by Clare Smith
What he couldn’t see were that the strongest of the men were hidden from view, crouched down by the ship’s side. As the Island Dream approached, he could see Dasson studying what remained of the Bird with his First Mate by his side, pointing at the sagging sail and scorched timbers. His bold plan would only work if Dasson’s crew remained unarmed, so he anxiously waited for the moment when the Captain would order weapons to be broken out, at which time his plan would come to naught.
Bassalin was certain that is what Dasson would do, because it is what he would have done if their positions had been reversed. Instead Dasson let the ships draw closer together, and when the mate asked him a question, he just shook his head. It was the moment Bassalin had been waiting for, and when the two hulls touched he gave the command, and Stesson’s roughly forged grappling hooks snaked out fastening the two ships together. Within seconds he was over the side with his men following behind holding cutlasses and knives in their hands.
He could see the look of horror on Dasson’s face as he realised his mistake and went to call his men to arms, but it was too late. By then the Island Dream’s crew were already being herded into the stern and the few who had been aloft, tending to the sails, surrendered. That just left the Captain and the First Mate who were both armed and could have put up a fight, except that half a dozen Assimusian bow men had their arrows pointing at them.
Trying not to look too pleased at the bloodless taking of Dasson’s ship, he sheathed his sword and walked down the Island Dream’s deck with Collia close behind him, and was immediately joined by Cobbam and Stesson. He would have preferred to take Dasson’s surrender in private so they could come to some sort of accommodation, but he supposed that his three shadows had a vested interest in the outcome. Instead he stopped in front of the ship’s Captain and gave him a brief bow, but didn’t have a chance to say anything which would put the man at ease.
“What in Jurro’s name do you think you’re doing, Bassalin? This is my ship.”
“It’s my ship now, and I regret that I must ask you to surrender your sword.”
“You can’t take my ship! I only came here to offer you aid as any decent mariner would do, so what you are doing is dishonest and below the honour of a captain.”
“I’m afraid it is, but I must still ask you to surrender your sword.”
“Then you’re a damned pirate, Bassalin.”
Dasson took a step back and went to draw his sword, but Cobbam was already by his side and eased it from his hand. He glared at the First Mate who slowly drew his sword from its scabbard and handed it over without saying a word.
“Now, Captain Dasson, if you would be so good as to lead the way to your cabin, we can discuss what is best for our ships and our crews like civilised men.”
Dasson grunted in disgust but there wasn’t much he could do about the situation with Cobbam’s knife digging him in the ribs, so he led the way along the deck, down the steps and through the crew’s quarters to the stern. Bassalin followed him into the Captain’s cabin which was smaller and less well appointed than his cabin on the Golden Bird had been, and took the chair behind the desk. Dasson sat in the chair opposite whilst the rest stood with their backs to the bulkhead making the cabin look small and overcrowded.
The cabin may have been small and crowded, but sitting in the Captain’s chair again made Bassalin feel good and for a moment he thought about abandoning his plan and becoming the pirate Dasson had accused him of being. It was a good thought, but he could never become that man again.
“Captain Dasson, before we discuss the detail I need to assure you that I mean you and your crew no harm, and it is my intention to set you all free as soon as arrangements can be agreed.”
Dasson gave a grunt of derision which Bassalin ignored. “I regret though that I must ask you to change your captaincy of the Island Dream for the Golden Bird, which you will sail to Pelwin with me as your prisoner and whatever crew volunteer to sail in her.”
On the far side of the cabin the others stirred restlessly and stared at him with a mixture of confusion and anger. Shortly after the storm had almost sunk them, he’d told them what he was planning, but his intentions then were nothing like he was revealing now.
“Cobbam, you will captain the Island Dream and will sail her far to the west where there is land beyond the Sea of Stars, and you will take with you all those who do not wish to return to their homelands to watch Kallisan or the Assimusian people die. Apart from you, Captain Dasson, and myself, everyone will be free to choose their own path, and will go with Jurro’s blessing.”
There was a stunned silence whilst everyone thought through the implications, and then Dasson shook his head. “What about the message I am carrying, who’s going to deliver that?”
Bassalin frowned, not certain what the man was talking about. “What message?”
“The one from Elder Collquin to the King of Passonia. The Elder said it was vitally important that it reached Passon and I was to deliver it into the King’s hands in person.”
Bassalin wondered what message could be so important that an entire ship was commissioned just to carry it. “Where is this message?” Dasson looked stubborn and folded his arms. “Come on man, I don’t have all day to play your games. You either tell me or Cobbam will force it from you with his blade.”
Dasson thought about it but decided he had no option but to cooperate. He pulled a small metal tube from his belt pouch and handed it over. Bassalin turned it around in his hands until he found Collquin’s seal which he broke, emptied out the contents and unrolled the scroll. He read it through once with a deepening scowl on his face and then through once more before letting it roll up.
“The bastard’s betrayed us. He’s going to sell us all into slavery to save his own miserable life.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Collia, stepping forward. “Collquin is a good man and he wouldn’t do anything to harm his people.”
“Oh yes he would if that meant he could retain his position of power; it’s all he’s ever been concerned about.”
“No, you’ve got it wrong, it’s just that you don’t know him and the responsibilities he carries.”
“Yes I do. I know the bastard better than anyone, you included.” Bassalin looked at her surprised face and just shrugged. “That doesn’t matter now anyway.” He unrolled the parchment, tore it in half and in half again ignoring Dasson’s protests. “Collquin was going to indenture our people to the Passonians for the next four generations, but I think it is better that we all die with our land than live as slaves.”
“This is all my fault,” said Collia, close to tears. “If only I’d done what he’d sent me to do.”
Bassalin gave a bitter laugh. “It’s no more your fault than it is mine. He sent me to steal ten barrels of Devil Fire from beneath the noses of the Passonians to hold back the ice, but I failed him too.”
Collia looked up from where she’d been staring forlornly at the floor. She knew that Bassalin had been sent to steal the Devil Fire, but not why. If Collquin thought that the Devil Fire could hold back the ice, then perhaps there was still some hope of saving Kallisan, but for that she needed Bassalin’s help.
“The Passonians took the ten barrels of Devil Fire to Assimus in order to burn down the Enclave, but they haven’t done it yet.”
Bassalin stared at her in shock; he’d automatically thought that they would use the volatile liquid the moment it landed on Assimus’s shores rather than storing it. “When are they going to use it?” he asked urgently.
“I don’t know exactly, they were still moving people into the Enclave when I left but it will be soon though, perhaps within a week or so.”
“If we were to fetch it away it could save your land and mine,” said Stesson, stepping forward to Collia’s side.
Bassalin hesitated; it was an absurd idea, but the Passonians wouldn’t be expecting him so it could just work. “What do you think, Cobbam?”
The First Mate shrugg
ed. “I’ve never wanted to captain any other ship but the Golden Bird, so if Captain Dasson will take her home, along with the women and children and those who don’t want to fight, I’ll pick her up from Pelwin when we’ve done.”
“Well, Captain Dasson, it looks like we have a change in plan if you don’t mind me borrowing your ship in order to save Kallisan from the ice?”
Dasson nodded his agreement. After all what else could a patriot do?
*
Cavanagh climbed down from the coach, gave the coachman a message to deliver and hurried inside as if the devil was after him. He didn’t even bother to wave at the small crowd of onlookers who often gathered outside the palace gates hoping to see someone famous or important. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor so no one would stop him, he walked as quickly as he could down the long corridor which joined his own apartments to the royal household.
When he reached the door he opened it with a shaking hand and slammed it shut behind him. For a moment he stood with his back to the door, as if he were defending it from intruders, but then couldn’t wait any longer and practically ran to the dresser and poured himself a large goblet of grape spirit and drank it back in one go. He rarely drank the fiery liquid and only kept it for the rare occasions where he’d over indulged and needed something to settle his stomach, but today was an exception.
Now he needed it to stop his hands shaking and to calm the knot of fear which was making it hard to breath. He gave it a minute or two to work and then staggered across the room with the jug and the goblet still in his hands. With a shudder he collapsed into the soft chair by the hearth, still dressed in his long cloak and poured himself another drink.
Without a doubt it had been the most terrifying day of his life, but he just couldn’t understand how he, the most powerful man in Assimus, next to the King, could have let it happen. He’d always been able to walk around the streets of Phillos before in perfect safety, and had never even considered that stepping out of his front door without an armed escort was dangerous. After all, who would dare harm the chief councillor and the man who had the King’s ear?
The money lenders, that’s who, or to be more precise Billicks the Quirk. Billicks was a half-breed nomad from Ramillion who had decided he’d had enough of wandering the desert and had set up business in Phillos. From the outside he looked like any other market trader, but beneath the façade he was a money lender and a vicious one at that.
Of course as Chief Councillor it would be a simple matter to send in the Superiors and their guards, close his business down and haul him off to the Dragon Tower for disposal. It should have been simple except for one thing; he owed the man money, and if the interrogators worked on Billicks he would tell them about his outstanding debt. From there more questions would be asked and eventually someone would discover his secret, and he would end up in the Dragon Tower sharing a cell with the man.
For all that, there had been no need for Billicks to send his enforcers to grab him off the street. Nor was there a need to cover his head with a filthy sack and carry him away to a part of Phillos he’d never been before and would never want to go again. The windowless room, where he’d been dumped in a hard chair and released from the suffocating hood, had to be in a cellar or even further below ground, as it was cold, smelled of mould and he could hear rats scurrying around.
When the Quirk had appeared he’d tried to protest at his treatment, but when one of his bully-boys had pulled a knife and held it to his throat, he’d decided to keep quiet and listen instead. Billicks message had been simple; he was to pay what he owed by the end of the week or he was a dead man. It was impossible as he didn’t have that sort of coin, and he dare not cipher any more out of the King’s treasury than he already had done to pay the interest on the loan, otherwise he was bound to be caught.
The Quirk hadn’t been the least bit sympathetic and had gone on to describe in gory detail what his men would do to him if the money wasn’t forthcoming. In desperation he’d done the only thing he could, and offered Billicks the deeds to the most valuable piece of land there was in Phillos, next to the palace, in exchange for the cancellation of his debt and his life. It had taken him by surprise that the man had agreed so readily, but there had been a condition; the land had to be made vacant by the end of the week.
At least that earned him his freedom and a ride home in a hired coach, so that he could arrive back at the palace with his dignity intact. Still shaking he poured himself another goblet of grape spirit and wondered how he’d ever managed to get himself into this sort of mess. The answer, of course, was simple. It was called bribery and corruption, a crime which happened frequently in government circles and, if discovered, could result in his status being reduced to that of an Assimusian.
His particular version of that crime hadn’t been that serious. He’d only accepted a bribe to prefer one supplier over another, but then the disappointed party had found out, so he’d no option but to have him removed. For a while he thought the matter was settled, but then the blackmail notes started arriving. It had taken months to track the offending Superior down and arrange for his accident, but by then he was deeply in debt to Billicks.
He’d tried to have the Quirk removed as well, but the man he’d hired had bungled the job, which was why Billicks was demanding repayment of the loan instead of milking him for every copper coin he could get. It was a mess, there was no doubt about that, but thank all the gods for Mirralett’s Masterpiece. However painful it had been promising him the deeds to the land on which the Enclave now stood, it would at least get Billicks off his back.
After that he could concentrate his efforts on rebuilding the fortune that the blackmailer and the moneylender had taken from him. All he had to do was ensure that the Enclave burnt to the ground on schedule and his nightmare would be over. To that end he’d already summoned the Pyromaster, so he could impress on the man the importance of keeping to the time table they had agreed.
It was a precaution only, as the Pyromaster seemed eager enough to show off what he could do with his barrels of Devil Fire, but foreigners were always unpredictable, and this one was particularly odd. Only that morning he’d complained about the boy who had disappeared and seemed quite upset about the matter. He’d given Kallawassian a guard to assist him in the boy’s place, but he hadn’t looked too pleased.
Perhaps the Pyromaster had a preference for little boys and instead of a guard he should have found him a replacement catamite. That wouldn’t be too difficult as there were lots of boys in the Enclave who would let the Pyromaster do whatever he wanted to them for a token. He’d have to find one with poor eyesight or put a sack over his head though, because one look at the man’s hideous face and they would wet themselves with fright.
The image of a naked boy bent over a table with his head in a sack was so absurd that it made him giggle, which was a shocking sound coming from someone with his dignity. He stared at the empty goblet in his hand and the equally empty jug of grain spirit, and came to the conclusion that he’d had enough for one day. After all it wouldn’t do to take one look at the Pyromaster, imagine him with his manhood in his pitted hand and burst out laughing.
Swaying slightly he stood, intending to return the two vessels to the dresser, but a knock on the door and the uninvited entrance of Mirralet made him drop them into the chair and cover them with his cloak. The last thing he needed was for the self-righteous lord to see him inebriated at this time of the day. He stepped around the chair so the offending objects couldn’t be seen and gave the man a crooked smile.
Mirralet stared back wondering what Cavanagh was trying to hide and why he was looking so cheerful. Well, he’d soon put a stop to that. “We have a problem.”
Cavanagh raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, still annoyed that Mirralet had come into his private rooms without an invitation. “If you mean the dead guards and the escaped Assimusians I know all about them, and I have sent Gannard to round them up and put them back into your hen ho
use.”
“No, I don’t mean them, that was yesterday’s problem.”
“So, what’s today’s little disaster? Cavanagh asked, suppressing the urge to giggle again.
“The Pyromaster has disappeared.”
Cavanagh was sober in an instant and could feel the blood draining from his legs. “Disappeared?”
“Yes, gone. The guard that you assigned him said that he suddenly stopped what he was doing, climbed into his coach and drove away. I went to the Dragon Tower to find him, but there was no one there apart from that damned lizard which nearly bit my leg off.”
It was truly his worst nightmare and he could almost feel Billicks bully-boys cutting parts off him off bit by bit. “What are we going to do?”
“We can’t do anything except postpone the implementation of the Masterpiece until the Pyromaster returns, which means that you will have to go and tell the king about the delay.”
Cavanagh felt numb and shook his head. Telling the King that he’d have to wait for his bonfire was almost as bad as telling Billicks he couldn’t pay his debt as agreed. “We can’t delay, Mirralet, the Enclave has to burn by the end of the week.”
“And how are we going to do that without the Pyromaster?”
That was the big question but he had an answer. “It’s simple, we’ll do it. We’ll take the Devil Fire from the Dragon Tower and you and I will burn the Enclave to the ground.”
*
Collquin unwound the tiny slip of parchment and stared down at the minute squiggles which covered its surface. It always amazed him that a homing bird could carry such a thing across the sea in just a few days, when it would take a ship at least two weeks. Sometimes he was grateful that a ship did take so long as was the case when he’d sent his message to the Passonians betraying his people. At other times, like now, he blessed the bird’s speed for carrying the message that had lifted such a heavy burden from his shoulders.