The Empire Stone

by Chris Bunch

  They did, in a cove that encircled them like a protective hand. The sun came out and they made repairs, cooked, ate, slept again, and held death ceremonies for the two drowned sailors.

  Todolia said she thought the Petrel had been carried far north, far off their course, she thought to the great island of Parasso, and they’d have to sail south. She looked worried, and Peirol asked why. She shook her head, refused to answer. He sourly wondered how far off his journey the storm had taken him, how much time would be lost before he could continue his quest.

  Unable to sleep, Peirol stayed on deck for a time, listening to the three sailors on watch quietly talk between themselves. He heard one say something about “black ships,” the other something about “sea dogs of Beshkirs,” the third “better them than those murderous godsdamned Sarissans from the north,” but then they noticed him and said no more.

  He went below and was about to go to his cabin and try sleep when he noticed two interesting things. The first was, there was a light on in Zaimis’s cabin; the second, that he saw no signs of the eunuch.

  Peirol realized he must’ve recovered from the storm when he felt his body stir. He was about to tap on the door when wisdom took him. He combed the ship, looking for the eunuch. He couldn’t find him, grinned tightly, went back to the great cabin.

  He opened the hatch quietly just in time to see Edirne slip into Zaimis’s cabin, the door closing behind him. Peirol waited for roars of rage from the eunuch, but heard nothing for a while — quite a long while.

  Peirol went into his own cabin, undressed, and crawled into bed. He managed to fall asleep just before dawn, but the two in the other cabin were very awake and noisy.

  He woke a couple of hours later, put his breeches on, and went on deck to wash. Zaimis’s cabin door was closed.

  Edirne was on deck, naked, looking wrung out. He dragged a bucket up from the sea, dumped water over his head, and began scrubbing his body with a bar of soap.

  Peirol stripped, took the line, and brought up his own bucketful. Edirne tossed him the soap.

  “So now we sail north to Arzamas, to dispose of our cargo,” Peirol said. “After a storm such as we went through, I wouldn’t guess any of its owners would worry if there’s a bit of … damage.”

  Edirne roared laughter.

  “My friend, some of the cargo will arrive in exactly the shape it left in.”

  “Oh.”

  “That no-longer-a-man who was supposed to be guarding certain cargo has vanished, by-the-bye. We’re missing a small cask of wine, some dry rations. I guess he swam ashore during the night and fled.”

  “So my caution wasn’t necessary,” Peirol said.

  “It slowed you badly,” Edirne agreed. “Speaking of which, the lady Zaimis told me you appraised one of her presents, and told me exactly how you put your words. You are a careful man.”

  “It seems to pay.”

  “Sometimes yea, sometimes nay,” Edirne said. “Perhaps nay with eunuchs, perhaps yea with barons with short tempers and swordsmen by the company on retainer.

  “I find the situation amusing. Lord Aulard is known for his love of women and gems. I’ve heard he came by some of his gems in … interesting ways. Be that as it may, when he takes one of his wives into Arzamas, he drapes her with glitter, the tale goes. But if there’s a theft, or a loss, he never seems to mind. That suggests something.”

  Peirol remained silent.

  “What a good jest. False gems for false virtue.” Again, Edirne laughed. “I would imagine someone aboard this ship might have learned to moan like a virgin and make a small cut for some blood at the proper time, wouldn’t you?”

  Peirol didn’t answer, both because he considered himself a gentlemen and because something Edirne said had just struck him. “You said one of Lord Aulard’s wives?”

  “I did, did I not? I think there’s a certain young woman who may be in for some surprises about certain Manoleon customs, don’t you?”

  Peirol saw movement and hurriedly pulled his breeches back on as Zaimis, looking as pure as any temple virgin, came on deck. Edirne, laughing harder than ever, dressed quite leisurely, and Zaimis watched him as coolly as if she was considering a well-made statue.

  Two turnings of the glass later, the Petrel sailed south. Half a day later, the black ships attacked.

  4

  OF PIRACY AND RAPE

  There were four sleek black galleys, each nearly two hundred feet long. They came from behind a headland, oars dipping in unison, skittering toward the Petrel.

  Todolia looked up at the caravel’s sails, slatting in the light wind, muttered a prayer, and shouted for the men to arm themselves and prepare for boarding.

  Peirol obeyed, hurrying to his cabin. Outside came shouts and the thunder of feet.

  “What’s going on?” a wide-eyed Zaimis asked.

  “Pirates, my lady,” the dwarf said. “You’d best stay below, and not let them see your beauty and become more determined.”

  Even now, Zaimis managed a white-faced coquette before she went back into her cabin and closed the door.

  Peirol went back on deck. The crewmen now wore motley leather armor and were armed with cutlasses and knives. One or two had javelins, another pair sporting bows.

  Someone said in a low voice, “Best just surrender. There’s no more’n a handful of us, against how many soldiers?”

  “I count thirty, mebbe more,” another said. “And a few hunnerd oar-slaves on each boat. And cannon. But we’ll never raise a white flag. If th’ skipper’s right, and we’re off Parasso, likely th’ ships hail from Beshkirs.

  “Th’ mate spent half a dozen years on their damned galleys, and I’ve never known anyone who pulled an oar for them who didn’t swear he’d rather die’n go back.”

  “Edirne must’ve assed somebody fair,” a second sailor put in. “None of us’d end up a galley slave, as long as we can shinny up a mast and box a compass. Beshkir’s hurting for sailors, always has been, always will be. As for bein’ a slave, who hasn’t gone overside in a fair port to get out from under an asshole skipper? Chains won’t hold me for long, nor any of you, I’d bet.”

  “There you have it,” a third said. “I’d allus rather take a chance on life over death.”

  There were mutters of agreement, but the sailors, at Edirne’s command, drew heavy, wide-meshed rope nets from below and draped them loosely from the yardarms to the railings, so boarders would ensnare themselves.

  Peirol stared, fascinated, at the oncoming galleys. They were very narrow-beamed, and bulwarks were built overhanging the hull, rowing benches on them. He counted five slaves on each oar. Gleaming bronze cannon lay in a low carriage in the bows, with two smaller swivel pieces on either side. Men with whips trotted back and forth on catwalks, lashing the oarsmen while thudding drums gave the rhythm. The galleys were twin-masted, with huge, single yardarms on each mast hanging at an angle, sails furled, great banners on one end of each. On the stern of the galleys was a canopy, sheltering the ship’s officers and rudder, and above it a huge ornate lantern.

  Peirol admired their strange grace — but then the wind brought the stink of the ships, the unwashed, closely packed men, their shit and blood. His stomach roiled.

  A sailor was praying loudly for wind, for a sea monster to rise up and save them, but the gods didn’t appear to be listening.

  Peirol went up to the poop deck, sword in hand. He hoped he didn’t look as scared as the man at the rudder.

  He saw a man in the bows of the second galley wearing robes, moving his hands back and forth. A feeling of weakness, of panic, swept across him, and Peirol realized there was magic being set against them as well.

  A man in the stern of the leading galley shouted through a speaking trumpet. Peirol understood what he was saying and realized that Abbas’s spell was at work, for the words changed as he heard them and became familiar.

  “What’s he saying?” Todolia asked. “I don’t speak whatever heathen language he’s bla
thering.”

  “He wants us to surrender,” Peirol answered, before Edirne could interpret.

  The mate gave him a suspicious look but didn’t have time for anything else, as the lead galley’s cannon boomed, white smoke plumed, and a ball bounced across the water, just in front of their bows.

  Edirne picked up a great double-curving bow, nocked an arrow, and sent the shaft arcing toward the first galley. It splashed just short of the ship.

  “That’s reply enough,” he said, and two other cannon boomed from other ships. One missed, but the second smashed through the Petrel’s rigging, and lines snapped, falls clattering down to the deck.

  “Bad,” Todolia said. “Hear that whirring? They’re using chain shot, shooting at the rigging. They’re trying to dismast us, so they can take the ship intact for the cargo.”

  “And us for slaves,” Edirne said.

  “Damme, but I wish the flittering owners would’ve bought one piece, one frigging falconet, a crappy little moyen even,” Todolia growled. “Damn them for the budget-minded butchers they are.”

  “One popgun wouldn’t do much good against those culverin,” Edirne said.

  “No, but I’d feel like I was doing something.”

  Todolia shouted an obscenity at the galley, waved her fist. Peirol saw a small puff of smoke, heard the captain snort, like an angered bull. She turned, and Peirol gasped. The woman had no face, but a ruin of blood from the musket ball. She put her hand up, then it fell limply, and she sagged as if all the bones in her body had vanished.

  “You men,” Edirne bellowed at the sailors. “Shoot back at ‘em! They’ve killed our captain!”

  But he needed make no warning. Two sailors below were down in blood, writhing. A sailor hurled his javelin out through the netting. It splashed far short of the galley he was aiming at, and the two bowmen loosed shafts.

  The galley cannons all fired, a ragged volley, and the Petrel’s mainmast snapped, sagged in its stays, and slowly dropped overside. The caravel listed.

  “Cut away the rigging and the mast,” Edirne ordered. “Get axes! We’ll have to sail around ‘em!”

  He dropped his bow, went to a gear locker, took out a heavy ax. A javelin arched through the air and took him just below the ribs, the bloody spearhead jutting out through his back. Edirne screamed shrilly, clawed at the shaft of the spear, stumbled, and fell.

  “Get the godsdamned white flag up,” the sailor who’d speared him shouted. “Before they kill us all!”

  Peirol went to Edirne, saw a spark of life flicker, vanish from his eyes as blood poured from his mouth.

  “Are you another fool for fightin’?” a voice demanded, and Peirol saw a sailor with cutlass ready. Not trusting what he might say, feeling anger pound at his temples, Peirol dropped his sword, got up, and backed away.

  “There’s things worse’n bein’ an oarsman,” the sailor said. “Not that you’ll ever pull one, havin’ real talents with jewels. Somebody’ll snap you out of the slave market on first showin’.”

  Two galleys were alongside, and grappling hooks dug into the Petrel’s bulkheads. Men in armor swarmed up the sides and cut through the netting. They herded the sailors and Peirol to one side, and broke into the great cabin. Peirol heard wood smash, and a scream.

  A grinning man stuck his head out. “C’mon, boys, there’s meat to share! Get your asses in line!”

  There were shouts of glee, and two men dragged a struggling Zaimis out. Another rolled out the small cask of wine that stood in the cabin, smashed in its head with a dagger butt, and dipped himself a palmful. He wore, tied around his neck, the green silk scarf Kima had given Peirol.

  A man took hold of Zaimis’s dress at the bodice and ripped it away while the woman shrieked. The men watching roared amusement.

  Then a pistol thudded, and the first would-be rapist contorted as blood gouted from below his armored waistcoat. He convulsed like a landed fish and lay still.

  The others were very still as a large young man with cold eyes and blond hair and beard paced forward. He wore finely worked armor and an ostrich-plumed hat. He had a pistol in each hand, one smoking, two others in his waistband. He stuck the fired piece in his belt, drew, cocked another, blew its slow fuse to life.

  “I believe my orders were to take the woman alive and unharmed, were they not? No man disobeys me, and remains healthy. I could’ve sworn you wretches had learned that lesson well by now.”

  The blond man nodded to two men, also finely dressed, beside him, obviously officers. “Help the baggage up, and assist her in getting dressed. I’ll decide whether we transfer her to my ship or if she would be more comfortable where she is.”

  He turned his attention to Zaimis. “Don’t be frightened, girl. I sought you for your ransom, not for your body. You’ll not be harmed — at least not if your master is quick to reward me for saving your life.”

  Zaimis’s eunuch Libat capered forward, beaming as if he’d had his manhood restored. The man leered at Zaimis, who turned away, sobbing bitterly. The man laughed, saw Peirol, and came toward him, as if expecting applause.

  Peirol’s mind said he was stupid, this would undoubtedly be his death, but his fingers were too quick, sliding behind his buckle, and tossing, underhand, a twin to that dart that had half-blinded the serpent. It flashed into the side of the eunuch’s throat. Libat screamed rage, plucked it out, and lifted his sword. Then he looked very surprised as the poison worked quickly. He touched his throat, gaped three or four times, and went down.

  There were half a dozen swords at Peirol’s guts, and the blond man had a pistol aimed, very steadily, between his eyes. “That was a nasty surprise,” he said, after seeing Peirol remained still. “Have you any more of those devices about you?”

  “No,” Peirol said. He hadn’t time to hide another dart.

  The man kicked the eunuch’s body. “We do despise a traitor, don’t we?” He didn’t seem to require an answer. “Dwarf, listen well. I’m going to allow what you did, for I had no wish to reward this one who told us of his mistress and her value. A faithless servant deserves nothing but death.

  “But do you have any ideas of continuing your no doubt quite noble pastime of revenge? If so, your value to me is slight, even though the not-man told us you had certain marketable skills, so I’ll toss you overside now.”

  “No,” Peirol said, tiredly. “I’m through with blood.”

  The blond man lost interest in Peirol, snapped orders to his men.

  And so Peirol of the Moorlands became a slave.

  5

  OF MARKETS AND MADMEN

  By the time Peirol reached the slave market at Beshkirs, he knew quite a bit more than he had, more than he wanted. He was now the property — and his mind roiled at the word — of Kanen of the Sporades, one of the Beshkirian warlords. He was precisely named.

  Beshkirs, a pariah nation of slavers, thieves, fences, and pirates, had existed for half a millennium as a city-state without a real government. Instead, all its services, from garbage collection to war, were put out to the lowest bidder, and the winner’s performance was reviewed annually by the city’s property-holders. If unsatisfactory, the contract was rebid, and the former contractee subject to trial by ordeal if his performance had been overly incompetent or corrupt.

  Beshkirs had half a dozen naval lords. Kanen was regarded as one of the boldest — witnessed by his having taken a few of his galleys out before the campaign season, while storms still raged — and luckiest, considering how Zaimis’s eunuch had found his ships beached for the night and led them to the Petrel.

  “Campaigning season?” Peirol asked.

  “When we earn our keep,” a captor said. “Taking merchantmen, mostly, from the Manoleon Peninsula.”

  “But this year, we’ll likely earn it and more,” another added. “We’ll likely sail against the Sarissans, since they’ve been cuttin’ into our gelt and the richies can’t abide that for long.”

  The other men looked frightened. Peir
ol asked what were the “Sarissans,” and was told to be silent; mere mention of them might bring them from nowhere.

  Peirol asked if the black ships of Beshkirs were the ones that had sacked Thyone centuries ago. One seaman guessed that Beshkirs had stolen that tale to further frighten its prey, and the real black ships, the ones of legend, were either long gone or else from far to the west.

  Peirol learned all this and more, for he was the only one on the Petrel besides the six-man prize crew. Kanen had decided that Zaimis would be best kept close, and the sailors from the Petrel weren’t to be trusted, even chained up, so they were transferred to one of the galleys. But a mere dwarf was nothing to worry about. The bodies were dumped overside, the broken mast cut away, and the Petrel taken under tow by three galleys, with only a headsail on its foremast to reduce yawing.

  Peirol still had the small bag of diamonds behind his left knee, but he knew better than to try to bribe one of the prize crew. It was known that he was a jeweler, and his bag of gold and lesser gems had been discovered. If he came up with another jewel, he’d likely be stripped, searched, and given a “Beshkirs smile,” throat slit from ear to ear.

  At least he’d recovered his roll of tools, cast aside as worthless when the raiders looted his cabin. So if all went well, and he found the master everyone said he would, Peirol would be able to work his craft, impress his master no end, and hopefully be manumitted.

  Eventually the pirates reached Beshkirs and sailed into its harbor. It was at the end of a peninsula, a rocky hand curving around a deep-water mooring. Low, thick-walled stone forts were built at either side of the harbor mouth, and the city climbed across the knolls behind them. To one side of the roughly rectangular harbor, more than fifty galleys were drawn up, sterns to a seawall. Behind the seawall loomed a great stone barracks.

  “That’s where the galley slaves are quartered when they’re not afloat,” a sailor said. “Free ships are over there.” He gestured to the other side of the harbor, where merchant ships were anchored, or tied to wharves. “This bucket and its cargo’ll be auctioned for Lord Kanen’s and our shares. You and your friends’11 be for the auction block.”