“What?”
The captain shrugged. “No kingdom man knows the whole of it, but more than once over the years, kingdom ships and pirates have tried to sail past the Devil’s Teeth to traffic with the Ongolese. The spice market be worth a king’s ransom to any ship’s captain who could cut the Merakhi out of the trade. There’s a fortune to be had there, lad, but none of those ships save mine returned.”
He’d told Adora he would come back. “Why did you agree to this, Captain?”
A frown wreathed Tek’s weathered face. “They cast for me, boy.” He snorted. “Waste of time, that was. I’m the last captain to attempt the Teeth. Only makes sense that I be the one to try and take you through them.”
Errol blew breath into his hands, trying to warm them against the winter and Tek’s warning. Tek clapped him on the back. “If we make it past the Hook of Merakh, lad, you’ll not have to worry about the cold. We’ll be lucky if we don’t roast alive.”
Martin held the mug close to his face and inhaled through his nose. His long association with Luis Montari had served to introduce bergamia rind to his winter tea. The aroma calmed him; he needed calming. Illustra’s next king—whether Liam or Errol—had left the island, and this time Martin would not be with either. Instead he sat entombed in his apartments chewing over events like a dog worrying a bone.
Luis chuckled. “Your face is as wrinkled as a hag’s.”
Martin eyed his friend over the rim of his mug, took another deep breath. “They’re gone, both of them.”
“We need allies.”
Martin put the cup down harder than he intended. The rind wasn’t working. “We need a king.”
For a moment Luis looked affronted, as if this simple statement of fact had been an accusation. They sat together by the fire in Martin’s apartments, the ones set aside for him as a voting member of the Judica, a benefice. In the chaos of recent events no one seemed to notice or care he occupied rooms to which he was no longer entitled.
“The boy thinks he will return from Ongol alive.” Luis didn’t respond, so he expounded. “He’s so sure he’s the one who must die for Illustra that he’s equally as certain Deas will preserve him until the time is right.”
“He might be right,” Luis said.
“Have you become one of the Feyt, then, believing everything is preordained and inevitable? I thought that sect had been dealt with centuries ago.”
The secondus of the conclave waved a hand at the jibe. “No, Martin, I merely point out that, where Errol and Liam are concerned, there may be less room to maneuver than for others. Otherwise, what exactly do we mean when we say ‘the hand of Deas is on him’?”
Martin grunted. “Your logic would have made you a fine benefice.”
A knock at the door precluded any reply. Luis opened it as if they still played the fiction from years past of priest and servant. Karele stood outside, cloaked against the chill. “May I come in?”
A small tightening in Martin’s chest, like the barest hint of a premonition, touched him as he gestured to a third chair in front of the fire. Karele accepted the seat but declined the tea with a brisk shake of his head that heightened Martin’s apprehension.
“What do you want?”
Amusement wreathed the small man’s sharp features and deep-set eyes. “If it were about what I want, I wouldn’t have chanced disturbing you at this hour.”
The invisible hand that held Martin’s guts tightened as a sense of unease grew within him, and the desire to leave his chair, his apartments, even the island, bloomed. He settled deeper into the cushion, fighting the sensation. A draft blew across the back of his neck.
Karele’s smile broadened. “It won’t do any good to fight it, Martin. Not really. I ignored his summons for over a year. He waited for me, and as you well know, my delay cost dearly.”
The knot loosened into a sigh that left him deflated. “What are we supposed to do?”
Amusement slipped from Karele’s face like a priest shedding his stole. “We are being sent by Aurae to find my Morgol father, Ablajin.”
A desperate hope flared in Martin’s chest. “Can we persuade the Morgols to make peace?”
Karele shrugged, his eyes sympathetic. “Aurae hasn’t told me why we’re to go—only that we must. Past that I can only guess.”
Martin smirked. “And I’m to go with you?”
Karele nodded toward Luis. “Both of you, actually.”
Luis cleared his throat. “We can’t get across the mountains of the Sprata. It’s winter. The passes are blocked.”
Martin pictured a map of Illustra. The winter snows would have blocked every pass from Frataland down the Sprata range into the province of Sorland. Only sailing through the Forbidden Strait and then around the range of mountains that divided the two kingdoms would allow them to avoid the snow-clogged passages. He looked at Karele and said as much.
The little man shook his head. “The passes aren’t the only obstacle. My father roams the Little Brothers region.” He shrugged away Martin’s confusion. “It’s the area of the steppes due east of the Bellia province. When the Merakhi began recruiting the magic men, the theurgists, among the horse people to fight against Illustra, they came along the coast of the Eastern Ocean and began there. The theurgists and the Merakhi have a tight grip on the southern steppes. No kingdom ship will land there and survive.”
Something in Karele’s demeanor set Martin on guard. The only route to the steppes that could even be attempted before spring had just been ruled out. Yet the master of horses sat across from him utterly content, as if he hadn’t just outlined the impossible. Karele’s sense of humor had been forged on the harsh plains of the horse people. Circumstances that frightened anyone with sense only amused him.
“There’s another way, isn’t there.”
Karele nodded.
“And I’m not going to like it, am I.”
Karele shrugged. “If your temperament is similar to a Morgol’s, you’ll despise it.”
Martin snorted. “It’s not, but I think I’m going to hate it anyway.”
A grin played around the edges of Karele’s mouth, giving him the rakish appearance of a boy about to play a jest. “The mountains near the Little Brothers are pocked with caves, some of them quite deep. A few years after Ablajin took me as a slave, something began attacking his horses—killing and devouring some on the spot and dragging others away. We tracked it to the foothills of the Shan—what Illustrans call the Sprata.”
Karele’s gaze grew distant as he recounted the tale. “None of the Morgols would go more than a few feet into the cave. They are a people of the plains and the sky. Enclosed spaces terrify them. I told my master I would go for him.”
Martin sat forward. “And he just let you go? Wasn’t he afraid you would escape?”
Karele’s mouth pulled to one side. Martin couldn’t tell if he was smirking or grimacing. “No, by then, in my heart, he was my father.” Karele shook himself. “The caves were immense. After a day I returned to pack provisions. Water wasn’t a problem, but I needed food. I followed that labyrinth for weeks and found nothing. I got so turned around that when I finally saw light ahead I thought I’d made my way back to my master. Instead I came out on the eastern edge of Bellia.”
Karele glanced at Martin and Luis. “I was free, if I wanted to be. I bought more supplies from the local village, though the innkeeper looked very hard at the Morgol silver I carried. On the way back, I took a different route and came across the remains of my master’s horses. Something had eaten everything except the hooves.”
“How did you know they were your master’s?” Martin asked.
Karele smiled. “My master loves his horses too much to endanger the bond between his servants and his herd. You’ll never find a brand on the hide of one of his prizes. Instead, he places a small mark on the hoof that has to be redone each season.”
He shrugged. “After I threaded my way back to the steppes and showed my master the hooves, he tha
nked me and placed me in his stables. I felt as if he’d crowned me prince.”
Hope and caution warred in Martin’s chest. The caves offered a way to get to Karele’s father and return before the spring thaws. Only one thing remained. “What killed the horses?”
Karele’s lips thinned in a grimace. “I don’t know. Ablajin set a guard on the caves to guard against whatever might come out of them, but nothing ever came.”
12
Under the Sea
AMOS TEK STOOD on the elevated foredeck of the Penance, his weathered sailor’s face wet and boyish, grinning each time his craft fell from a swell. “This is paradise, lad.”
Errol didn’t agree. The waves chopped in gray-green swirls in the temperamental winter weather, and the peaks and valleys of the sea weighted and floated his stomach by turns. The zingiber root took away enough of his nausea to keep him from throwing up, if just barely. Even so, he knew he wore the washed-out pallor of a sea traveler trying very hard not to be sick.
“You have a strange notion of it, Captain.” His words hit the air as a series of growls. If he relaxed the clench in his midsection enough to speak normally, he would puke.
Tek turned from his enraptured consideration of the sea to face him. “Ah, lad, you struggle against Deas’s creation.” He leaned forward to tap Errol’s forehead. “The problem be here, not here.” He touched his stomach.
Despite his doubt, Errol attempted to feign interest. The conversation kept him distracted. “How so?”
Tek laughed. “A ride on a ship is like a ride on a horse, or a run through hills. It’s not a floating house, it’s a horse made of wood and sail. You’re sick because you be fighting that in your mind, expecting stillness and solidity when you should be moving with her.” He pointed down the length of the ship. “Walk to the other end, lad. Embrace her.”
Errol let go of the rail, took a few steps before the boards beneath his feet slanted at an unexpected angle, and stumbled. Tek appeared at his shoulder to steady him. “Use your senses, lad. The wind and the waves will tell you how she’s going to move.”
Errol closed his eyes, felt the wind coming in from his left, from the east, heard the pop and snap of sailcloth in response to the gusts, felt the swell of the ocean and the ship’s responding tilt before she righted herself. In each case the ship responded a heartbeat afterward, a moment of time in which he could adjust.
“That’s it, lad,” Tek laughed. “Dance with her.”
Errol moved back and forth across the deck, his senses tuned to the rhythm of the wind and water. He came back, aware he’d been unconscious of his stomach. “Why didn’t anyone tell me that before?”
Tek threw his head back and laughed. “I lay trapped in port for years serving my penance before Deas allowed me to sail again. There in my cabin, I could do naught but think about the sea. Betimes I thought about why one person got sick and another didn’t.”
“Why were you a pirate?”
Tek’s face stilled until his sun-browned skin might have been part of the ship he commanded. “When someone goes to the shadow lands, lad, they tell their story a hundred times. A thousand. It be part of the law there. If anyone asks how you came to Haven, you have to answer.” The captain laughed. “And they make sure to ask you.”
Errol let his confusion show, and Tek clapped him on the shoulder.
“The people of the shadow lands have a keen ear, lad. They know the truth when they hear it. After I tried a few times to paint my deeds in better colors, I found the truth to be less uncomfortable than those cursed blank looks they gave my lies.”
He gave Errol a shrug. “The truth is, I loved the sea and hated service. I was willing to raid other ships so that I could live my way.”
They stuck to the coast, passing along the western shores of Gascony and Basquon until they were half a day north of the strait that separated Illustra from Merakh. There, Tek gave the order to heave to.
“Why are we stopping, Captain?” Errol asked.
“It be time for us to sail southwest and we need to fix the sail to quarter against the wind.”
“I don’t understand.”
Merodach stole up beside him. “The captain wants to make sure we avoid any contact with Merakhi longboats.”
Errol’s heart fluttered. “It’s still winter. They couldn’t be this close to the kingdom yet.”
Tek laughed as he fixed the wheel. “Never gamble your life on what your enemy is supposed to do, lad. The watch captain be right, but there be other reasons as well. The current into the mouth of the strait from the Western Ocean is quick and perilous. Sailors hereabouts call it the Wash. The entrance acts like a funnel, and the shores of Basquon are littered with the wreckage of the unwary.”
The thick canvas rippled against the lines as the Penance came about to quarter against the wind instead of sailing with it. Tek leaned against the rudder, and the ship slid sideways through the current heading southwest. The change in motion interfered with Errol’s newfound sense of stability. “How long before we clear the Wash, Captain?”
Tek looked at the sky. “The airs are light, lad. Probably two days at this rate.”
Merodach looked back to the east, his ice-blue eyes intent. “I think we should head due west, Captain.”
The captain snorted. “Landwalkers. We’d have to tack back and forth to do that, and we’d lose at least a day.”
Merodach pointed east, and Errol caught a different scent on the wind. “There’s a group of Merakhi longships out there, Captain. They haven’t seen us yet. We should try to keep it that way.”
Tek peered east, shaking his head. “Your eyes may be sharper than mine.” He looked up at the crow’s nest. “Eyes aloft! Give me a look east, Noddy.”
The man in the half-barrel, younger than Errol, held his hands to his forehead, shielding his eyes against the glare. “No sign, Captain.”
Tek shook his head, showed no inclination to change course. “My charge is to get the lad to Ongol and back before spring, Master Merodach. Impossible as it is, I’m going to give it my best. We’ll stay the course. The coastline be safer than the deep.”
Merodach’s normally impassive face registered his disagreement. Errol wasn’t the only one to notice. Rale, on the far side of the quarterdeck, eyed the blond-haired watchman, who paced and scanned west at intervals before confronting Tek again.
“They are there, Captain. Turn west.”
Tek snorted. “And how can a landwalker see something that a sailor in a crow’s nest cannot?”
With an almost audible click, the pieces in Errol’s mind to the puzzle that was Merodach came together. He stepped close to the silver-haired watchman and pulled a deep breath through his nose. “Are you sure?”
Merodach nodded.
Errol touched Tek’s shoulder to get his attention. “Captain, have Noddy check again, please.”
Tek sighed but voiced the order aloft. His eyebrows pinched when Noddy didn’t immediately reply.
“Possible masts to the east, Captain.”
“Possible? Curse your hide, Noddy. Do they be there or not?”
A thin face peered down from the perch. “They be points at the horizon. I can’t be sure.”
The sailor’s confirmation, however weak, decided matters. “Change course, Captain,” Errol said.
Tek shook his head, but the wheel spun in his hands. “I hope you know what you’re doing, lad. Ships don’t venture into the deep willingly.”
Errol turned to Merodach. “How long do we need to head west to keep from being seen?”
Merodach eyed him, his pale face impassive. “Half a day.”
“Make it so, Captain,” Errol said. “I have found Captain Merodach’s instincts to be flawless in the past.”
Tek muttered something salty under his breath. “You be in charge, Master Errol. Caution be wise.”
Merodach moved to stand alone at the starboard rail. Tek and his crew went about the task of changing the sail to suit their
new heading. Errol walked on rolling feet to join the watch captain. Merodach acknowledged his presence with a nod but kept his gaze to the sea.
“You’re a reader,” Errol said.
Merodach’s expression might have been characterized as a grin had there been any humor in it. “What makes you think so?”
“The fact that you can see ships from the deck of a ship that a sailor in the crow’s nest can’t.”
Merodach shrugged. “I’ve always had uncommon vision.”
Errol nodded. “No doubt.”
The tall captain of the watch sighed. “What gave me away?”
Errol thought back. “You kept showing up at just the right time. At first I thought you’d been following me, making sure I was safe, but after Windridge there were times when I was in danger and you weren’t anywhere around. Luis said he couldn’t cast to see if I was alive while I recovered at Rale’s because I was so close to death. If you didn’t know I had survived, there was no way for you to follow me to Longhollow or know I’d signed on with Naaman Ru’s caravan.”
He turned to face Merodach head on, but the captain continued to watch the ocean. “But right as I was about to escape and Ru was going to kill me, you showed up to make sure I got away. How much wood did you go through to find me again?”
Merodach nodded. “Quite a bit. I thought I could keep you safe, but being a reader and a captain of the watch weren’t enough. In Valon, I was outmatched. You’re lucky to be here.”
Errol didn’t feel lucky—herded seemed a better description, like a cow to slaughter, or a sheep, maybe. “I don’t understand how you found me at all. How did you even know to look for me?”
Merodach’s mouth twitched, almost smiling. “The archbenefice and the primus are uncommonly wise men, Errol. When it became obvious Rodran would have no heir, they sent Martin and Luis to find the next king, but they didn’t stop there. When Illustra’s omnes were killed, the archbenefice had Primus Sten cast for the next one. Sten said it was a waste of time, since every boy in the kingdom gets tested at the age of fifteen for the reader’s talent and every one of those is tested for the ability to be an omne, but Canon is a man of great faith. He refused to believe that Deas would allow the kingdom to descend into chaos because we couldn’t confirm a cast.”
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