One's Own Shadow (The Siúil Book 2)

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  Their earnest guide walked briskly, hopping at times and trying her best not to break into a run. It was clear she was not accustomed to moving about the docks at such a leisurely pace, though it was a fairly brisk walk just the same.

  The slips were near where they had been and it was only a few moments’ walk before they could hear the voices of a pair of women arguing. The girl came to a stop and pointed to the two women.

  “My thanks,” Rianaire said and smiled at the girl.

  “No. No. Just my job, milady. Ma’am.” She nodded awkwardly and scurried off to join a group of dockhands who were watching the argument intensely.

  The dress of the women laid the sides fairly plain between them. The taller of the two wore a dirtied roughspun shirt under a large leather apron. She was lean, muscled, and had large breasts. Her shaved head showed dark hair, and her face was angular with a strong nose. Clois, certainly. And not shy in raising her voice. The captain across from her was dressed with a thick blue velvet coat and tight black pants. The captain had a feminine face, well made up, and her hair was golden brown and came down past her shoulders. She was slim with not much for a chest.

  Rianaire moved closer in hopes of Tola’s arrival and a chance to see him at his work.

  “Look ‘ere, I got no time for pretty cunts playin’ at boats. You wanna drop boxes, you get ‘em inspected.”

  “And why should I? Buíreatha has no such checks. If I’d have known Casúr was run entirely by slavering dogs, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “Then drag your waif tits up to Buíreatha for all I care. We’re not so willing to let shite flood our docks as them.”

  “Fires take you, daft cow. Look at the ship behind me. You think I’ve run a fluijt down this far for my health? The Bastion City’s closed, Buíreatha and Síoscuain are stuffed full of the overflow. I’ve eighty tons of good cargo, no interest in sailing through sheet ice to make my return trip, and you’ve brought ten gormless dockhands to, what? Sniff at each crate and see if they find the freshness to their liking? Ridiculous.”

  “Ratty little wench, I’ll—”

  “Clois!” A man had shouted the words as he pushed past.

  Clois turned at the call. “Tola! About bloody fucking time.”

  He was different than Rianaire had imagined. Thin, pale, and freckled with bright red hair and light eyes. His nose looked to have been broken more times than a few and his skin looked as though it was wrapped tight over the bones in his face. She could see wiry muscles through his neck and down his shoulders. Were it not for those, he’d have looked entirely out of place among the gathered workers.

  “I’ve not come for your gratification, Clois. Be quick and explain the situation.”

  “Another one sent down from Buíreatha. Refusing inspections.”

  “I’m refusing to have my time wasted. The ice will set soon enough and I’ll not have my men freeze to death with bellies full of hardtack and salt pork.”

  While the women continued their bickering Tola surveyed the ship behind the two. It was a wide boat, square, and had the name “Abhainn’s Gift” painted in silver along the bow. He looked the length of the ship. It was clean and well-kept so far as Rianaire could tell.

  Tola looked to the captain. “What’s your qualm with inspections?”

  “I haven’t the time to watch ten men grope at my cargo. I’m willing enough to arrange shipment to the Bastion City and have the pay sent to Ciúingaoth, but I’d sooner scuttle the cargo and send you a bill than let the eighteen I’ve got aboard starve and freeze in some Bais squall.”

  “The time then. Fair enough.”

  “Tola, what—”

  “You’ll shut it, Clois. This woman knows her business and you’ve overstepped.”

  “The fuck she does, I—”

  He slapped Clois across the side of her head and stared at her with eyes to melt ice. The large woman was made quiet, as was the crowd. Tola nodded his head away and Clois left the platform to him and the captain.

  “You’ve my apologies captain. She does good work, but her eyes are better than her mind. Casúr does not conduct business this way. That said, I cannot allow you to offload cargo without inspection.”

  “So then you’ve simply made a show of your authority to tell me more of the same.”

  Tola held up a finger and the woman held her tongue but her face made it clear she was not pleased to do so.

  “I’d suggest you let me finish. One of mine has done you wrong, but she did as I told and I’ll not punish her for that anymore than I’ll reward you. This dock is for high priority cargo. There’s a reason my numbers man flagged you for this slip. You’ll give us…” Tola pulled some papers from behind his apron and looked them over. “Two days. Keep your men at whatever inn you choose. Room and board’ll be paid for, a room each. And we’ll supply…” He paused again to consider the papers. “Ten barrels of provisions. Wine, pork, five of each or whatever your needs dictate.”

  The captain narrowed her gaze. “Two days?”

  “Aye. I’ll pull fifty of my best and fifty more from the far docks. They’ll work the nights as well. I won’t barter, take it or scuttle your cargo in the sea.” He held his hand out.

  “It’s fair.” The captain shook on the deal and turned, shouting up to her crew. “Grab your shit and clear out, you louts. Rack and meat. Anyone what takes longer than I like’s on night watch ‘til we reach home.” The words almost sounded as though they came from a different woman. Rianaire had to stop herself from laughing.

  The captain began climbing up to her ship and Tola shifted through his papers, mumbling to himself. Rianaire climbed the platform, speaking as she went.

  “You comported yourself well.”

  “Gave her more than I’d like but…” Tola looked up and grimaced. “Sisters be good, I was hoping it was one of Mion’s games again. And I ought to mind my tongue. Welcome Treorai. I hope the smell and the sound haven’t been entirely unbearable.”

  “The sounds are no worse than I hear in brothels. The smells, however, are considerably worse.” She looked up at the ship. “But you’ve made a statement that piques my curiosity. More than you’d like?”

  Tola looked up at the ship as well. “Aye. I know the ship, heard of the captain. Even if I hadn’t, any name that coveted warrants a closer look. She’s been sailing near as long as Clois’s been alive. Century and a half almost.”

  “That boat?” She could see just the slightest weathering.

  “That’s the truth of it. There’s a reason she looks as she does. Her captain’s a fastidious woman, fair. Respected enough that if we gave her trouble undue, Casúr’d see less trade for our troubles. Word spreads along the routes. Sailors are terrible for gossip.”

  “It seems a popular pastime.”

  “Pitiable. But you have business with me. If you’ll permit me, we might talk after I’ve handed orders to Aistrím. I expect he directed you here.”

  “You expect right.”

  “I’ll see him and meet you…”

  “There was a shop just nearby. Selling cakes and the like. I believe you will find us there. I could stand some pleasing smells.”

  Tola nodded. “I know the place. Won’t be a moment.”

  He ran off as soon as they had turned to make for the shop. It sat just up a small hill away from the docks. Rianaire entered and the shop owner called from the back.

  “Sit yourself anywhere you like. I’ll be just there.”

  Rianaire took a seat, choosing a table tucked into the corner of the shop with four chairs. Inney and Síocháin flanked her.

  “Well, he seems a competent man,” Rianaire said.

  “In his job, at least.” Síocháin shifted the tiny plates on the table.

  The shopkeep came out from the back holding a tray with tea and cups. “How many will you be?�
��

  “Four.”

  “Very good, I…” She stopped dead when she lowered the tray. “I… I… I… Your…”

  “Hello,” Rianaire said smiling. “I promise I do not bite. Well, possibly untrue. It depends how taken I am with your cakes.”

  “Treorai. Wel… welcome. My humble shop…”

  “Oh, no, no. Come now. We haven’t come for you to prostrate yourself. We’ve come for cakes. And after the awful stink of the docks, I should say we are most excited, are we not?”

  She looked at Inney who replied. “Cake sounds delightful.” Her mask smiling, eyes closed, up at the woman.

  The shopkeep did her best to keep her composure but her eyes darted around constantly as she laid the teapot on the table and the cups and saucers after. “Four, you said?”

  “I did. Tola will be joining us. From the docks.”

  “Yes, I… I know him. Know of him. He does not frequent the shop.”

  “More fool him, I say. Perhaps I shouldn’t make him Binse of Coin.” She leaned on the table and looked up at the woman, taking her in. She was just middle-aged, light hair and dark eyes and breasts made all the bigger by her slight podge. “Tell me, are you good with numbers?”

  The woman laughed nervously. “Sisters, no. No. I can hardly keep books on this place. Oh… menus. We… I’ll be right back with them.”

  While the woman was away seeing to menus, Tola joined them in the shop. He had changed quickly and, curiously, did not stink of rot and seawater. He wore a smart overcoat and a buttoned shirt beneath and black pants. He cleaned up quite well, Rianaire found herself thinking.

  “Ah, Tola. Good. I should very much like to keep this short.”

  “I’ve no qualm with short.”

  “Glorious. I find discussing politics tends to spoil the taste of cakes.”

  The woman returned with menus and passed them to each of her guests. “I-I recommend the raspberry crème cake… if… if that’s not too forward.”

  “Goodness no it’s not. Is it a raspberry jam?”

  “It…” The shopkeep swallowed and shook herself loose of her nerves. “It is. I prepare enough when the raspberries come to season to keep through the cold.”

  “Then I shall have it. Two slices, in fact.” She turned to Inney again. “I do love raspberries. Did I tell you about the time Síocháin—” Síocháin elbowed her in the ribs before she could finish the thought. “Yes. Two slices of the raspberry and… something warm.”

  “We’ve drinking chocolate and—”

  “Delightful. That, yes.”

  Inney ordered a spiced cake and Síocháin asked for a pomegranate shortbread with cream. Tola, to Rianaire’s disappointment, ordered only warm cider, insisting he had work to complete when their business was done.

  “Well enough. Then I shall be right to it. I have come to make you my Binse of Coin.”

  Tola stared at her silently for a minute, searching her grinning face for some hint of the joke. “I beg pardon, Treorai.”

  “Ah, the shouting of the docks must be a strain on you. Binse of Coin. You would come to the Bastion City and see to the books of the province.”

  “I fear I am unfit for the work.”

  “Not this again.” Rianaire complained as the cakes and drinks were sat in front of them. “Do you think I am a stupid creature, Tola?” He hesitated. “Go on, it’s not a rhetorical question.”

  “No. I should say not.”

  “And why? Because you fear me? Have you any reason?”

  “Nothing of the sort. Our province has not known such a boon since…” He quieted, not wanting to disparage her lineage.

  “Yes, yes, yes. In quite a long time.”

  He nodded quietly and drank from the cider mug. “Such a thing can be no accident.”

  “And you know as much because you know your work well. So tell me, if I am no stupid creature, do you believe that I make decisions so lightly? That I would simply take the word of a whoremonger and ride off to Casúr?”

  “I… I cannot imagine you would do such a thing.”

  Rianaire smiled wide. “Wonderful. Then, your answer? Will you become my Binse of Coin?”

  He stared directly at Rianaire for a time with a serious expression on his face. He sipped the cider again and spoke. “I will need three days.”

  Rianaire smiled. “Take as much as two weeks. I have other business to see to. Now, as our business is through I would very much enjoy some time with these cakes.”

  “Then I’ll take my leave.” Tola stood and left, leaving the cider behind.

  Rianaire plunged her fork into the cake, a bit of the raspberry jam falling onto the plate. She laughed to herself, looking at the cake. She leaned her head toward Síocháin. “Do you believe that I make decisions so lightly?”

  As Inney snickered beside her, Rianaire ate the cake on her fork. “He could not imagine it, Síocháin.”

  Síocháin pushed her fork into the shortbread, the shade of a smile in her voice. “He would not be the first to describe you as unimaginable.”

  Rianaire laughed and took another bite from the cake. “Awful, Síocháin. Simply awful.”

  U

  Aile

  They were flanked by satyr from before they had even left their chariots. A silent line of them staring at the old man they’d brought back. Their hero. You wouldn’t know it from the looks on the faces of the largest who came to see him on the slow walk through the camp. Some of the satyr knelt, some chittered quietly, others stared, most at him, some at her. Aile cared very little about the eyes on her. She was used to them, to say the least. It was the stink that had begun to draw thoughts of slaughtering as many of them as she could to mind. The charm of a fetid stable was slim enough when it held something of use like a horse or a noble’s carriage. The satyr camp offered no such treasures. Only an owed payment, awful food, worse drink, and the slow-turning minds of muleborn who seemed to think dying at her hand proved brave.

  Ilkea was uncharacteristically quiet. She had withdrawn into herself again among the people who hated her for the station of her birth. The girl, for her part, was fool enough to dream that some sort of grand act might endear the rest to her. It had been hard for Aile to imagine a race more wrapped up in idiot sentiment than the elves, but the satyr were successful at that if nothing else. They grasped their customs and their honor and their ignorance tight and pushed it on any who made the mistake of drawing near with all the beaming pride of a dim child.

  When they had finally reached the tent, Ilkea pulled the flap aside. Aile motioned Shahuor in and followed, finding Salaar sat at his desk. Ilkea let the flap fall and moved to the side of the desk.

  “I see you have succeeded in your mission.”

  Aile sat. “I would have my pay.”

  “How fastidious.” The faun looked to Shahuor and motioned to a seat. The satyr ignored the offer. “Very well. Shahuor, you do honor me with your presence. I do apologize for the accommodations and the shared chariot. We have little we can spare.”

  He paused there, expecting an answer from the old goat. Not finding one, he continued.

  “You are welcome to anything that we have, Shahuor. Food, drink, beds, women.” He paused again only to be met with unrelenting silence and a grim stare. He began again, trying to maintain his upbeat nature. “Well, if it please you, then go and be among your people.”

  Shahuor chuffed and turned, pushing his way out of the tent.

  “Well, a shorter greeting than I had hoped but no sense in speaking with walls.” Salaar rummaged around in the drawers of his desk for a moment and pulled out two small sacks and some papers. He placed each of them on a scale which had a carved stone skull as the counterweight. When the scale had stopped, he rubbed at his chin and returned the pouches to the desk. He signed each of the papers in turn and then handed t
he bunch to Ilkea along with what Aile assumed was her payment.

  The girl satyr handed her the papers and pouches. Aile eyed the words quickly. It was centaur tongue, or near enough. She had seen enough of it scrawled on tarps and stretched skins to know it. She was not aware that the language had been formalized for writing. What concerned her more was the weight of the gold. It was twice what she was owed and generosity was not a well-known trait among the horsefolk. Even if it were, the job was not beyond expectation. The faun expected something of her.

  “You have done well and returned Shahuor to his people even more quickly than I could have hoped for. Timely work should be met with timely pay. And the other, well, I assume you are wondering about it.” The faun grabbed a glass with clear liquid in it and took a small sip, wincing at the burn as it went down. “I have more work for you, if it would be something you find agreeable. Simpler work, even, but we are found with a particular need.”

  Aile threw the second pouch hard at the faun’s head. He ducked just barely, his hands coming late to cover his face.

  “Do not presume my agreement. And do not think I am so stupid as to be swayed by gold in my hand when I can just as soon take it off your corpse.”

  A vibrating nervous laugh spilled out of the tiny creature. “Haaaah. Yes, yes. Presumptuous of me. I do apologize. Well, I should explain the nature of the work. The papers you hold, they are my personal recommendations for the movements of our hordes in this province.” Salaar took another sip from the glass with shaky hands.

  Courier work was what he seemed to be describing. To offer such work to a Drow and at that heft of gold, something was amiss.

  “The situation is precarious, you see. Elves roam the open lands at random and often we would be forced to the roads for travel at any sort of speed. We simply cannot afford to have these papers interrupted in their transit. A Drow would draw less attention than any of our own should you happen to pass any—”

  “The job, faun. The pay. And nothing extra.”

  “Yes, very good. You are to take those papers to each of three camps. Then return here for payment. As simple as that.”