Farlander hotw-1

by Col Buchanan

  Berl, standing by the table in attendance, dutifully stepped forward. He added more wine to Nico's glass, though it hardly needed topping up.

  Nico studied the glass before him.

  'I see you haven't acquired a true thirst for it yet,' Trench observed over the rim of his own goblet. 'You will, believe me. In lives such as ours it happens all too easily. Look at your master, there. When last he was aboard this ship, I had to keep all the stores under lock and key, his thirst was so limitless.'

  'Nonsense,' said Ash, and downed the rest of his wine before holding out the empty glass for a refill.

  Nico sat back in his chair, hoping to let their conversation drift by him. He picked up the glass, if only to have something to do with his hands. Everywhere around him, wood creaked to its own disjointed rhythms. It reminded him of the forested foothills back home, of standing alone deep amongst the pines as they swayed and groaned in the midday breeze. He tried another sip of the wine. Its aftertaste was a sweet one, not like the cheap, bitter stuff his mother sometimes drank. He could take to this, he thought, if ever he had the money to afford it.

  An image of his father came to mind. His father raging drunk, breath hissing through his nostrils, tongue trying to push its way out through the obstruction of his lower lip. Nico found himself setting down the glass once more.

  Trench leaned back in his chair, tilting it on to its two rear legs. His sigh only deepened the impression of weariness that hung about him.

  'I have taken you from your land-leave,' Ash said by way of an apology.

  'And the rest of the crew, too,' Trench muttered, then straightened his chair again, smiling with thin lips as his hooded eye surveyed the table without focus. 'They are somewhat displeased with their captain just now, and I can hardly blame them. We only just made it back from our last run. You saw the poor condition we were in, and that was after a full week of repairs. Now, they have to run the blockade again, with hardly more than a week on land for respite. It's hard on them – hard on us all.' And he dabbed his face again with his handkerchief.

  Ash wiped his lips of wine. 'It is a short journey this time, at least.'

  'Yes,' admitted the captain. 'Though with little profit in it, save for some cloth we might shift in return for grain, which will keep my investors happy at least. And of course in wiping my debt to you. I take it we are even?'

  'You owed me nothing to begin with.'

  'You hear that?' snapped Trench suddenly to the kerido, who aborted its reaching towards the scraps on his plate with a scaly claw, and instead looked up. 'He mocks his hold over me, even now.' Absently, the captain picked up a half-eaten sweetroot, and the creature opened its beak as he offered the morsel towards it.

  'Just promise me one thing,' Trench said to Ash, and then he paused as Nico shifted back from the table in alarm. Trench looked down at the creature perched between them. From its open beak it was brandishing its tongue at him, a long and stiff and hollow thing like a child's rattle, making a noise clearly intended to sound threatening. Trench tossed the morsel into the creature's mouth to shut it up, then continued.

  'When next some old saltdog comes at my back in a taverna,' he said to Ash, 'do me the kindness of letting him have me. Friendship is one thing, but I'd rather a pierced liver than ever be in your debt again.'

  Ash inclined his head in consent.

  Nico watched the creature as it ate, both its claws holding the root as it tore off strips with quick jerks of its beak. He found himself holding his cutlery before him as though in defence.

  A brilliant glow had permeated the cabin. The sun was now setting, throwing the last of its light through the stained-glass windows at the back of the room, printing diamonds of colour against the beams of wood not far above their heads, against the plank walls, the long desk with charts splayed out across its surface and kept flat with rounded stones. Nico peered over at the charts. He was close enough to discern a few oblique details: landmasses lost in symbols, notations, curving sweeps of arrows. Maps of the air, they seemed, as much as of the land surface.

  That thought caused his eye to range beyond the desk. Through the lower portion of the rear windows was visible a sea made to look flat and featureless by height.

  'If you don't mind me asking,' he ventured, dragging his gaze from the watery abyss, 'how long will the crossing take us?'

  For a moment a shadow passed over the captain's features. Captain Trench sat forward and, with his goblet, gestured to Nico. Wine slopped out of the glass, and Berl frowned as red stains blotted the clean linen. 'It depends,' he said, in a voice more sober than before. 'Some time tonight we approach the imperial sea blockade. Maybe the wind will hold true. Maybe they don't have anything in the air here.'

  'In the air?' Nico blurted. 'You mean, Mannian skyships?'

  'There is always the chance, this far out.'

  Again Nico glanced at Ash, but the old man was feigning interest in the bottom of his glass.

  Trench registered his discomfort. 'It's unlikely, mind,' he said. 'Mostly their birds-o'-war are over in the east, preying on the Zanzahar run. That's where the main action is to be found, not here. Believe me, I know. Zanzahar's all we have left for foreign trade, so most long-traders are committed to it, the Falcon included. When the sea-fleets can't get through, or they take heavy losses, the longtraders pick up the slack. We've been flying the Zanzahar run close to four years now.' He paused to upend his goblet, draining it of the last drop. 'You have heard the stories, I'm sure.'

  Indeed, Nico had heard the stories. How the Mannian skyships waited in packs like wolves along the route, ready to pounce on any longtraders that passed by. How every year the number of longtraders grew smaller and smaller. Trench hardly needed to explain as much, for it could be heard in the grim tone of his voice, a tone that had even caused the kerido to stop momentarily in its nibbling, to stare up at him.

  Nico stared too. Trench no longer seemed to be present there in his chair; he was lost instead in the spots of wine on the tablecloth. For a moment, as the sun cast its final rays about him, Trench looked up, startled, as though returning from a great distance, and slowly inclined his head towards the dying light. In silhouette his nose was prominently hooked, a hint of some old Alhazii ancestry in his blood perhaps – though here, in this cabin, he was merely a ghost of the Alhazii desert, more a sick-looking Khosian, holding together his command with a sometimes trembling left hand and a slightly sturdier right, which seemed always to clutch a white, sweat-stained handkerchief of lace-bordered cotton within its fist.

  Nico stabbed a potato from his plate and stuffed it into his mouth. It was cold, and his stomach was feeling queasy again, but he ate anyway. He did not like this talk. At least in Bar-Khos, the city walls still stood as a symbol of protection and life carried on. Here there was nothing but sky and, by the sounds of it, an absolute reliance on wind and good luck. It did not sound promising at all.

  And, after this, what? Cheem, that notorious island of reavers and Beggar Kings where, according to Ash, they would travel into the mountainous interior to find the hidden Rshun order, and where he would train to become an assassin. The more he thought of all that was to come, the more uneasy Nico became. It had all seemed easier when he had lived in Bar-Khos, simply struggling each day to survive. At least he'd had Boon by his side.

  A shout, coming from outside.

  Trench and Dalas looked to one another. The shout came again. The kerido clutched the remains of the sweetroot in its beak and clambered on to the captain's shoulder. Dalas rose and, even with his back bent, the Corician's scalp brushed against the roof beams. He stomped out.

  'A little earlier than I was expecting,' Trench murmured, dabbing his lips one last time. His chair scraped back as he pushed himself to his feet. 'Excuse me, please.'

  He took his goblet with him, Berl and the wine bottle trailing behind.

  In the sudden silence, Nico and Ash were alone.

  'A ship,' Ash explained at his side.
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  'Mannians?' Nico asked. His voice was subdued.

  'Let us go and see.'

  *

  In the cool twilight, Nico could not make out anything at first. He stood close to Ash and peered in the direction that everyone else, including the kerido, was looking. He could see nothing but dull water beneath a faltering sky.

  Then he spotted it. To the east on the surface of the sea – a white sail.

  'Can we make their colours?' the captain asked Dalas. The Corician's waist-length dreadlocks writhed as he shook his head in the negative.

  'We're too far out for it to be anything but an imperial – if not a merchanter, then a picket.' Trench seemed to be talking to himself at first, but, as he scratched his pale face, he glanced up at Dalas. The big man folded his tattooed arms and shrugged.

  They had gathered on the quarterdeck, next to the wheel, the highest level on of the ship. Nico shivered, his eyes watering from the constant scrub of the wind. Captain Trench took a sup from his goblet, smacked his lips. With his other hand, still holding the handkerchief, he caressed the smooth wood of the rail as though he was cleaning it of dust. He had built this vessel, Ash had said earlier, from a wreck that had been sold to him as salvage. It had taken his entire family fortune, and more, to convert it.

  Trench paced four steps towards the stern rail, four steps back, scuffing the deck with his boots as he stopped.

  'The colours,' he bellowed across to the lookout by the foredeck rail, one hand cupping his mouth. 'Can you see the colours yet?'

  'Still too far, Captain,' the lookout shouted back.

  Trench tugged at his chin. He stared up at the envelope over their heads, the dying light painting it with intense luminosity. At this time of day, to a sharp set of eyes looking in their direction, it would stand out clearly for laqs.

  'Have they seen us, that's the question we should be asking,' Trench muttered as he watched the far sail.

  For an instant, on the distant ship, it seemed as though the sun was rising again. A blinding yellow brilliance rose into the sky, to hang there for some moments in the gathering darkness. Beneath it the sea reflected the Sun's light as a trembling, fiery disk. From the Mannian ship, a stark shadow fell long across the water.

  Trench tossed the last of his wine into his mouth and flipped the empty goblet towards Berl. 'Well, that settles it,' he declared.

  The flare descended slowly, the sea dimming in a shrinking circle as it fell. It landed in the water, burning up even as it sank: a strange, ghostly descent into the depths. Nico rubbed his eyes to clear away the after-images, then he opened them in time to see another flare climbing skywards on the eastern horizon. Meaning another ship was out there, still too distant to see.

  'A formation must be nearby,' said Trench. 'If they have any birds in the area, we'll have the righteous bastards down on us before dawn.'

  Nico shifted uneasily.

  'Be calm,' Ash cautioned him, at his side. The old Rshun stood motionless, hands buried in his sleeves, observing the fading flare.

  'Orders, Captain?' asked the man at the wheel, an old ragged-ear sailor.

  'Fire the tubes, Stones, and turn us west. Set us back on course when it's gone full dark.'

  'Aye, Captain.'

  Trench tilted his head back to take in the few evening stars appearing 'Dalas, make sure the blackout is well enforced tonight, with inspections every quarter-watch. Anyone found breaking it is to be thrown into the bilge.'

  Trench turned his back to the sky, his teeth shining in the dimness.

  'Thirsty work,' he said to Ash. 'Care to finish that bottle?'

  *

  Nico wasn't inclined to return to the cold remnants of his dinner. He returned instead to his cabin, alone and fretful. For a long time he tried to sleep. The bunk seemed harder tonight. Through the decking immediately overhead, voices murmured: Trench and Ash talking, still drinking. Try as he might, he could not calm his mind. He kept thinking of the future – tomorrow and the day after that, the weeks, the months, the years ahead. Sleep was to be a sanctuary denied him.

  After some hours Ash stumbled into the blackness of the room, reeking of wine. He grunted as he collapsed over his bunk. Nico watched his vague outline as he rolled on to his back.

  Through the gloom he saw the old man grip a hand to his forehead. Ash was breathing deeply, as though that helped in some way. He fumbled in the inside pockets of his robe. At last he located the pouch that he always seemed to carry with him, and lifted one of the dulce leaves it contained to his mouth.

  The old man chewed, breathing noisily through his nostrils.

  'Master Ash,' Nico whispered towards his dark form.

  For a moment he thought the farlander had not heard him. But then Ash made a clicking noise with his tongue, and said, 'What?'

  A dozen questions formed in Nico's mind. They had talked only briefly about the Rshun order, of what he would be doing there, of the seals and how they worked. There was so much more that he desired to know.

  Instead, he simply said, 'I just wondered if you were all right, that's all.'

  There was no reply.

  'It's just, I've noticed you using those dulce leaves a lot.'

  When it came, the Rshun's voice was stiff and restrained. 'Headaches, that is all.'

  Nico nodded, as though the gesture could be seen in the dark. 'One of my grandfathers was the same,' he said. 'Not that he really was my grandfather. I just called him that. He died defending the Shield. I remember he took the leaves, too. When I asked him about it, he said it was because of his eyes. Because they were starting to fail him, and all the squinting made his head hurt.'

  The bunk creaked, indicating that the old man had turned his back to him.

  'My eyes work fine,' he muttered. 'Go to sleep now, boy.'

  Nico sighed, rolled on to his back to stare up into blackness. He knew that sleep was still far away.

  Somewhere over his head, in the captain's cabin, a pair of boots paced back and forth throughout the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Birds of War By sunrise there were no more signs of sails. They had passed the imperial naval formations some time in the night, while Nico had tossed and turned in his hammock, or slept in brief intervals that were filled with unpleasant dreams. Ash had already risen when Nico finally awoke to an empty cabin, the early light fattening the open window as the horizon dipped within its frame. The ship was climbing.

  He listened to the men's talk in the busy gloom of the common room, as he held himself steady and bleary-eyed against the galley's serving counter and piled buttered keesh and seedcakes on to a platter. The crew were in better spirits at having crossed the Mannian blockade in the night, and at least were no longer scowling at him. Still, there was a sense that it was not over yet.

  Nico ate his fill, his body still craving the nutrition it had been starved of for over a year. As he took his time over a tarred-leather cup of chee, he thought of beggar's broth, and wondered what Lena and the others he knew were doing back in the city. He even thought about his mother. Slowly, he began to properly waken.

  He had barely finished his chee when he was startled by the most unexpected of sounds – a hunting horn calling out from the upper deck. The men froze and silence flooded the room.

  The horn sounded again, with three high notes. Footfalls hammered across the planking overhead.

  Instantly the men erupted into action with quick oaths and a general jostling towards the deck stairs or the cannon positioned along both sides of the wide room.

  Sunlight flooded the low-ceilinged space as gun ports were opened up. Nico rose with panic in his chest. Amid the chaos, men outside shouted and heaved on ropes to pull the ends of the small guns out through the openings; a man shoved past him, not pausing to offer his pardon; others scurried for cartridges of blackpowder and cannon shot, or laboured with buckets of old nails, pebbles, coiled chains, forever cursing at people to get out of their way. A breeze played through the gun
ports, dispersing the normally smoky atmosphere of the room, and carrying with it the sounds of snapping canvas and of the hull tubes burning fuel. Curiosity drew him towards one of the openings. With the ship still climbing, he shuffled across to the daylight, stopping himself with a palm laid against an overhead beam.

  One of the sailors manning the gun poked his head out through the port. Nico leaned sideways until he could see past both man and gun.

  A white speck, heading straight towards them.

  'Bird-o'-war,' the sailor announced as he brought his head back inside and wiped his grim face.

  Nico was possessed with a sudden urge to find Ash and to be at his side. He turned and hurried towards the steps. Berl was in front of him, loaded down with an armful of weapons.

  'Take one,' the boy said, as they both climbed the steps.

  Nico grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a stubby blade encased in a sheath six inches wide.

  The weather deck was in bedlam. Sailors already armed with swords or axes were helping each other into tunics of leather armour. A group on the quarterdeck had set up three long-rifles on tripods by the starboard rail, next to the small swivel-mounted cannon. Others held bows, kneeling as they strung them. He could not see Ash anywhere.

  Nico looked down to examine the weapon in his hand. Its handle was of simple wood, sanded smooth by use. He pulled it out of its sheath to reveal an ordinary meat cleaver. It felt ugly in his hand, weighted for a single brutal motion, and for a moment, when he thought of using this against another human being, he shuddered.

  He kept it with him anyway as he made his way across to the other side of the deck, scurrying the last few feet as the ship leaned on its axis and tilted sideways. The starboard rail stopped him sliding further. A hard wind gathered his hair about his eyes.

  To his right, up on the quarterdeck, Captain Trench peered through an eyeglass as he chatted to Dalas. His weariness seemed all but gone now, if not in the pallor of his skin or the soreness of his eyes, then at least in the way that he stood at ease, and how he spoke with decisiveness. The sun was rising behind the bird-of-war.