She looked through the window. The shopkeeper was still in the secret room. What was he doing in there?
Another minute, and she would have to go to the inn, meet with Morn before he took up his post as assistant cook on the Tower Ship. The man would be a nervous wreck as it was; if they left without seeing him…
“Come on,” she growled, once again looking through the window. “Hurry up, will you?”
Still nothing. Were they fletching new arrows while she waited?
Maybe. Or maybe Juran had found something else he thought they might need.
That was more than likely; he did not seem happy unless he was taking charge of something. She would have to cure him of that – and soon. They could not have two leaders giving orders once they attacked the Tower Ship. And if there was only one commander, then common sense said it must be her. After all, she was the Eiras Witch, was she not? One of the Twelve.
She coughed, and felt dust on her tongue.
Yes, she was a witch, but if she had swallowed any of that shyma dust…
“Stop worrying,” she told herself, and once again looked through the window.
Mr Veeder was on his way through the shop.
“Finally.”
CHAPTER 16
The Tower Ship
The boat was little more than a river raft – flat bottom and low sides. Morn sat on the bench in the middle, along with six other folk, all of whom had been to the Tower Ship before. The bench cut the boat in half; the rowers up front, the cargo behind. It was a bad idea; the cargo was much lighter than the rowers, and the raft was thumping its bow throw even the shallowest of waves. The spray it threw up soaked the rowers. Morn’s feet and leggings were wet, but at least he managed to keep his cloak out of the spray.
The mist was worse. No one had told him how thick it would be, or that it would make his skin itch. Worse, the Voice was louder in the mist.
No, louder was not the right word, there were just more folk talking, maybe fifty of them. Not that Morn could understand anything they were saying. Mumbles and garbled shouts; that was all he could hear. The shouts were sometimes loud enough to make Morn flinch and, now and then, they were so clear, he thought someone in the boat was talking to him.
It was cold, wet, and he could barely see where they were going. Why, in all the hells, had he volunteered for this?
Too busy trying to be the hero, he told himself. Volunteer? That’ll teach you. Sit on your bloody hands next time.
“So, you’re up from Sugal, you say?” the man sitting to Morns left said – he was the ship’s cook, Lupan Rane. “Things must be hard for a westerner to come up here looking for work.”
Lupan was a tall, skinny man whose upper lip boasted the longest moustache Morn had ever seen. So long, he braided it under his chin. He was a southerner, Morn guessed. Although, Toi’ildrieg being no bigger than a mainland province, it hardly seemed worth the bother to call folk southerners or westerners. When Morn first met the man, he had expected a rough type, someone used to a fight, maybe an ex-mercenary – folk who worked for evil folk were always bad, weren’t they? But Lupan was just a cook. Morn could not help but wonder how such a man had come to the Tower Ship. But then he supposed Lupan had worked for Lady Zill before, maybe in the old house by Rieg harbour.
“There’s work down there,” Morn said, “but what with the winter coming on so quick, most masters are paying with food and lodgings. I need money in my pocket. Got a girl down in Tofai I mean to marry.”
Lupan chuckled, and Morn felt a warm flush climb his cheeks.
The story about the young romantic, looking for work to pay the bride price on his sweetheart, had been Olivia’s idea. Morn had not wanted to pretend anything, but the princess said folk warm to a good story, and if he came across a little innocent, then all the better – “Folk talk to simple folk,” Olivia had said. And was that not his job, to get folk to talk to him?
“No need to be embarrassed,” Lupan said. “That’s as fine a reason as any I’ve heard from any of this lot.” He gestured toward the other men and women in the boat. “Lady Zill pays well. A couple of months, and you’ll have your bride price – assuming her mother aint too greedy, that is. Where do you mean to live once you’ve caught your little dove?” Lupan leaned in closer. “I would aim for the mainland, were I you,” he whispered. “Yes, there might be strife all over, but you can get yourself out the way of trouble easier in Moyathair. Go down to Eurmac, that’s what I would do, start up a little farmstead south of Rhodair. No one bothers about Eurmac anymore – there nothing there. All that land, and less folk living on it than are living in Bhail.” He nodded assertively. “Yes, Rhodair; that’s where I would go – if I had a woman, I mean.”
Lupan gazed off into the distance. Seemed he was thinking about moving to Rhodair himself, woman or no woman.
“That you for the advice,” Morn said. “I will think on it.”
“You do that, lad,” Lupan said, slapping Morn on the shoulder.
Lupan pulled in a contented sigh and leaned to the side, looking past the rowers. “Well, there she is,” he said. “Zill’s tower in all its glory.”
Morn had no doubt Lupan had chosen him as cook’s assistant because he looked young – cooks wanted folk they could boss about into doing things the way they wanted them done. At the time, Morn had been pleased – working in a kitchen was likely safer than staying with Juran, where he would likely end up sneaking around in the dark and fighting his way onto the Tower Ship – but the moment he saw that tower, he wished he had looked old before his time.
It was black, round, and there were no windows. But that was not what had every hair on the back of Morn’s neck standing on end. They were still a fair way off, but even from that distance, he would see the clouds above the tower swirling like water around a drain.
No, more than a drain. It looked like a small tornado was blowing directly above the spike on top of the tower. It was as if the tower was sucking the clouds down, pulling them in. And never mind the Voice was getting louder with every row of the oars.
“Quite the sight, isn’t she,” Lopan said. “First time I saw it, I near wet my breeches. You wait until we get closer; you can feel the Power. Standing next to that tower is like standing out in a thunder storm. Plays hell with my teeth. Not that we should be standing near it, of course – strictly out of bounds for us common folk. You’d do well to remember that, Morn. You stay away, you hear?”
Morn nodded without looking away from the tower. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I mean to keep a good ways off that thing.”
That was a lie; he was there to spy for Juran and the princess – if they wanted him to take a look inside that tower, he would. And, of course, they would want him to. After all, a report on the state of the kitchens would not be of much use to the rebels.
Thinking about the kitchens, he asked, “Where do we work?”
“Under the sterncastle,” Lupan said. “A good fifty paces from the tower.”
Morn felt his eyebrows rise. “Fifty paces? Just how big is that ship?”
Lupan shrugged. He pursed his lips, then said, “Two hundred paces, end to end. Maybe eighty wide. It’s not really a ship, you understand. Yes, it floats, but it more a small island than a ship. For one thing, it aint got no sails. When Zill wants it moved, she calls on her two galleons to drag her off. But she aint moved in a while.” He pointed up at the swirling clouds. “I’d guess Her Ladyship found what she was looking for.”
“I guess she did,” Morn said.
Absently, he wished Olivia had come to the inn to talk with Lupan. The man was giving him so much information, there hardly seemed a need to risk putting a spy on the ship.
But he doesn’t know what’s inside that tower, he told himself. And I’d bet that’s not the only secret. Why is it so big?.
A chill rolled down his spine. He would have to go in search of those secrets, he remembered.
Gods give me strength.
“Are you well, lad?” Lupan asked. “You’ve gone pale all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine. Just a little seasick. It’s all that looking up at the clouds. I should fix my eyes on the waves.”
He did so, and they continued in silence.
When they unloaded the raft, Lupan showed Morn to the kitchens. They were nothing like he had expected.
For one thing, the floor was made of stone, and there was a stone hearth along one wall.
“Don’t you worry about fire?” Morn asked Lupan.
The cook was busying himself with a big pot and a side of beef, prodding herbs into the meat. “Better stone than wood,” he said.
That was true, Morn supposed, but how did they get all that stone aboard without the ship sinking?
Then he remembered how big the ship was – a relatively small amount of stone would make little difference to the vessel’s weight, and that tower must weight ten times what all that stone did.
The rest of the kitchen reminded Morn of the manor house where his parents worked when he was a child. There was a long table down the middle, various hooks over the two fires, pots hanging from the rafters, and guards hanging about, likely hoping for a heel of fresh bread or a cake to keep them going until supper time.
The air was full of chattering voices. Juran had been right, a kitchen was the best place to pick up all the gossip.
Morn looked around, wondering what he should do.
“Do you want any help with that?” he asked Lupan.
“No, I’ll start you on the pantries tomorrow; keeping them clean and stocked will be your job. Meanwhile, you should look around, get your bearings, but stay away from any door with a black circle on it. You can start by taking Captain Karloth’s supper over to the Master’s cabin.” He nodded at a covered tray. “It’s right down the other end of the ship. If he asks, tell him we left the skin on.”
Suddenly, Morn’s throat felt dry. Deliver Karloth’s supper? What if the bodyguard recognised him from Rieg? And he could do, quite easily – Morn had seen the man at least a dozen times.
“Do you think I should start with such an important job?” he asked Lupan. “What if I do something wrong?”
Lupan laughed. “You’re only carrying a tray, lad. Now, hurry along before it gets cold.”
Hands shaking slightly, Morn picked up the tray and headed for the door, then walk up the narrow steps until he reached the covered corridor Lupan had told him about when they were carrying supplies to the kitchen. The corridor ran along the port side, all the way from bow to stern.
Morn kept his head down as he walked. All those people; he had not expected to see so many. Someone would recognise him. They would shout, “Hail, Morn, what brings you this far north,” and his story would be exposed for the lie it was.
All along that long corridor, he expected to hear that shout. But it did not come.
At the end, he turned right and climbed a short flight of stairs, then asked a female guard for directions to the Master’s cabin.”
“New, are you?” she said, smiling.
“Today,” Morn said. “Well, less than an hour ago, actually.”
The woman frowned, likely at the look on his face. “Don’t worry, it’s not that bad.” She nodded to her right at a wide door. “And you have already found the Master’s cabin.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” the guard said.
“I’m Eryk,” Morn lied.
Again, she smiled. “And I’m Livvy.”
“Nice to meet you, Livvy.”
“Likewise,” she said, then nodded down at the tray he was holding. “Don’t you think you should…?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise to me,” she said, a laugh in her voice. “I’m not the one eating cold food.”
She shot him another grin, then squeezed past and made her way down the narrow stairs.
Morn watched her go. She was very attractive, and nice. He had not expected that. Weren’t bad people supposed to be ugly and nasty?
She’s a hired hand, he told himself. She likely knows no more of what’s really going on than you do. And gods, she is attractive. Just look at her…
Abruptly, he realised he still had not knocked on the door.
He knocked, and waited for the order to enter.
The Master’s cabin was bigger than the house Morn grew up in, and likely had more furniture. Most of it was nailed to the floor, but there were two comfortable chairs either side of a low table. Karloth gestured for him to put the tray on the table.
Morn’s knees were shaking, he realised. He barely managed to put the tray down without the plate and goblet rattling.
“Will there be anything else, sir,” he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
“Did you include the skin this time,” Karloth asked.
“Yes, sir,” Morn said, remembering what Lupan had told him. “Cook left the skin on, sir.”
Karloth had been reading something. He looked different in his smart clothes. The last time Morn had seen him, indeed, every other time Morn had seen him, the big man had been wearing hunter’s garb, his dagger belts – which were now hanging on the back of his chair – buckled across his chest. Now, he wore a bright red tunic and white breeches. His boots were polished, and the tunic had gold buttons. He looked more nobleman than hunter. But for all that, Morn thought Karloth actually looked more frightening – he had been a nasty man; now, he was a nasty man with some real power.
“And the wine?” Karloth said. “Is it chilled.”
“Err, I think so, sir. If that’s what you asked for, I’m sure cook chilled it.”
Karloth frowned. He picked up the goblet and took a sip. “Barely chilled,” he said, “but I suppose it will do.”
“Yes, sir,” Morn said. “I’ll tell cook to make sure—”
“Do I know you?” Karloth suddenly said. He was staring at Morn, squinting, his head tilted to one side. “You look familiar. Are you from Rieg.”
Morn felt a flush warm his cheeks. Heart thumping in his chest, he said, “I-I’ve been to market a few times, sir. We lived south a Tofai over most of the summer. My da rented a small holding. I would help him take the produce to market, and when the crops were in, I took—”
“Yes, yes, that will do,” Karloth said. “I did not ask for your life story. You may go.”
Morn bowed, then left.
Once out in the hall, he stood a moment and waited for his shaking to pass. He took deep breathes through his nose and told himself he did not want the privy. It took a long time, but, eventually, he settled enough to make the walk back to the kitchen.
You are going to have to do better than that, he told himself. Look at you; all you did was deliver a tray of food and you are a mess. Control yourself.
He wondered what Juran and Olivia would think if they saw him now. Sighing, he cursed his ill fortune – why did he have to look so young?
* * *
Lady Crasindra Zill was in her sitting room, looking at her reflection in the small mirror, above the iron stove which gave the only heat in the cold cabin, when she heard a knock at the door. She was examining the sores on her neck. They were still small, but if she kept using the Voice this close to the Way nexus, those small sores would soon break the skin. She would look the same as the four dozen wet witches now working in the tower, all red-faced and pock-marked. She could not let that happen. She could not let the others see that she, too, was weak in the presence of all that Power.
“Who comes to bother me now?” she shouted, although she had a fair idea who was at the door. “I said, I do not want to be disturbed.”
“Karloth, ma’am. You asked me to—”
“Yes, all right. Come in, Karloth,” Crasindra said, quickly dabbing pink powder on her neck with a soft brush.
Karloth came in, then crossed the sitting room and stood by the porthole, where a small desk rested against the slightly curved wall. He bent,
and placed the small box he had been carrying on the desk.
He was tall for a Kel’mau, standing a full head above most of her guards. He was tall and dark and looked more assassin than guard with his two dagger belts crossed over his chest. He was remarkably good with those daggers. Yes, he sometimes carried a sword, but it seemed he preferred to do his killing at a distance, favouring the throwing knives or the bow he would carry out in the field. As her commander and bodyguard, he need not engage in the fighting, and she had tried telling him to leave all that to his men – she would have had as much luck telling a wolf to stop hunting a rabbit.
“Back from your trip so soon?” Crasindra said. “And did you learn anything? Was it one of the rebels?”
“No, not a rebel; just a fur trader, ma’am,” Karloth said, disappointment evident in his tone. “He used the gateway to carry his furs down to Tofai. We caught him on the road to Sugal. He was loading a cart with—”
“A moment,” Crasindra said, “if you would?”
She had missed a spot on her neck, just below the line of her chin – a red triangle of angry skin. She dabbed the mark with the pink powder and sighed heavily. “How much longer am I to suffer this place?”
That was a stupid question, she thought. It had been her choice to stay aboard the ship. She could have left while the wet witches attempted to break through the barrier, but she dared not be away from the tower when they finally made a gateway to the other side – it had to be her who entered the temple. If another so much as put a toe through the gate before she did, all her hard work would have been for nothing.
“Carry on,” she said.
“We caught him filling his cart with seal meat and otter furs. Barely a half-cart load. A waste of my time.”
Crasindra smoothed the pink powder she had just added on to her neck. “A trader?” she said. “And how did he know about the gateway?”
Karloth shrugged. “Old family secret, so he said, after I… persuaded him to talk.”
“And you are sure he was alone?”
Karloth nodded. “Too many folk know of the shortcut,” he said. “They were using that particular gateway long before we came, and they’ll likely use it well after we are gone. I left a guard at our end. For now, at least, we have control. But we will have to spread ourselves thin, should you want to cover all the gates – this part of the island is full of them.” He gestured toward the porthole “Which, I guess, you already know. It is why we are here, after all.”
The Ship of Tears_The Legend of the Nine_Part One Page 18