by Don McQuinn
Lorso stood aside for Jaleeta, unperturbed, right hand behind his back. “I grew up in this house. It’s as much mine as yours.” Jaleeta favored Tears of Jade with a tiny, knowing smile.
Tears of Jade’s heart hurt. Her breath caught. “You. Betrayer. What have you done to my son?”
Lorso’s laugh was ice, north wind. “I know the god, Mother. Better than you, perhaps. He gave me Jaleeta. He gave me this.” He held up his wounded right arm.
Tears of Jade’s eyes bulged, rolled up until the irises were tiny crescents. Jaleeta exclaimed aloud. Lorso watched, immutable. Gripping the arms of her chair, Tears of Jade struggled back from the edge of unconsciousness. Words came out mushy, in a barrage of saliva. “Tell me. Your hand. Explain.”
Lorso wore a leather cap laced over the stump. He gestured with it as though the injury had been with him for years, rather than days. “I forced Gan Moondark’s castle. With my men, I defeated his personal guard, drove his wife and friends from their beds, burned their castle.” He waved his maimed arm. “Witchwork. The black witch attacked me, Mother. Only me. She flew. A bat. I struck her wing. She took my hand.”
Although dark lines channeled his features, and his eyes blazed from smudged, smoky-looking hollows, he spoke with a solid confidence. Tears of Jade had the unsettling sensation that the son she’d tricked into doing her bidding was the one who was crippled, and that this stronger, wounded man in front of her was his formidable replacement. She said, “The witch flew? She leaped down from something.”
“Flew. Circled from the land out over the sea, struck at me as other bats strike at insects. All my men saw. She rescued the other witch, the magic man.”
“Gan? Sylah?” Tears of Jade snarled. She knew the answer. She also felt the need to humble this man.
Unruffled, Lorso said, “Gan was south, fighting. I don’t know where Sylah was.”
His answer bothered Tears of Jade even more than the foolishness about a bat. “You said Gan was south; where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know how much beer was necessary to make you and your crew all see the same bat?”
He stiffened. “No more of that, Mother. I told you: I now know the god. We saw what we saw. The Black Lightning took my hand. Ask the god yourself. Tea and smoke, remember? The god gave me strength. Look at me. Have you ever seen a man suffer such a wound so tolerantly? Hear this: I am what you and our god created. Entirely.” Turning from the older woman, he stared at Jaleeta. She smiled at him. As before, Tears of Jade saw secret knowledge in the expression. It was the face of a woman who has won. Tears of Jade knew it well, had felt its warming thrill on her own flesh.
It was hateful to look on.
Draining weariness seized Tears of Jade. The comfort of the hearth seemed suddenly to be drawn up the chimney, leaving her cold and lost. To Lorso, she said, “You deceived me. The raid was unapproved.”
He smiled. Tears of Jade’s breath caught in her throat as if barbed. It was an expression she’d never seen before. “You approved it long before you sent me to capture the girl you would raise to do your bidding. ‘Poison,’ you called her. You, of all people, should have remembered that handling poison means some of it may stick to the poisoner.”
“Do not attempt to lead my mind, Lorso; you’re not the one for that task. Never have I suggested you raid—”
“You meant for me to go after her. Her mission succeeded. Gan Moondark’s most important subjects distrust each other. There is open rebellion. His Wolves are weakened, ready to be beaten. You meant for her to draw me to Ola. I am your son now, as I never was before. I fought witchcraft such as no man before me, and won what I sought.”
“You deceived me.”
“Let’s say we exchanged untruths. Then we can be mother and son once more. Work together. We both have what we want now.”
He reached for Jaleeta with the injured arm. She stepped inside the bend of it, pressed to his side.
In the dark cabin, redolent with mysterious scents, festooned with arcane paraphernalia, three minds probed and touched, grasped and rejected. Jaleeta broke the silence. “I am Lorso’s woman. I will serve him well. I will bring him delight or comfort or what he wills. I will also serve Tears of Jade.”
No terms. No obvious evasions. And, Tears of Jade told herself, no scrap of truth. Still, the words were spoken. It was a place to start. She said, “The Skan must understand that Sosolassa spoke directly to Lorso, consecrating this raid. Lorso was made to sacrifice his good right hand to prove his devotion and the god’s power. He rescued Jaleeta, my assistant, for me. She is my gift to him. He is the choice of the god. Slavetaker must rule.”
Yet again, that knowing, confident look on the troublemaker, the liar, the cheat. Jaleeta.
Tears of Jade almost didn’t hear Lorso’s good-bye. She waved, already staring into the fireplace. She remained in that attitude, pensive, until the scratching at her door broke her concentration. She flew at it in a fury, clawlike hand raised to call down a curse.
It was the boy, her teamster. Surprise choked the imprecations in her throat. The boy’s words rumbled out. “Forward left leader. Sprained his ankle. I replaced him. I can’t drive the team tomorrow.”
The manner of the announcement alerted Tears of Jade. The boy was hiding his feelings. Part of her mind applauded his skill at it; the remainder tried to define what she saw. Anguish. Disappointment? Not another challenge; she wouldn’t stand for that. She felt anger returning. Curiosity overrode it. “Why can’t you drive?”
“I take my father’s place, fishing.”
“Tell your father I want you with me.”
“He died on Lorso’s raid. My mother’s alone now. With us. And all I have is sisters. My father shouldn’t have gone.” The last came with a raised chin, unflinching blue-green eyes. Challenge, indeed.
Tears of Jade ran bone-thin fingers through his fine hair. A good boy. Bright. “Your name is Borosso?”
He nodded, wary.
“Go home, Borosso. Tell your mother your family is taken care of. I want you to work here. For me. All the time. You understand?”
He nodded again. She gripped his ear in fingers like pincers, squeezed. “When I ask a question, you speak.”
Unshed tears swelled in his eyes, little glittering blisters of hate and gratitude and surrender. “Yes, Tears of Jade. I understand.” Not bending away, complaining.
She released the ear, delighted. “Go, then. After this, you must call me Aunt. We’re going to do wonderful things, young Borosso. Wonderful.”
Closing the door behind him, Tears of Jade laughed happily.
Chapter 18
“This is as far as we go by boat.” Domel dropped the sail as he spoke. Wallowing, yawing in the confused chop of the Throat, the small balancebar immediately fell off toward the sea. Domel shoved a paddle into Emso’s hands, whispering, “Work while you puke. And be quiet about both.”
Emso was too miserable to retort. Paddling provided surprising relief. Or maybe it was hope; the rise of land ahead was the most desirable thing in the world. He almost laughed aloud, thinking of his impending relief. From so many things. Forever.
About a boat-length from the beach, Domel eased over the side, making no sound. Emso’s splinted leg splashed. Domel pushed on the hull to send it away, but Emso hung on, fumbling in the bottom. He hauled out a pair of saddlebags. Only then did he help Domel get rid of their boat.
Emso followed Domel’s lead ashore. It rankled to admit it, but he’d learned to truly appreciate the sea skills of the Skan. Now, as a final touch, he would observe a raider’s skills, as well.
As a Skan would observe a Wolf’s determination. Demonstrated by a former farmer, former leader of the Wolf packs. Former leader. Under his breath, Emso said, “Only because I loved you, my friend. A man who hated you could never hurt you as I have.”
Domel came to his shoulder. “Still sick? What’s that noise?”
“Nothing to you
. Keep moving.”
“I may kill you myself. I can do this alone.”
“You can’t do either. Shut up. Lead the way.”
Domel mumbled. They moved out. Emso realized the Skan was picking the easiest route in deference to his companion. He’d done that on the balancebar, too. Carping constantly about Emso’s seasickness, he never failed to let Emso sleep a bit extra. He said he didn’t trust landscum to follow a star. Emso knew better. Two outcasts, two nonbeings, their changed fate allowed them to accept each other as men. Emso smiled to himself. He wondered if any non-Skan ever had a leg splinted by a Navigator. He didn’t think so.
A touch on his head stopped Emso’s crouched hobble. Domel backed behind a log, whispered instructions. “Once we pass that big log sticking out almost to the water, we’ll go inland a way. From there we can see the harbor and the sharkers; they’ll be nested in deeper water. There are slave guards. Chained to posts. There should be three. We’ll see the closest, so you kill him. I know where the other two posts are; I’ll get them.”
“Free them. They’ll fight with us.”
“Fight? They’re slaves.”
“Let them die fighting.”
“I don’t die with slaves. Anyhow, they know what happens to slaves who fail. Or resist. They’ll never fight.”
“We’ll go around them.”
“Listen to me. They’re going to die. We’ll be quick. My people will be slow. And if the slaves sound the alarm, we may not destroy any sharkers at all. What is this? They’re just slaves, Emso.”
“They’re men.”
“Kill them, or you waste your own life. And mine.”
Emso sighed, looking at the moon. It was lopsided, missing a sliver. “If it has to be. But it’s wrong.”
They crawled to a point a few body-lengths from the first guard. Emso waited for several long breaths after Domel disappeared before beginning his own stalk. A stiff breeze rustled brush, created a rough sound cover for his awkwardness. The seated guard shifted, concentrating on the moon-bright sea. Emso struck. The heavy metal ball on the murdat handle cracked the man behind the ear. He grunted, sagged sideways. Emso caught him, clapped a hand over his mouth. “Quiet. One sound, you die. You understand?”
Returning consciousness stiffened the man. He nodded, fear-rounded eyes glistening.
“I’m going to pry free the spike holding the chain. Join us or run, but make no sound.”
The man nodded. Slowly, cautiously, Emso loosened his grip on the lower half of the man’s face. The frightened eyes remained locked on his. Arching his back, the sentry pulled away. He opened his mouth, screamed. The attempt was less than a yelp, a pitiful squeak confounded by the swift murdat in his throat. Emso threw himself on top of the man, crushed him to the rocky beach. They struggled horribly, stones scraping under them in a wet, sibilant clatter, the man still trying to cry out. Black shining under moonlight, his blood gave off faint steam.
When the man was at last still, Emso rolled off him. Domel lay within arm’s reach. Softly, he said, “You’re a greater fool than I thought. Why do you think some of them surrender, let themselves become slaves?”
“Don’t you ever shut up? What now?”
“Collect the small boats. We’ll tow them out with us.”
Rattling rocks stopped Emso in midrise, turned him around. Domel crouched, the same as himself, facing inland. Encircling dogs trapped them against the waterline. The animals paused. In the faint light, their nervous shifting created the image of a single, erratic entity. Tense, high whines descended through deep growls. Emso made a noise in his throat, jabbed with his murdat. Most of the pack immediately in front of him faded back. Two held their ground, heads lowered, snarling. Stiff-legged, the leaders advanced. The rest followed.
“The blood,” Domel said. “It excites them.”
“I’ll excite them.” Emso draped the saddlebags over his left arm, gripping so his fist was hidden in the leather folds. Extending that shield, he clumped toward the pack, making his own wordless threat. The pair of animals ahead of him spread apart. Other dogs snaked forward. Clammy fear touched Emso’s stomach. The brute intensity of the animals was unnerving, seemed more concentrated than human enmity.
One of the leaders leaped, jaws gaping, teeth gleaming. Emso thrust the leather padding. The dog seized it, shaking, growling. Emso’s slash decapitated the second leader as it joined the attack. In the same motion, he stabbed the one ripping at the saddlebags. It dropped, its death shriek a jagged tear in the silence of darkness.
The rest of the pack disappeared, gone like smoke.
Domel grunted. “Good thing you brought those saddlebags. Why did you?” He was barely quieter than normal conversation.
Emso chided him. “Keep your voice down. That scream will bring every warrior in the tribe.”
“Dogs fight and die all the time. No one will notice. And there’s no one here to hear us. Come on; we’ve got work.” He handed Emso a large goatskin. It sloshed. “Oil,” Domel said. “There’s a store shed down the beach. I stopped by.” He hoisted a heavy sack onto his own shoulder. Bared teeth gleamed white. “Beeswax.”
* * *
Eyes wide, fully awake on the instant, Lorso lay absolutely still, not breathing, listening. His head throbbed. The scream. Did he dream it? Did he voice it? Beside him, Jaleeta slept soundly, her breath soft, relaxed.
The dream came back to him. Staring into darkness so ponderous it was like keeping his eyes closed, he experienced it again. The terrible black bat swooping. The witch’s screaming, hating face. The hard blow of the claw. The unimaginable sight of his sword dropping across his vision, his hand clenching the hilt.
Blood. Fountaining. His other hand, darting, catching sword handle and its own amputated twin. Incomprehension.
Then the pain. Yes. The god’s wrath. Even as it came, blinding in its magnificence, Lorso knew it for its true purpose. The god’s gift.
Lorso, smiling confidence while his frightened, clumsy crew tied the blood line tight around his arm.
Pitch, boiling in its iron pot. Sosolassa’s cast image on the side of it, clotted almost to indistinguishable curves and forms by years of accumulated soot and smoke. And blood. The cautery pot. Sacred. Feared beyond words.
Lorso looked past the fire, past the drawn, frightened faces of his raiders. To Jaleeta. Her face seemed in constant motion. Lorso understood that was significant. He thought of massed kelp leaves, deep under the surface, swaying, mingling, one plant becoming all plants. All becoming one.
Pitch formed fat, lazy bubbles that crawled thickly to the surface. They opened like greedy little mouths, then collapsed to nothingness. Lorso stepped forward, brushing aside supporting hands. “Slavetaker heals his own wounds.” He plunged the thing into the roiled mass. There was an almost inaudible sizzle, a feeling of immense weight pulling him deeper. Through the encrusted layers on the outside of the pot, he felt the eyes of the god watching his mind.
“Enough!” It was a crewman, an older, experienced man. Sweating, he seemed abashed at the sound of his own voice.
Lorso smiled at him. His skin seemed to be trying to slide off his body, but he held onto a distant, hard calm. He pulled the thing from the pitch, smiling down at the god, then at Jaleeta, then at the others. “I’ll rest now. Jaleeta will tend to me.” He pointed at the severed hand lying on the deck, where no man dared step close. “Put me in a leather sack. Nail me to my mast.” He walked to his pallet. Pitch dripped where he passed.
In the present darkness, Lorso frowned. Sweat chilled him, despite piled furs, despite the sweet-scented warmth of Jaleeta beside him. He remembered the rest.
Long before the sun, he tried to rise. Pressure pressed his face into the coarse cloth. He was near panic when the voice came. Noises. Bubbling, smacking, like liquid pouring, separating, coming together. Not words. Not language. Not the self-serving jabber of a used-up old woman.
True awareness of the sea Lorso thought he knew was revealed to hi
m; he was ashamed to realize his previous ignorance. The pulse of the seasons was instilled in his blood. He was one with clouds, wind and sun. Other images swirled through his mind, vague promises of more things he would learn.
Tears of Jade. He saw her, and the sticky-wet sounds were louder, derisive, and Tears of Jade was afraid.
Happiness filled him. Ecstasy. The god had spoken.
Pain. A reminder. Fire crushed the injured wrist, shot through his body, blasted the air out of his lungs. He suffocated, his whole being screaming plea for breath. The weight lifted. He sucked in air, gratefully, prayerfully. Choked on the stench of his own cooked arm.
Stench.
Lorso blinked his way back to reality, rubbed his temple. Something smelled.
First the scream: Had he heard it? Now a smell: Was it real? Messages from the god?
Was the god telling him he would never know his world from dreams?
Someone was shouting. Fire. Lorso leaped out of bed, threw on trousers, grabbed his sword from the scabbard. Awkwardness lashed his fury.
* * *
At the end of the nested sharkers, Domel stood on deck before the mast and smiled. There were five lines of sharkers, fifteen vessels in each line. Fire was eating the first line, starting on the second.
Emso crawled up out of the bilge. He carried a lightproof candle box. Domel slapped him on the shoulder. “They’re awake now. Listen to all that yelling.”
“Is the boat ready?” Emso peered over the side. Domel nodded. Emso said, “Then let’s go.”
The sharkers in the other lines were igniting. Heat and wind swirled brands high in the air. When they fell on another vessel, more flame erupted. Domel laughed wildly. Emso shot him a wary look. Domel said, “They say Domel is no more, not even a name. Let them look. And know.”
Skan crowded the water’s edge, searching vainly for the small boats Emso and Domel had towed out. Ducking low in escape, the pair paddled hard to make the dark west shore, away from the gentle beach where the Skan gathered.