sand slope she expected the air to be fresher and cooler, different somehow. Yet the lifeless atmosphere seemed no better. It was as if all Shadow was stale, somehow suspended.
They climbed a nearby bare hill. Kiska tried to be watchful. She knew they should expect an attack at any instant. But she could not muster the necessary focus; she just felt exhausted by all the waiting and almost wanted to have it over with. And no hound appeared. When they reached the crest and looked beyond, they saw why.
It was a migrat
ion. Across the plain before them stretched columns of large creatures. Through the plumes of dust it appeared as if many of them marched in teams, heaving on ropes drawing gigantic boats lashed to wheeled platforms. It was the ear-splitting screeching of these wooden wheels that assaulted them, even from this great distance.
‘Locals on the move,’ Jheval said, and started down the hillside.
Kiska followed, reluctant. Walking out upon them in the open? How could he know they weren’t hostile? They didn’t look even vaguely human.
Before they reached the lowest hill a figure veered towards them, a picket, or outlier of some sort. As they neared, he – or she, or it – reared ever taller until it became clear to Kiska that it was nearly twice their height. It was, clearly, a daemon, a Shadow creature. Dull black, furred in parts, carrying on its back a brace of spears twice again its own height. It looked insectile: multiple-faceted eyes, a mouthful of oversized fangs, out-of-proportion skinny limbs that appeared armoured. Jheval hailed it, waving. Kiska gripped her staff and winced. She almost shouted: How do you know it speaks our language? How do you know it won’t eat you?
It stopped, peered down to regard the two of them. Jheval stood with arms crossed, examining the creature in turn. Kiska kept her staff at the ready.
‘Do you understand this language?’ Jheval asked.
‘Yes, I know this tongue,’ it replied in a startlingly high piping voice.
Jheval was clearly surprised. ‘You do? Why?’
‘This is the language of the pretenders.’
Pretenders? Ah! Cotillion and Shadowthrone.
‘Greetings. I am Jheval. This is Kiska.’
‘My name would translate as Least Branch.’
Jheval gestured beyond, to the columns of its brethren. ‘You are on some sort of migration?’
‘Yes. Though not one of our choice. We have been forced to move. Our home has been destroyed.’
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