by J. V. Jones
Everyone hunkered down against the deck, grabbing at railings, mooring heads, anything that was at hand. Jack watched the swell roll forward. It was a massive shimmering wall. Sucking in his breath, he held on to the mooring head with all his might. He heard a low rumbling—like thunder, only gentler, more ominous. And then the swell collided with the ship.
The noise was a deafening rush. The Fishy Few rocked on its keel. The starboard deck tilted downward, and a solid cliff of water blasted into the ship. Jack’s whole body felt the impact; his limbs felt as if they were being torn from their sockets, his face felt as if it had been slammed against a door. Still the water came, churning and bubbling like a mighty river. Wood splintered, lanterns smashed, someone shouted out to Borc to help save them. A high, splitting sound came from the mainmast.
The ship rolled back from the port and the last of the swell caught the hull.
Jack’s fingers were frozen against the mooring head. His hair was plastered against his face. All around him, the crew jumped up and began sweeping the water from the deck, checking the lines, and running to brace the mainmast.
Tawl staggered up from belowdecks. He, too, was soaked to the skin. He took in the chaos of the scene, saw the visible crack running down the length of the mainmast, and said, “Captain, we’re going now. We’ll try and set a course to the north. You head away from us as fast as possible.”
The captain nodded. Like everyone, his gaze was fixed on the mainmast. “Go now, then. When the storm clears we’ll be back to pick you up.”
Jack had difficulty catching his breath. He already knew the captain well enough not to protest. “Thank you,” he said.
Captain Quain opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, then said, “Borc be with you, lad.”
Before Jack knew it, they were climbing down the rope ladder. Knees, ankles, and chins took a beating against the hull. Jack could see white bands across the ocean where the wind was cutting through the swells. The rain took turns whipping then falling in sheets.
By the time he reached the boat, Jack was sporting two bloody knees, a bloody elbow, and a sprained ankle. Tawl, who was following him down, looked in even worse shape. He caught Jack staring at him and grinned.
“This is either the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, or the bravest.”
Jack grinned back. He was glad to the bone that Tawl was with him.
Working together, they untied the mooring knots and pushed the rowboat away from The Fishy Few with their oars. The crew leant against the railings, waving their farewells. It was too dark to make out faces and too windy to hear what was said. It didn’t matter. That night Jack learnt that goodwill didn’t have to be seen or spoken to be felt.
And then they were off. A wave cleaved them from the ship, bouncing them southward and filling the rowboat with cold, foamy water. Tawl bailed while Jack rowed.
The wind was slower, but colder close to the surface. The swells seemed impossibly large, yet whereas The Fishy Few sat high in the water and blocked their path, causing the swells to break, the little rowboat bobbed right over them.
They were fine for a while. The Fishy Few faded to a dark silhouette in the distance, and then, a few minutes later when Jack looked back, it had disappeared completely. That was when the storm came in for its last attack. Jack sensed that the storm, or rather the power behind it, had been waiting for a chance to get them alone. He was frightened by the breadth of the sorcery behind it. It was powerful, wild, beyond his ken. He wasn’t fit to challenge it. He should have stayed longer with Stillfox, should have learnt more, listened better, tried harder.
The sorcery used in the storm’s making was not just powerful, it was a sophisticated, many-layered construction with an iron will at its core.
Jack felt it now, coming in for the kill. The metal tang was unmistakable. The very air was charged with it. The swell rose and the wind picked up. The little rowboat was flung from wave to wave like a leaf in a stream. The sea was a rabid dog: angry, frothing, out of control.
Tawl stopped bailing and began tying. At first Jack didn’t understand what he was doing. The knight threaded a thick mooring rope beneath the bench Jack was sitting on, then he pulled the rope tight across Jack’s lap. Jack felt the beginnings of panic. He was being bound to the boat. Twice more Tawl looped the rope under the bench and over Jack’s thighs. Then he sat on the opposite bench and began to bind himself. He never uttered a word.
Jack felt trapped. He couldn’t move his legs. The rowboat pitched and spun. The rain drove against them. Water poured in from all sides. Tawl’s face was grim. He was holding the second pair of oars. The swells were coming fast—too fast for the boat to right itself after each one.
Shin-deep in saltwater, Jack tried to concentrate on the sorcery behind the storm. Lightning blazed in front of them. Thunder blasted behind. The rain and the wind began to spiral around them. The boat was flung prow-first into the oncoming swell. Jack was thrust forward. The rope burnt against his thighs. Suddenly he was underwater.
He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe.
He was dragged down with the boat. The sea itself seemed to twist in on him, crushing, wrenching. There was a dull cracking noise, and a sharp pain coursed through his head. He thought he heard Tawl call his name. And then everything went black.
Twenty
Winters in Rorn were a little cooler than summers, but for some reason the sunshine always seemed brighter. Perhaps the wind thinned the air, or water crystals magnified the sun’s rays, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Gamil didn’t know. But, as he walked across the palace courtyard on his way to an early morning meeting, he made a mental note to find out.
Gamil liked to know things. Indeed, he lived to know things.
Some men said that knowledge was power—and they were right—but it was also much more than that. Knowledge could bestow many more gifts than power alone. Satisfaction, for one. Who could not help feeling that peculiar mix of smugness and triumph as one dined amongst friends whose most intimate and terrible secrets were known to one? Who could not feel glee at knowing—and meticulously cataloging—all the weaknesses and vices of one’s workmates?
Besides satisfaction, knowledge bestowed confidence. It bred upon itself, creating a dynasty of influences gained, favors owed, mutual respect, and fear. A silk merchant with an illegal fondness for young boys would willingly offer up the latest gossip from Isro; shipbuilders who designed holds suitable for carrying slaves would gladly share either profits or information with a silent but knowledgeable friend. Illicit business deals, unlawful sexual practices, shady pasts, false fronts, and well-covered trails: they were the currency Gamil dealt in.
Oh, he could have made a fortune by now—a blackmailer could retire for life on the scandals he knew—but money wasn’t what Gamil was after. Knowledge was what counted. Why take a payment in gold when you could take it in information, instead? Gold might be legal tender, but it was as bloodless as a corpse, whereas knowledge was a living, breathing thing.
Gamil was on his way to receive just such a payment this morning. He was due to meet a man in a tavern who could tell him of all the latest developments in the north. Gamil was hoping to discover if the notorious Lady Melliandra was alive or dead. Either way, it would have to be a short meeting. He was expected back in the palace within an hour, doubtless to suffer more indignities at the hands of the fat, lazy windbag who was known as the archbishop of Rorn.
As he passed through the palace gates, Gamil tried not to dwell on Tavalisk’s latest penchant for making him scrape dead animals from the floor. Last week it had been snails, the other day it was frogs. What would His Eminence think of next?
“’Scuse me, sir. If I might have a word?”
Gamil jumped back in horror. Some lowly street vagrant had actually touched him. Quickly, he looked around. The palace guards were within calling range. He took a shouting breath.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sir. You wo
uldn’t want me to be caught and tortured by the guards.” The person who was speaking was a boy of about twelve years old: dark eyed, dark haired, and as thin as a pole. He grinned. “There’s no telling what I might say under pressure.”
Gamil knew a veiled threat when he heard one—random coercion was one of the few drawbacks of knowledge. He put a hand on the boy’s back and bundled him down the road. Only when they were out of sight of the guards did Gamil see fit to stop. “Now, what’s all this about?” he said, turning to face the young lowlife.
The boy made a great show of smoothing down his tunic. “I’m surprised you don’t know me, my friend.”
Gamil ran down a mental list of all the people he was currently dealing with. A twelve-year-old boy rang only one bell. “Are you an associate of the knight named Tawl?”
The boy nodded. “That’s me. Nabber’s my name. Though I suppose you know that already. After all, that’s what you’re famous for: knowing other people’s business.”
While the boy was speaking, Gamil took the opportunity to look around. No one but an old orange-seller was within sight. The district around the palace was thankfully a discreet one. Still, there was a shadier area to the right, and Gamil steered his newfound friend in that direction.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
“I want you to set up a meeting between me and the archbishop. A discreet one, mind. Just a quick in and out.”
Gamil stepped back from the unsavory boy. He was obviously quite mad. A meeting with Tavalisk! Who did he think he was? “That is out of the question. His Eminence never gives audiences to”—Gamil shuddered with distaste—“people off the street.”
The boy was unruffled. “He would if you set it up.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Because you wouldn’t want old Tavalisk finding out you’re in league with Larn.”
Gamil didn’t move. He neither blushed nor batted an eye. Having spent years being insulted and harangued by the archbishop, he was a master of giving nothing away. His stomach, however, was a different matter entirely. It felt like someone had given it wings and it had taken to fluttering around his heart. Knowledge bestowed many gifts, but bravery was unfortunately not one of them.
Mentally he pulled himself together. His first job was to find out how much the boy knew. “Boy, you are a liar. And as such can be prosecuted by a judge.”
“Why don’t you run along and get one, then?” replied the boy. “I’ve got time enough to wait.” With a great show of nonchalance he examined the dirt under his nails. “I know, while you’re gone I’ll pass the time thinking about all those letters you received from Larn.”
Gamil’s stomach was no longer fluttering, it was coming in to land. This was his worst fear: the archbishop finding out about his association with Larn. Why, Tavalisk would have him dismissed and banished on the spot! Gamil felt a trickle of sweat slide past his ear. No matter how much he loathed the archbishop, his position as chief aide was everything to him. He tolerated being a lackey in the palace, because in the city he was as good as a king. He had a network of spies and informants under him, men feared and respected him, stallholders offered trade discounts, and prostitutes granted favors for free.
The last thing knowledge conveyed was a sense of entitlement, and that’s how Gamil felt about Rorn. It was his city. He knew more about its people, its history, and its politics than any other man alive. By squirreling away every day, collecting information from a hundred different sources, he had earned the right to run it. And now this young upstart was threatening to take it all away.
For what? For Larn. It just wasn’t worth it. The only reason he’d taken to corresponding with the priests was to gather information from afar. What the seers knew could not be gleaned from gossip in a tavern, or read about in books. The seers knew the future: the most provocative knowledge of all.
In return for that knowledge Gamil had granted Larn a few favors here and there. Nothing much, nothing that would compromise his position. Until a week ago. That was when he received a letter from the high priest himself. The hooded one stated that the knight would soon pass through Rorn. In no uncertain terms, he demanded that Gamil prevent the knight from boarding a boat and sailing to Larn.
Gamil had done his best, but by the time Tavalisk had begrudgingly sent out the troops, the knight had sailed off into the sunset. Which meant that he had aroused His Eminence’s suspicion for nothing. Now, Tavalisk was many things—gluttonous, narcissistic, indolent, and sadistic, to name but a few—but above all he was suspicious. Little things lingered long in his mind awaiting connections, affirmations, or denials. Gamil was quite sure that the conversation that they’d had over the knight would be one of those little things. All it would take for Tavalisk’s suspicions to be confirmed would be this young ruffian in front of him. True, the boy would never be able to see Tavalisk face-to-face, but he could start rumors, send messages, impute from a distance.
Gamil shuddered at the thought of it. He simply couldn’t take the risk. Beckoning the boy closer, he said, “If I did agree to set up an audience with His Eminence, I take it there would be no mention of Larn?”
The boy smiled broadly. “Larn? Never heard of the place.”
Tarissa was mocking him. Her voice was shrill and her laugh was cruel.
“Jack!”
The cold stuff passed over him once more. Cold, salty, and wet, it rushed along his side and into his mouth. It didn’t make him choke. Some deep unconscious instinct forced him to swallow, not breathe.
“Jack!”
The cold stuff drained away, leaving him heavier, colder, and vaguely aware of his own discomfort. Jack didn’t mind: he knew it would be back.
Tarissa was above him. Screeching. He made an effort to turn away from her. Pain sizzled across his thighs. He couldn’t move his legs. The cold stuff hit again. This time it came higher, past his mouth to his eyes. Jack knew he had to do something, but he was just so content where he was. Whatever lay beneath him was shaped for him alone. It dipped to accommodate his elbow and rose to support his head. In fact, he was so comfortable that if it hadn’t been for Tarissa harping on he would have fallen into a nice dark sleep by now.
“Jack!”
Someone was calling his name. Not Tarissa, though. Too deep for her. Jack kept very still. The pain in his thighs had subsided to a background hum, and that was the way he wanted to keep it.
“Oh, my God, Jack!”
And then someone was shaking him, brushing the hair from his face, slapping his cheeks, turning him on his belly and slamming their fists against his lungs.
“Come on. Come on!”
He was turned over once more. His chest was pumped. His mouth was cleared. He was dragged by his arms up a slope.
Tarissa started screaming again at about the same instant the pain hit; Jack didn’t know which was worse. Searing, nerve-twisting spasms raced across his thighs while he was laughed at from above by the woman he still loved. It was too much. He opened his eyes.
Seagulls in a blue sky. Their cries were shrill, almost human. Jack felt disappointed: it hadn’t been Tarissa after all.
“Jack, are you all right?” It was Tawl. He had a knife and was leaning over him. “I’m just going to cut the ropes.”
Jack tilted his head forward. He saw the sea, the seashore, and then the beach. Looking farther down he saw his thighs were bound by rope. Underneath them lay a rectangle of wood: the bench from the rowboat. Tawl was hacking away.
The action of moving triggered something in Jack’s stomach, and he turned to the left and vomited. Water, salty and bitter, heaved up from deep within his belly.
“Good,” said Tawl, coming forward to support his head. “You’ll feel better once you’ve lost all that saltwater.” He smiled. “I think you’re going to be all right. Try and move your legs.”
Jack threw a resentful look at Tawl. He knew he wasn’t going to like this one little bit. Beginning with his
toes, he sent a warning message down along the nerves of his legs, braced himself, and then squeezed the muscles in his feet and ankles. Pain in bright, vivid flashes overwhelmed him. It shot up his thighs with vicious abandon, leaving Jack feeling dizzy and sick.
Another turn to the left was in order. More water was thrown from his belly.
Tawl slapped him on the back. “Good. Your toes moved.” Grabbing Jack under his armpits, he dragged him up from the sand. “Come on. We’re too exposed out here. We’ve got to find some cover.”
Weak from vomiting, pain, and delirium, Jack most definitely did not want to move. “I don’t think my legs can take my weight.”
Tawl’s hands moved down to his waist. “I’ll carry you, then.”
Jack pushed him away. “No. I’ll try and walk.” Weak or not, no one was going to carry him like a baby.
He ended up leaning heavily against Tawl. His legs buckled every few steps, he was shaking from head to foot, and he had a problem keeping his body level. Left on his own he would simply keel over in the sand. Together they stumbled up the small beach and then along the cove until they found a place where high rocks cast long shadows to the east.
They sat down in sand that was wet and pitted with pools. All around were rocks speckled green and brown and white. Water trickled down through cracks in the stone, and mineral deposits glistened beneath the flow. Crabs scuttled away in search of shelter, and strangely formed insects with short legs and flat bodies buried themselves in the sand. The roar of the ocean echoed around the rocks, blocking out the call of the gulls.
Jack’s brain was taking longer to come around than his body. He remembered the storm and being cast adrift on the rowboat, but after that there was nothing. “What happened?”
Tawl shrugged. He leant back against a rock. “A couple of big waves hit the rowboat, sent it underwater, and then broke it up. We were carried along with the wreckage.”
Jack remembered the rope around his thighs. He shuddered. “Is that why you lashed us to the boat, so we’d be carried along with the wreckage?”