by Chris Bunch
With something blocking it. Something rose from the water, and Peirol thought, for one insane instant, of a monster, a dark sea monster, an ally or the god of the Sarissans. But then he saw it wasn’t flesh but dark wood and metal, a huge ship, a two, no, three-tiered galley, somehow capable of traveling underwater — or maybe it’d been masked by a spell of the Sarissans.
He thought it capsized, then realized the galley was roofed, armored with curving timbers up its sides, looking like a turtle, stub masts above the armored bulkheads with huge cannon mouths menacing them. Smoke from the guns boiled across the waters.
Peirol saw, veering toward them, one of their own galleys, masts drunkenly overside, one sail still holding the wind, its oars shattered, weaving like a crippled bug. Then it was on them, ram sweeping down the starboard oar bank, wood splitting, smashing, oars sailing through the air like snapped toothpicks and men screaming. Something caught him, sent him flying and, still unchained, he rolled, landed hard on his side on the Ocean Spell’s catwalk as the other galley raked down the ship’s side.
Peirol saw his bench, his world, his only friends, ripped into the boiling water, spinning in the galley’s wake for an instant, heavy wood and chains dragging the bench down.
The last he saw was Quipus, arm waving, and he swore he heard the madman’s laughter; then he was gone and water was gushing into the Ocean Spell.
The galley had been ripped in a full circle, still had way on. Barnack was in the bows next to the gun, and ahead loomed that monstrous enemy ship, guns bellowing at them — at him, each trying to kill Peirol. Grapeshot swept the bows of the Ocean Spell, and Barnack was shredded, body knocked overside with the dead gunners.
Ahead was death, death in white smoke and black, round metal.
Peirol was staggering with the Ocean Spell’s crazy rolling, stumbling toward the bow, toward that great gun. It was as if Quipus were beside him, lecturing calmly, as he had so many hours, days, while they sat behind the killing oar.
— If the gun be in battery —
“It is!” Peirol shouted.
— make sure it is swabbed out, then load with your powder —
Peirol’s hands were fumbling with powder bags, tearing them open, pouring them into the open mouth of the gun, finding the ram, half-smashed, praying it’d not break in half on him, pushing the powder down the gun’s muzzle, then finding the cotton pad …
— Wadding, ‘tis called —
Wadding, then lifting a ball, heavy stone, shoving it down the muzzle, then pushing, pushing with the ramrod until it could be pushed no more.
— with utmost care, sprinkle a bit of powder in the touchhole, covering it with your thumbstock so there’ll be no backblast —
“Too wet,” Peirol cried, “and there’s no time to look for that damned thumbstock.”
— the gun is then brought into firing readiness —
And how could he work the pulleys to haul the gun forward into position? — impossible, except the galley rolled, cannon muzzle almost going into the water, and the gun carriage rolled forward as if of its own will to the ends of the breeching rope, ready to fire. The Ocean Spell rolled back, and there was nothing but darkness and gunfire above him, prow almost touching the hull of the Sarissans’ great galley.
— taking care and caution with your fusee, at the proper command of “fire,” bring the fusee to the touchhole —
Scrabbling, finding the bucket with the smoldering fusees, and ramming one against the cannon’s breech.
The gun bellowed, bucked back, and the ball smashed into, through, the enemy ship’s armor, deep into its heart, and the Ocean Spell turned, spinning down the other ship’s rows of oars. Then it was free but foundering, small waves slopping over the gunwales.
Peirol paid no mind, still following that ghost-voice, telling him to sponge out, reload, be careful, have the enemy in your sights and FIRE, and again the gun went off, and then a third time. The world, the universe, time, exploded and he could hear nothing, and was knocked away, blood in his mouth. He forced himself to his feet, clutching the railing of the ruined Ocean Spell, feeling it sinking under him, as white flames, impossibly hot, boiled from the galley of the Sarissans as the ship writhed, racked by blast after blast.
There were soldiers, sailors beside him, and he faintly heard them shouting, pointing at the other ensorcelled ships of the Sarissans as they went out of control, twisting, ramming human ships, each other, wrecking themselves, the puppeteer’s strings torn away, and someone, Captain Penrith, was cheering, cheering him. It made no sense at all. Peirol of the Moorlands decided his war was over; he cared not who’d won, letting himself collapse, embracing darkness.
7
OF MAGNATES’ HOBBIES AND FAMILY
The fleet shattered like exploding crystal, captains shouting for full sail, galleys with their oarsmen whipped into a heart-bursting pace, each ship for itself, out of the trap, each man afraid to look back, afraid the Sarissans and their dark masters or gods were pursuing. But there was no pursuit.
Peirol came to aboard one of the cannon-equipped merchantmen and was permitted the freedom of the ship until home port was reached. He wondered how great his reward would be, dreaming of gold, possible titles, an escort to accompany him on his quest for the Empire Stone. But there was none, not even manumission.
The Sarissans had roundly defeated Beshkirs and their allies. Whether another, stronger expedition might be mounted in a month or a year, or great magic brought against them, no one said. But very suddenly any mention of the leonine raiders vanished from all conversations.
Peirol was escorted back to the white barracks and told he was of course still a slave, and would be auctioned off shortly with the rest of Lord Kanen’s possessions by his only survivor, a pinch-faced niece who was a Guardian Virgin in the temple of Aballava, Goddess of Mercy and the Downtrodden. Peirol considered the irony, quickly realized there would be none apparent to the people of Beshkirs, and slumped into a black depression.
He was brought out of glumness by a dream, if dream it was. He saw nothing except swirling clouds and gentle colors, and felt contentment, happiness. A soft voice came: “Peirol, you must hold fast. Nothing can last forever. You will be free soon, free to continue, free to find the gem you search, free to find riches and then return.”
He woke, smiling, smelling jasmine and roses, remembering the voice of Kima. He wondered if it was a dream, or a spell sent by Abbas to bolster him.
Peirol gathered his strength and his wits and considered what to do next. He still had the tiny bag of gems tied behind his knee, but his jeweler’s roll had been lost when the Ocean Spell went down. No matter. Tools can be bought or fabricated, spells can be recast.
Two days later, he and the others who’d belonged to Kanen were taken back to Jirl’s slave market.
Peirol was kept aside from the others as Jirl chanted their virtues and the required opening bid.
“A dwarf,” Jirl intoned at last. “A good man at the oars, but more important, a hero of the engagement that cost his master his life — gentlemen, this man has the courage of a lion and the tenacity of an eagle, handsome, healthy, in the prime, I must insist on a floor bid of one thousand gold coins for a man of his experience and ability.”
Peirol felt his stomach come up.
“One thousand, for a man any seaman among you would be proud to have as oarmaster on his galley…. I see one thousand, twelve hundred, fifteen hundred, two thousand even, two thousand once, two thousand twice … and another bid of twenty-five hundred from Lord Whaal, are there any other bids …”
Peirol remembered Lord Whaal as the slave raider, and he cursed the dream that’d given him a moment of hope. To be an oarmaster, the man with the whip? Never. Peirol vowed he’d throw himself overboard, take his chances with the musketeers and the sharks, first.
“Two thousand five hundred one time, two times, and — ” Jirl broke off as a small, officious man in green robes bustled up.
“One moment, gentle ones.”
Jirl came down from the block to whisper with the small man, and there was interested speculation from the crowd. Jirl nodded, and the little man in green scurried to an enormously fat man escorted by four grim swordsmen. They conferred, and the large one lifted a hand.
“The dwarf is hereby withdrawn from this market,” Jirl said. “Another arrangement has been made.”
“By who?” somebody shouted, and another voice called, “And for how much?”
Jirl ignored them, jerked his head at the guards, and Peirol was led back down the steps, where the man in green waited.
“Do I need to have you chained?” the man asked.
“No,” Peirol said, wondering what doom had come.
“Good, good. I am Guallauc.”
“And I’m — ”
“I know who you are,” Guallauc said. “Peirol of the Moorlands, sometime jeweler. Follow me to meet your new master.”
“Who is?”
“Magnate Niazbeck, the one you sent that bit of silver to, of course. I am his chief factotum.”
Peirol felt the world change around him.
• • •
Magnate Niazbeck was the fattest man Peirol had ever seen. His head with its jolly wrinkles was the roast suckling pig at a holiday, his body the barrel of wine that was rolled out, his legs drumsticks from a fabulous bird, his thighs rolled roasts, his fingers cream-filled macaroons.
His smile beamed across the carriage at Peirol, and all appeared jollity. “I’m sorry, boy,” Niazbeck said, in an incongruously squeaky voice, which made Peirol wonder, considering the man’s bulk, if he were a capon. “I wasn’t able to rescue you before you went off to war, but then, if I hadn’t, your great secret would never have been revealed, now would it?”
“My secret, sir?”
Niazbeck chortled. “There’s no need to dissemble. I’ve had a full report of your ability at the great gun. Why didn’t you tell the late Lord Kanen about your talents? He surely would have found a place for you as a gunner, instead of at the oars.”
“I didn’t think anyone would believe me, sir,” Peirol said. “Besides, the god of artillery isn’t the god I prefer to serve.”
Niazbeck’s smile turned chilly. “And what is the matter with an honorable service such as that? Keep in mind, boy, that is the greatest reason I’m paying an outrageous sum both to Lord Whaal to withdraw from bidding and to Jirl for special consideration.”
“I don’t consider myself more than a journeyman,” Peirol lied. “In my land, sir, the gunners are so skilled, so talented, I thought yours would be at least as talented, since you’re a greater kingdom, and I didn’t want to look like a fool or a braggart.”
Niazbeck eyed him carefully. “That is interesting, indeed. Your homeland?”
“Once Cenwalk, but I learned what little I know of the Great Art in Sennen.”
“I have never heard Sennen noted for its cannoneers,” Niazbeck said. “Have you, Guallauc?”
The little man jerked his head back and forth.
“I thought it was a land of magicians, cutpurses, and other rakehells,” Niazbeck said.
“And jewelers, sir,” Peirol added. “That was the calling I preferred.”
“One which you’ll have full opportunity to indulge,” Niazbeck said. “That was where I made my reputation, and my first millions. But that opportunity will be interrupted before fall,” he said. “And you’ll be serving in your previous trade, for war threatens.”
“War? With the Sarissans again?”
“No,” Niazbeck said. “We’ll not war with them until someone devises a better strategy than Lord Kanen had. Our destiny lies south, across the straits, on the Manoleon Peninsula, against the shameless people of Arzamas.”
“Shameless,” Guallauc snickered, “and, fortunately, wallowing in gold.”
Niazbeck gave him a look, and the factotum shrank back. “I, for one, need no further riches,” Niazbeck announced. “I have raised a company of artillery because I am a true son of Beshkirs, even if adopted, and wish to see us expand, grow, move into the land of our rightful destiny, and bring the gift of freedom and peace to those poor wights south of us, end the rapacious warrings of their bandit kingdoms.” He looked closely at Peirol. “I assume you have heard tales of the evils of Arzamas?”
“I have, sir,” Peirol said quickly. “I was much afraid when I heard those stories on the ship from Sennen, because Arzamas was my destination before I was seized by your pi — by Lord Kanen’s warships.”
“What was your business there?”
“I had begun a search for a great stone, sir, somewhere far to the east, in a city named Restormel, of which we in Sennen knew nothing but the name.”
“A single gem?”
“Called the Empire Stone,” Peirol said.
“I know it not,” Niazbeck said. “Forget about it. Serve me well, and I’ll give you the chance to design and work with greater gems than any you could have dreamed of.
“Serve me badly, and …” Niazbeck shrugged, said no more.
Peirol decided, in spite of Niazbeck’s jolly manners, he liked him not at all.
• • •
Niazbeck’s estate, one of many, was built around a naturally defensible rocky cove. Thirty-foot stone walls, wide enough for guards to walk on them, closed off the land. To sea, the cove was guarded from raids by pirates or competitors by sea chains hung between three lighthouselike towers. The water was warm, clear, and green, and the sands of the beach impossibly white. Within the walls were lavish gardens and pools around the sprawling great house, two stories of gray stone and many rooms. The estate was lit and the buildings heated by what some called sorcery, others clever mechanics. Coal was brought from the interior, turned into a gas by Niazbeck’s wizard, a quiet man named Tejend, sent through copper pipes, and ignited. On one side of the main house were greenhouses filled with exotic flowers. On the other were the work rooms and slave quarters. A showroom sat close to the outer wall, and a winding tunnel-like passage reached it from an outside entrance.
Niazbeck’s gems were so valued he was able to make the elite of Beshkirs come to him, rather than opening a plebeian store within the city. Unfortunately this made it impossible for Peirol to plan an escape — not that he had the slightest idea of how he would be able to get off the island onto the Manoleon Peninsula, especially after he learned the Parassan peasants were well rewarded for the return of any escaped slave, with no interest being taken in whether the escapee was alive or dead.
Peirol was taken to his quarters, a cubicle about ten feet on a side, one of thirty such, opening on a common room. It was furnished with bed, table and chair, and there were pegs to hang clothes on. Ablutions would be done in a stone room off the common room, and meals would come from Niazbeck’s own kitchen, Guallauc explained. He had an hour before the meal, and should take himself to the seamstresses to have new clothing made.
The seamstresses had a giggling great time fitting him for the blue clothes that slaves wore, to be ready on the morrow, and managed to find a tunic big enough and cut down a pair of trousers as a temporary measure for him. Peirol asked to have his shipboard clothes burned, and took himself to the washroom.
There were three different kinds of scented soaps, rinses for hair, and perfumes, so he guessed everything would be coeducational. Peirol stripped, found a tub of heated water, washed from a bucket twice, rinsed his hair three times, and found a forgotten partially toothed comb to rake out the worst of the tangles before soaking for a few minutes. He found himself yawning, forced himself out, and toweled dry. The wash-room’s back door revealed a lawn, green as any emerald. He remembered emerald eyes, the smell of jasmine and roses, and walked out, stretching, feeling the late spring sun warm on his bones.
Peirol felt himself being watched and realized he was foolish, going out naked when he knew nothing of Niazbeck’s customs. He ducked back inside and found his breeches. On the second floor of the main
house, he saw movement, sunlight reflecting something, a flash of red hair. Faintly came the clack of metal, then a door opened, closed. He wondered who’d been spying on him, hoped he hadn’t offended, worried a bit that he might have pleased.
• • •
No one in the jewel works quite knew what to make of Peirol, since he’d been the personal acquisition of the magnate. But he’d worked in enough places to know how to behave. For the first two weeks he kept his mouth shut, hurried to do anything anyone suggested, and was careful to take on the most menial jobs. Slowly the slaves began warming to him, accepting him as one of their own.
The shop overseer was a small, shrewd old man named Klek, who’d been Niazbeck’s slave for twenty years, and Peirol quite liked him. He asked, as casually as he could, what Niazbeck’s policy was on manumission.
Klek snorted. “If he, or his father before him, ever freed anyone, it’s beyond my knowledge.” He leaned close, lowered his voice. “In fact, the magnate’s known for being quick to send someone back to the market if they displease him.”
“What are ways to avoid his displeasure?”
Klek smiled twistedly. “The only one who seems to know the rules is Magnate Niazbeck.”
The magnate spent no more than a day or two per week in the shop, passing most of his time at his country manor farther up-island, where he had his artillery company quartered. But when he did appear, Peirol noted, he paid close attention to both the shop and his accounts.
He learned Niazbeck was most dyspeptic, unable to do more than taste his vast collection of wines and digest the simplest foods, although his family and guests were encouraged to dine in the most lavish manner.
There were only two in his family: his daughter, Reni, who was about seventeen — she of the red hair — and Niazbeck’s third wife, Ellena. Ellena was about Peirol’s age, and Peirol lifted an eyebrow.
Klek explained, “The first one, I understand not bad looking, worked herself into the grave helping him build his business; the second could have given a serpent the horrors, but gave him the riches to become a magnate with interests in many areas and then was set aside; and now this one. They’ve been married just at two years.”