by Ree Soesbee
Cobiah tousled Benedict’s hair. “You’re a brave lad. Get back to your training. Apparently, you’re representing our entire race out there.” He winked at Bronn. “Pay attention to Hedda’s lessons. She’s a hell of a fighter, and you’d do well to remember what she teaches you.”
“Yes, Commodore. I will.” Grinning, Benedict hurried back into formation, practicing his slashes and thrusts as Hedda called out each move.
“He’s none the worse for wear.” Bronn chuckled, shoving Cobiah with his shoulder. The norn’s blue eyes lost their twinkle as he asked more quietly, “Can you say the same, old friend?”
Before Cobiah could answer the question, he noticed two burly charr marching across the Gangplank Bridge toward the training plaza. Sykox, whose eyes were keener, recognized them first, and all four ears pricked forward in glee. “Fassur! Aysom!” With a wave, the engineer bounded forward to clasp their wrists in greeting. “You old blackguards. How did you get here? The Pride was at sea!”
Bronn greeted his old companions with a bellow of goodwill, thumping their backs even as Cobiah gave them a somewhat more restrained greeting. Though the cunning old charr’s fur had gone from black to darkly tarnished silver with age, Captain Fassur’s grin was just as sharp as ever. Sykox and Aysom burst into challenging, friendly roars, each determined to outdo the other in the ferocity of his greeting. At last, Fassur raised a hand to ask his friends for silence. “I bet you’re wondering how we managed to sneak the Pride through the blockade.” Fassur snickered and brushed his claws through the fur on one arm, so pleased with himself that he might as well have been about to spit up a canary.
“Indeed! How in the realms of torment and travail did you do that?” Cobiah brought his attention back to the topic of their feat. Aysom cracked his knuckles as he answered the question, his face studiously bland. “A good pilot gave us some tricks to slip through against the tide. It was touch and go ’cause we didn’t want the Krytans to hear our engine, but we managed to push through while they were eating dinner. I guess they thought it’d be impossible for a boat to enter the harbor when the tide was flowing out.” He shook his golden mane, his unusually deep voice resonating with maturity and respect.
“It is impossible,”—Cobiah slapped his leg in amusement—“For everyone but the Pride! Well done on sneaking past. Engine or no engine, if the Krytans’d seen you—or if you’d hit the shale or high ruins below the waterline—you’d be driftwood by now. And you did it in the dark to boot? Your new pilot must know these waters darn well. Or be darn lucky.” Cobiah ran his fingers through his hair, shrugging it back as he admired the sheer difficulty of such a task. “Is he charr or human? No matter. Whoever he is, I owe him a bottle of Black Citadel whiskey. Bring him ’round my manor, and I’ll—”
“It’s not like that, Cobiah.” Fassur gave a sober toss of his iron-tipped horns. He measured the commodore cautiously, and then, as if he’d come to some silent resolution, he added, “It was Isaye. Isaye gave us the information we needed to come through.” Beside him, the younger Aysom stiffened, looking much like he was tensing for an inevitable if undesirable fight.
Cobiah’s blood went cold. Sykox was the one who spoke first. “Did she come with you? Is she—”
“No.” Fassur shrugged, his eyes shifting right to left. “She contacted us out at sea, beyond the barricade. She knew our old hiding places, guessed where we’d be holed up, and came to talk to us. Without her, we’d still be out there. She told us when the Krytan patrols were moving, where the tides were turning, where to avoid the hidden reefs.”
“And you trusted her?” Cobiah retorted.
“Coby.” Bronn admonished him in a booming tone. “Such rudeness is beneath you. Let them tell Isaye’s tale and judge her actions by them alone.” His beard wagged with disapproval as he thumped Cobiah’s shoulder again, this time hard enough to leave a bruise. “My dainty love, Hedda, told me of your discourtesy to the lady Isaye when the Nomad visited our city. There’s an old norn saying: ‘A cleaved head no longer plots.’ ” Bronn paused meaningfully. The others stared at him in confusion. Tilting his head, the norn blinked and rethought his words. “Nope, no, wait, it’s the other one, sorry.” He cleared his throat, trying again. “ ‘Be not the first to speak angry words, or you shall be the first to feast on them.’ ” Bronn nodded, conviction returning along with his volume. “That’s the one.
“Now let us hear what the charr have to say.”
Fassur’s smile was all teeth and no amusement. “She asked us to bring you a message, Coby,” he said with a touch of his old savoir faire.
“A message?” the commodore grumbled. “Keep it. I don’t care to hear what she has to say.”
Sykox smacked the back of Cobiah’s head, sending his ponytail flapping about his shoulders. “Ow!” Cobiah swatted back, but Sykox growled warningly.
“Will you cut that out, Coby? The woman’s not one of your infernal gods. She’s your wife—”
“Ex-wife.”
“Wife,” Sykox said firmly, correcting him. “The priests never separated you, and from what I hear, you humans do whatever your priests say, so get over it. I don’t care if she’s your wife, your ex-wife, or your goldfish; if Isaye’s risking herself to help Lion’s Arch, then you’ll damn well hear what the woman has to say.” He rubbed at his cheeks, his jowls and muzzle distending in a sad clown face. “I don’t care what caused the fight. Just fix the problem!”
Chastised, Cobiah said, “I wish it were that easy.” Seagulls circled overhead, their shrill cries echoing. Young voices called out in mock battle cries, and Hedda’s low alto broke in here and there as she corrected a grip or straightened a footing. The sun was overly warm for the afternoon, blazing down on Cobiah’s head with an uncomfortable heat. Sighing, Cobiah gave in. “Go ahead, Fassur. I’m listening.”
Fassur’s stare was strangely piercing, his tawny yellow eyes both judging and consoling in the same moment as only a cat can manage. He shifted on his padded feet, sinking his claws into the earth between the cobblestones. “Isaye wants to meet with you, Cobiah. She said that she has political blackmail on Prince Edair, and she’s willing to hand it over.”
“Did she say what it was?” Interested despite himself, Cobiah tried to keep an open mind. “Or how it could help us? Or why me?”
“No.” Fassur lowered his head. He picked at one paw with the claws of the other, choosing his words carefully. “I haven’t always gotten along with Isaye, Cobiah. You know that. Titan’s blood, I’m the one who got you drunk as a skale when she left.” A sharp grin. “But she was willing to risk a lot to get the Pride to harbor, and she managed it despite our personal history. I believe she’s sailing true.” When Cobiah remained silent, Fassur carried on. “The route she gave us is clear both ways. If we go out while the tide’s coming in, after dark, the Krytans will have their backs to us. More than that. Isaye told us where the patrols will be tonight so we can make it by without alerting them.”
Cobiah took a moment to consider. He struggled to trust Isaye, but every time she did something positive, he saw again the image of finding her that day. She’d been meeting with a Krytan agent at one of the havens north of the city—carrying a copy of Cobiah’s notes from the council meeting the night before . . . He squeezed his eyes shut against the bright sun, willing the image to fade into spots and flashes. “Is that all?”
“She said that she needed your help, Coby,” Fassur added offhandedly, shoulders rippling in a shrug. “I said I’d tell you.” Cobiah tried not to show how the words infected him, charged his spirit with a sudden desire to rush to her aid. No matter how they fought, Isaye always had that effect on him. The charr’s yellow eyes crept up from where he’d been staring at the stones on the ground, this time judging Cobiah’s reaction. Damn it, Fassur. You know me too well.
Feeling equal parts amused and manipulated, Cobiah looked around at the others. Bronn jabbed the commodore in the ribs and nodded encouragement. Aysom gave Cobi
ah a bobbing, reassuring smile, his long horns tilting back and forth. Sykox’s ears flicked back and then forward again as his tail kept up a steady rhythm of annoyance. Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump—
“Fine!” Cobiah threw up his hands. “I’ll meet with her. But not on the Pride. The Nomad’s in the blockade with the others, and even Edair’s not dumb enough to miss my ship when he sees it. We’ll have to use an unknown ship. Then they might think we’re Krytan . . . if we’re lucky.”
“I can help with the ‘luck’ part.” Fassur grinned. “I still have that old Krytan flag in the hold, from the time we took the Salma’s Grace. Remember? Ol’ Moran let me take it as a trophy. If we fly that on our mast and they don’t see which side of the blockade we came from to start, we should be able to get close enough to signal the Nomad.”
“Just might work.” Cobiah felt his confidence building. “We’d just need a ship.”
Sykox brightened. “Use the scout ship, the Gabrian’s Comet. She’s small, low to the water, and her captain’s a friend of mine. I bet I can talk him into loaning her to you for the night.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Cobiah grinned, feeling the tension leave his body for the first time in weeks. Finally, a plan! They were doing something. Something insane, but something proactive, and that made up for three weeks of pent-up frustration. “Sykox, commandeer the Comet and crew her with the absolute minimum needed to keep her moving. I’ll need you to find five sailors. I won’t risk any more lives than that on this wild goose chase.”
“Four. I’m your first mate,” Fassur growled. “No argument, Coby. My mind’s made up. I’m the one who trusted Isaye and brought you the message. If it turns out she was using me . . .” Fassur’s claws snapped in, then out again. “I’ll be the one who carves repayment out of her hide.”
“Danger, adventure, possible betrayal—by the mighty claw of Bear! I’ll not leave you on such an adventure, Coby,” Bronn preened. He leaned close and said sotto voce, “Besides, the wife’ll have me teaching swordplay all day and all night if I stay here. Spirits of the Wild, protect me from the jaws of yapping pups!”
Aysom nodded. “I’m coming, too.”
“Have fun.” Suddenly, all eyes turned to Sykox. The orange-furred charr crossed his arms over his spotted chest and lashed his tail belligerently. “What? I’m sure as the Mists not going with you! All this yammering’s reminded me that I have some very important work to finish at the docks.”
“Work?” Cobiah exclaimed. “What in the Six Gods do you have to work on? The piers are burned! The ships are gone! It’s like a Grenth-blasted graveyard down there.”
Sykox sniffed. “You say ‘graveyard,’ I say ‘opportunity.’ Lion’s Arch still has plenty of men and women ready to crew an armada.” The charr smiled, and his long white fangs gleamed in the sunlight. “I just need to find them something to sail.”
The Gabrian’s Comet was a small schooner, less than two hundred feet long and dwarfed by pinnaces such as the Pride and big clippers such as the Nomad II. Although she typically carried a crew of around twenty, tonight she had only five sailors working amid her rigging. One of them was a human. Two were charr: Fassur and Aysom. The other two were norn. When Bronn’s brother, Grymm, heard about their plan, he promptly stormed into the Crow’s Nest Tavern and challenged his brother to a fight to decide which one of them would go. After they spent two hours arguing, breaking chairs over one another, and wheedling the barmaids for more alcohol, Cobiah gave in and brought both. It was far easier than paying their bar tab.
Sanctum Harbor rippled with a wayward southern wind that bled cold from the Shiverpeaks. They kept the sails closed as they pushed off from the pier, letting the last of the outgoing tide draw them from shore. Only when they were completely surrounded by the waters of the harbor and the tide began to turn inward did they unfurl the sails: dark canvas, stained black with oil from a midnight yew. Harder to see against the night sky.
The wind sang in the taut rigging, swelling the canvases that swayed against the two small masts. It had been years since Cobiah’d been at sea, and the salt spray and rolling bow of the deck invigorated him despite the circumstances. He stood in the aft of the ship, looking back at the lights of the harbor, searching for the spires of the little chapel on Deverol Island. They’d built it only a few years ago, and Cobiah’d feared the other residents of the city might not take kindly to Krytan religion in their midst. To his surprise, the non-humans had been supportive. Several of the city’s norn helped carve the great oak beams of the ceiling, and an asuran inventor had engineered self-illuminating stained-glass windows just so the little shrine would be hospitable at night. Fixing his eyes on it, Cobiah murmured a prayer to each of the six gods of his people, wishing for the best. Grenth, god of death. Balthazar, god of war. Lyssa, goddess of beauty. Kormir, goddess of truth. Melandru, goddess of the earth. And on the highest point, Dwayna the Merciful, sweet and gentle comforter of the soul.
He could still hear the priest’s voice, trying to console him. “Pray to her, young man. She will bring you peace.”
Without meaning to, his mind leapt back to the day he’d first left Lion’s Arch, remembering how the white sails carrying him out of the city had looked like an angel’s wings. It seemed right that he’d tied Biviane’s doll to his belt today, as he’d done in the past when he captained the Pride. Cobiah smiled and brushed his fingers over Polla’s faded yarn hair. All the time that had passed, from then to now. All the years. All the adventures.
So much had changed.
“We’ll be at the edge of the blockade in fifteen minutes, sir, if the wind holds. Even if it doesn’t, the norn are moving those oars like mad things. The steerage’s made for six men to a side, and we’ve got Bronn and Grymm. I think those two have a bet going as to who can pull harder.” Fassur yawned and stretched his arms up over his head with a whining, grunty noise. He tugged on each wrist, loosening the muscles, and then shook himself all over like a dog rising from a nap. “After that, we’re oars-only for another ten or so, and that should get us to the eastern pyramid marker. Isaye said she’d sail there for three nights, waiting to see if we showed. There’ll be a red lantern hung on her bow so we can tell the Nomad from the others.” The pyramid marker was a set of stones piled high in the ocean, the top of the stack jutting out well above the highest tide. It marked the edge of safe sailing. If a ship sailed any farther toward the eastern coast of the bay, it risked tearing the bottom of its hull against unpredictable ruins, coral, shale, and other dangers beneath the waves.
Although the prince’s ships might notice the Nomad II sailing close to that edge, they wouldn’t think much of it. Isaye was one of the best pilots in Tyria, and she knew Sanctum Harbor like no other. The other Krytan captains might even assume she’d been told to watch for ships moving in the currents along the dangerous edge. The Gabrian’s Comet was small enough that it could hide on the Nomad II’s port side, keeping the clipper’s bulk between the Gabrian’s Comet and the rest of the ships in the blockade; she’d be hard to spot under casual inspection from afar. The ruse wouldn’t have to last long. Cobiah didn’t plan to stay.
The tide moved beneath them precisely as Isaye’s rough-sketched map indicated. Every piece of wreckage beneath them had been drawn out, with careful timing marked in seconds to indicate when they should turn their rudder. Each time Fassur gestured to him, Aysom pulled on the rudder, shifting the boat’s elegant glide through the calm waters of the bay. Although the currents in Sanctum Harbor were a morass of unpredictable fluctuation, Isaye’s map always seemed to predict where the draw would be. Cobiah busied himself by adjusting the sails, and when Fassur called for them to ease, he climbed the mast to the low yardarm and rolled her rigging down. He secured the dark canvas with sailor’s knots, trying to ignore the stiffness that plagued joints once fluent with such labor.
“Stay silent, everyone,” Cobiah murmured to the crew. “The water carries echoes. We don’t w
ant the Krytans to hear us coming.”
Slowly, her oars piercing the water like sharp-edged knives, the Gabrian’s Comet slipped to the edge of the blockade. Lanterns glittered in the distance, tied to the gunwales of clippers and larger galleons. Now and again, Cobiah could hear a watchman call the time or make out fragments of conversation from sailors on the Krytan ships. Most of the armada was stationary, and the patrols moved as Isaye had indicated. Buoys were fanned out between them, with ropes and nets splayed from one to another, designed to foul the keel and tangle in the rudder of any ship that tried to punch its way through the blockade. The Gabrian’s Comet avoided them all—thanks to Isaye’s carefully drawn map.
“She’s precise,” Fassur rumbled, his voice so soft that Cobiah, standing next to him, had trouble hearing it.
Cobiah couldn’t help giving in to a little bitterness. “You think that’s something?” he whispered coolly. “You should have seen how methodical she was about copying my notes. The Krytans must have been very impressed.” Despite himself, Cobiah felt the tension in his shoulders ease. Whatever crazy plan Isaye was going to propose, thus far her information had been reliable. That eased his mind—a bit. Now he could turn his worry toward wondering exactly what she’d felt was so important in the first place.