Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2)

by Patrick W. Carr

  The Soede’s brows rose. Garet gave a thoughtful nod. Martin stepped forward, trying to smooth his features to hide unexpected nervousness. If the shadow lands fought how and where they chose, the kingdom would never be able to coordinate a successful defense. “If I may speak?”

  Garet nodded. “Speak, solis.”

  It took Martin a moment to realize that the leader of the council addressed him. He cleared his throat. “The kingdom possesses fine generals. There are currently five captains within the watch who have mastered the art of war. If we were to offer them a coordinated army under one command, we would have a much better chance of winning.”

  The Soede sniffed. “I fought in the Steppes War, priest. I saw how the conscripts drew duty in the vanguard. Tell me what assurances you can provide that the army of Haven will be treated better than draftees.”

  Every member of the council leaned forward, awaiting his answer. This, then, was their biggest concern: how to protect their people. His throat clenched. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. All of his years in the priesthood and the Judica had prepared him for this. “You have the best assurance of all, my lords and ladies. If you do not receive fair and equitable treatment, your forces can quit the field. You are a sovereign country.”

  “I doubt the church will see us that way,” Marya said. “To them we are nothing more than a seldom-remembered penal colony. Once they learn of our numbers, they will see us as a cheap source of manpower and goods.” She pointed. “Mark my words, solis, news of our prosperity will awaken a hue and cry among the nobles and the church to assert control over Haven.”

  Garet and the rest of the council nodded, waiting in expectation for Martin’s reply. He licked lips gone suddenly dry. This was not some debate over obscure theology. The freedom and autonomy of the shadow lands—or Haven—was at stake. His stentorian cadences were of little use here. Only the truth would suffice. He caught himself. The truth?

  A whisper in his mind, like the sighing of trees, urged him to speak to the point. “Friends,” he said, “what you say is true. The kingdom is as it ever has been—a collection of men, good and bad, compassionate and ambitious. There will be men who will see the unexpected bounty of Haven as nothing more than ripe fruit for the plucking. There are powerful men who crave yet more power. The Weir family continues as the strongest hand in the nobility after the king, and they have influence in the venerated halls of the cathedral as well.

  “But there are also good men, men who will see what you have accomplished here as a miracle and a treasure, men like Archbenefice Canon and Primus Enoch Sten.” His voice caught. “I know these men. They would treasure and strive to protect your people as their own.”

  Garet nodded, his eyes moist. “As would you, Solis Martin. Yet kingdom politics may turn with the swiftness of the tide. What can be done to safeguard our people?”

  Martin took a deep breath. If the powers of the kingdom objected to what he was about to suggest, he might well end up in the shadow lands himself. Ha. If they objected? By Deas in heaven, he should save himself the time and begin looking for a place to live here and now.

  “My friends, I think there is a way, though my superiors will dislike the fact that I have suggested it to you.” He paused, out of respect, to make eye contact with each of them. “I will ask the king to declare a writ of recognition for Haven. His declaration will make you a sovereign nation.”

  Raucous laughter burst from the Basqu. “Dislike? You have turned mountains into anthills, Solis Martin. The kingdom’s numerous exiles have brought us extensive tales of the kingdom over the years. We are not ignorant of the power Duke Weir exercises. The man may just kill you outright.” He turned to Marya. “What say you now?”

  “I say that if the church had more such men, she would be a light to illuminate the world.”

  The mercurial councilwoman looked upon Martin with fierce admiration and something he hadn’t seen from a woman in over twenty years. It made him uncomfortable, and he felt his ears grow warm.

  Garet clapped, calling the attention of the council. “I propose that we send Solis Karele and Solis Martin on their way with all the speed and aid they require. In addition, I propose that the writ of recognition be delivered by the king. If the kingdom grants recognition to Haven, then we shall fight under their banner. How say you?”

  Martin lifted his hands in protest. “Rodran would never survive the journey.”

  Garet nodded. “Then he must send his niece. Agreed?”

  Martin scanned the council. “I will communicate your terms.”

  One by one, each member of the council laid their right hand upon the stone table. Garet nodded. “It is decided. Solis Martin, our blessings and prayers go with you.” The members of the council filed out of their seats and moved out in front of the arc of their table. As each member passed Karele they laid their hands upon his head and kissed him. Then they repeated the gesture with Martin.

  Marya’s warm hands cupped his face, but instead of kissing each cheek, she pressed her lips against his. “If you ever tire of the priesthood, Solis Martin, I think you would make a fine husband.”

  Laughter, not unkind, filled the chamber at Marya’s words. Even Cruk joined in, and after a moment, during which tension spilled from him like water through a sieve, Martin’s gales rebounded from the wall.

  The next day they stepped from a flat-bottomed riverboat onto the dock in order to transfer to a ship that would take them to Basquon. Unlike the ports in Erinon or Port City, the docks at the southern tip of Haven did not boast much seafaring capability. In fact, only one small pier jutted out into the hidden harbor that provided access to the strait. Two ships, one on each side, waited with furled sails.

  As their party drew closer to the vessels, Martin’s stomach roiled at the thought of daring the straits in the craft before him. Both ships appeared seaworthy enough, except that, to all appearances, neither had been to sea in years. A handful of men with fishing lines hung about the docks, regarding the three-masted cogs as fixtures in the landscape rather than means of transportation.

  Cruk strode forward shaking his head, muttering under his breath. With tentative steps he crossed the gangplank, feeling each as if he expected the wood to break beneath him and dump him in the gray waters of the harbor. He stepped onto the ship with visible relief.

  The deck of the ship was dry. Cruk fingered one of the ropes and snorted. “I wonder how many years it’s been since they put to sea.”

  Luis made a slow turn. “Where is everybody?”

  Cruk shook his head. “On permanent leave, most likely. If anyone’s on board this dried-up tub, he’ll be in the captain’s quarters.” He moved toward the hatch and broad stairs that led down to the next deck. When they reached the captain’s quarters, Martin was surprised to find the door’s wood polished and gleaming, casting the rest of the dusty interior in stark contrast.

  “At least we know somebody’s onboard this hulk,” Cruk said.

  “Go easy, friend,” Karele said. “You forget that Haven is first and foremost banishment for those who have been excommunicated. Those who have been sent here are under a death penalty if they return to the kingdom.”

  “Why did they build ships, then, if they couldn’t use them?” Luis asked.

  Karele shrugged. “Many who are exiled find it difficult to adjust to a different life. It is likely a few shipwrights and sailors gathered to re-create the life they could no longer have.”

  This simple assessment conveyed to Martin the despair of excommunication more than anything else. “I think it’s a beautiful ship.” He stepped forward to rap on the door. Muffled voices, a man’s and a woman’s, came from the interior, the thick oak not quite masking the surprise in their tones. A moment later, the door cracked open to reveal a squat, middle-aged man holding a short sword with rust on it.

  His eyes bugged at the sight of Cruk.

  “What might you fellows be wantin’ of old Amos Tek?”

>   Cruk’s brows rose at the name, but Karele stepped in front of the watchman. “I am Solis Karele. Are you the captain of this ship?”

  The man blinked in incomprehension. “Captain? Hmm, I guess I be the captain. It be more of a floating home than a ship.” His eyes narrowed. “And why would you be wantin’ to know that?”

  Karele drew a sealed letter from within his cloak. “I have orders from the council for you, Captain. You’re to take us to Basquon.”

  The captain’s fingers trembled as he reached for the letter. Lightly, he stroked the wax seal before breaking it. He bit his lips as he read the instructions within, then turned toward the interior of his cabin. “Brandy, I’m going to sea. The council says I can go to sea.”

  A woman dressed in sailor’s clothes came into view, snatched the paper. She read it twice, her lips moving in time as her eyes scanned the few lines within the missive. “Aye, it’s true.” She turned dewy eyes upon Karele. “You’ve made Amos very happy.” She rested a hand on the captain’s arm. “Do you think you still remember how to sail?”

  He drew himself up. “I be captain every night in my dreams, woman. Of course I remember.” He swatted her on the rump. “Go gather those layabouts and tell them we sail with the tide.” A cackle of mirth bubbled up from somewhere inside him. “Captain Tek be on the seas again.”

  35

  NETS

  ERROL MOVED DOWN the gangplank of the ship, his legs swaying and buckling in time to the swells of the strait. Much of his dawn breakfast of ham and cheese was no doubt still attracting gulls somewhere out in that accursed expanse of water. Even zingiber powder hadn’t helped. Of course the crossing had been less than smooth. For the fourth time in eight days their ship had been met at the halfway point in the strait by Merakhi longships ready to attack and board.

  Every time they’d turned tail and fled back to Basquon, relying on their greater speed to reach the safety of kingdom ships that patrolled Illustra’s side of the strait. Four different trips in four different ships led to the same conclusion: The Merakhi knew who they were and knew when they were coming.

  He grumbled around the taste of bile in his mouth. With every failed attempt, the church’s compulsion grew within him—frantic thoughts of swimming across the water filled his mind. His temper frayed and his friends and companions avoided him. They did not possess the power to lessen the church’s compulsion. Even Adora, after being rebuffed twice, found reasons to be elsewhere. Only Rale sought him out, standing next to him on the dark gray planks of the pier as Errol looked out across the waves toward the south.

  “We will find a way,” Rale said.

  He shook his head. “If they can turn us back at night, there’s no way for us to slip through their blockade. We’re beaten.”

  “We’re not beaten ’til we’re dead, lad.”

  Rale’s words, meant to cheer him, focused Errol’s thoughts on the subject of his concern. “What happens to a person if he is prohibited from fulfilling a compulsion?”

  Rale grimaced and shrugged. “I don’t know. There may not be anyone who does know. Archbenefice Gayle issued a decree limiting the use of compulsion three hundred years ago. No doubt some members of the church have used it in secret since then, but that’s the kind of information that doesn’t make it out to the village goodwife, if you take my meaning.”

  Errol gazed at the water—longing to cross the strait filled him like a hunger he couldn’t feed. “I think I’ll just lose myself and walk right into the sea and die.”

  Rale growled. “We’ll find a way, boy. If need be, I’ll set a watch on you or have you tied to the mast to keep you from drowning yourself.”

  Errol shuddered as he envisioned himself raving and tied to the main, his mind in tatters, unable to fulfill the church’s penance. “Don’t keep me alive if my mind breaks. I don’t want to live like that.”

  “You’re not going to go insane, boy. We’ll find a way.”

  “How?”

  Rale’s posture sagged as his mouth worked to find an answer. Errol watched, grateful, but his friend’s efforts only heightened the morbid fascination he felt for his unavoidable demise. What would it be like to go insane? Would the thinking part of his mind just shrink until nothing remained, like snow melting in the sun? Or would he simply snap, one moment himself and the next moment broken like a branch during a flood? He couldn’t decide which he preferred.

  “Errol!” A voice hailed him from out in the bay. “Errol!”

  He squinted, labored to focus on the source of the call. Out in the harbor, running with the wind, came a small three-master, its captain calling the order to furl sails, his voice filled with salt and laughter.

  “That’s not possible,” he heard himself say. The compulsion must have been altering his mind already. There was no other way to explain the hallucination, but Rale’s laughter contradicted him.

  The ship glided into the slip two piers over, where dockhands tied it off with thick hawsers. Errol followed Rale over to the craft, numb with surprise and shock. A moment later he found himself smothered by cloak and arms as Pater Martin wrapped him in a bear hug.

  “It’s good to see you alive, boy,” Martin said. “I was afraid we’d be too late.”

  Errol shook his head, trying to clear the clutter of the previous night’s failure and the compulsion from his awareness. “What are you doing here?”

  Martin smiled, but his eyes looked pinched, closed. “We’re going with you to Merakh, boy.”

  Errol shook his head. “Nobody’s going to Merakh. We can’t get across the strait. The Merakhi know our every step.”

  A small man with dark eyes and sharp features stepped forward, squeezing through the space between Cruk and Luis to stand before him. “I might be able to do something about that, Earl Stone.”

  The set of his eyes—calm and assured—exuded simple confidence. Errol looked to Martin, who gave a slight nod.

  “You know this?” Rale asked Martin. “He can get us through Valon’s net of readers?”

  “I have seen it,” Martin said. “This is Solis Karele. If anyone can get us through to Merakh, it is him.”

  Rale eyed the ship Martin and the rest had just left and rubbed his chin in thought. “It’s obviously not a kingdom ship. Is there any chance your captain is available for hire?”

  Cruk barked a laugh. “Just assure him you won’t send him back to the shadow lands, Elar, and he’ll probably do it for free.”

  Rale started, shook his head in shock. “Cruk? Is that you? You still look awful.”

  Cruk grunted. “I’m no wiser about the company I keep. It’s not very restful.”

  Rale cut his eyes to Errol. “I know what you mean.”

  Cruk nodded. “I see you do.”

  “What’s your captain’s name? He might do it for free, but I’ll feel a lot more comfortable if he knows I’ve bought him.”

  Cruk’s mouth pulled to one side. “Amos Tek.”

  Rale’s eyes widened. “The pirate? I thought he was dead.”

  Cruk laughed. It sounded like a saw rasping through a board. “No, it was worse. He got himself exiled to the shadow lands.”

  Rale looked as if he’d begun a long list of questions. Errol stepped forward to catch his attention. “How soon can we leave? I’m slipping.”

  “What?” Cruk asked.

  Luis nudged him. “The compulsion is taking him.”

  Cruk spat. “Foul thing to do to a man. Better to kill him outright,” he said. Then he looked at Luis and away again, his color rising.

  Luis didn’t appear to take offense. “Despite the evidence to the contrary, I have to say I agree.”

  He glanced at Martin with an indecipherable look. Errol restrained a sigh. More secrets. A wave of fatigue washed over him, sapping his strength. “I’d give anything to be back on your farm shoveling manure and working the staff,” he said to Rale.

  “I know what you mean, lad.” He turned to Cruk. “We’ll have to transfer our
goods to the hold of Tek’s ship. But that should take less than three hours. Can we leave then?”

  Cruk shouted up at the captain. “Tek, you cursed pirate, can you be ready to sail in three hours?”

  “Reformed pirate,” Tek shouted back. “Yes, I be ready to sail now. The waves call to me, they do.”

  “Excellent,” Rale said. He wheeled, giving orders.

  Errol stood rooted to his spot on the pier, searching within himself to determine if the compulsion had lessened at the news. He couldn’t tell. The pull seemed as strong as ever, as if the church had tied the end of a string to his chest and given the other end to the entire nation of Merakh and ordered the country to pull him across the strait. The thought sent his consciousness slipping, and he took an involuntary step toward the water.

  “Errol.” A hand on his shoulder stopped him, pulled him around. Awareness returned. He blinked. Rokha stood before him, shoulder to shoulder with Merodach. The fingers of their hands fluttered as if they’d just then separated. He nodded, requiring the physical motion to chase the last of the compulsion’s somnolence away.

  Rokha peered left and right before speaking. “He’s hiding something, Errol.”

  “Who?”

  “The priest.”

  A snort vibrated in the back of his throat. “Martin. He’s always hiding something. The man has more secrets than Weir has gold.”

  “Did you know he’s under a compulsion?” Rokha asked. She went on as he gaped. “That’s my ability, remember?”

  His guts couldn’t seem to figure out where they were supposed to be. “Shouldn’t you be telling Rale this? He’s the man in charge, not me.” He didn’t wait for an answer. His curiosity rushed out of him. “Can you tell who put it on him?”