by Sylvia Kelso
Grey, white, more somber blues, under yet another rolling hinterland, the dull green and muted browns of winter ploughing, only slightly touched with green. Spring was later still, on Rostack. I stared at it through the nagging wind and felt the heart beat in my throat.
Thralli would not travel fast, Fiskri had said. He might well have called at Mirkadin. We would not catch him there, with a day’s handicap, but, “That tub o’ his don’t tack better’n a netter’s float.” We would catch up here.
And Therkon had been lost for three, five, eight days now. What sort of voyage had he made? How had they fed him? Had his stomach broken out again? Had he been chained, beaten,
battered, atop almost certain hunger and cold?
Had he managed to keep the crown prince suppressed?
I shut my eyes on the image of that imperial hauteur confronting a slaver’s mind. A slaver’s powers. My hand clenched on the wrist-knife and I bit my tongue on, Can’t we go faster than this?
Eithay did have a short mole and quays, but in a stranger’s port Aerful naturally had no berth. We dropped anchor by a covey of similar boats whose rigging Fiskri read for me like a book. “Somethin’ from Hamair. Two out o’ Cuwen. A Hivell trawler. An’ the last two’ll be Kaldr boats.”
“Kaldr?” The timbre of sadness caught my ear.
“Been movin’ north this last year.”
More about the reason, I knew he would not say. “They’re all from further south?”
“Aye.”
Strangers, as we were. But unlike us, dispossessed.
Fiskri was still scanning the inshore shipping. Now he gave a grunt. “See ye the schooner, in the mole-coign? Gaff-rig, black upperworks. That’s Hraffn. Thralli’s keel. He’s still here.”
I had not regained breath from the shock of realising that Thralli might not have stayed, after all, when Fiskri called,
“Sheinn? Get the dinghy set.”
He flatly me forbade me to go ashore with them. “Ye’ll do no good speirin’ after him yourself. Thralli’s past carin’ for kin.”
Thralli had been a slaver for a decade or more. I had not been able to help exclaiming at the mere thought of slavery accepted as just another trade, and Fiskri had given me a wry look. “Happen ye’d sell a child, sooner than watch it starve. Especially when ye’ve neither net nor furrow to feed it y’rself.”
Silenced, I remembered the children in his own house. Looked again at his gaunt cheekbones, and wondered if that choice
already haunted his nights.
But when I asked, “But Thralli? What will you say?” He looked sourly amused.
“Tell him I’ve kin aboard, seekin’ a brother sold in Ve Pool. He’ll understand that well enough. And,” wryly, “t’will be better I do the chafferin’.”
Because he knew Thralli. And the market, vile word. Because he would not let sentiment get the better of him, and show Thralli how much this kin meant.
Hard, bitter sense, yet again: Two conceded it. I swallowed hard and muttered, “Yes.”
On deck the dour wind chilled to the bone, but I was too fraught to go below. Halri was splicing another ancient rope. He let me help, and had wit or tact enough not to talk. It still seemed an eternity after they reached the Hraffn’s stern, parleyed, then made fast and climbed above, until Aerful’s shabby dinghy pushed out and headed back.
When Fiskri swung himself over the rail the look on his face sent the heart into my throat. “Is he not there? Is he . . .”
“Belay, lass.” He still looked somber, but he knew what I could not say. “He’s alive, aye. But.” He set his chin. “He’s been sold.”
If I had burst out already like the merest boy, I did manage to contain it then. The words hardly wobbled.
“Sold where?”
He jerked a thumb inshore. “Herself.”
“Her? You mean, the Woman? The Woman of Eithay?”
“The Lady.” He said it sharply, with a warning look. “Call her the Lady, here.”
He had said, “Woman” when he told me Eithay’s lord had
inherited her father’s lands and chosen to rule them alone.
Despite various attempts to oust, unseat or marry her, willing or otherwise, she was still there, scandal and gossip of the Southern Isles, as much for Eithay’s increased prosperity as the address and ferocity that defended them both. I ducked my own head
hurriedly, as if the wind had ears. “The Lady, then.”
Inwardly, I wanted to wail aloud. Another redoubtable ruler, another fortress unknown as Ve Pool’s brech. Another desperate sortie to organize, for another impossible rescue, and once again, alone. Oh, Mother, I cried silently, could you not have delayed them one more day?
But Two was going on, beginning where Azo would.
“She bought him? How do you know?”
Fiskri gave a snort. “Thralli tell’t me.”
“Thralli—! He just told you?”
Fiskri gave the dinghy’s mooring rope an automatic jerk, and his own head another. “Come below.”
By the time we settled round the tiny table, and Halri had silently set a kettle over the brazier that counted as galley stove, my wits were halfway to working again. “Thralli told you? You just walked up and he—Why?”
In the half-light, Fiskri’s dour look became a hint of almost vindictive grin.
“Because I tell’t him the kin wi’ me was Outland, too. A lass strong as Sheinn an’ tall as me, wi’ a pair o’ knives up her arm that did for Thrif an’ Tjofor at my own hearth-stone. Tough as Rekkir an’ fey as Stokka. An’ beggin’ to carve the gizzard out o’ him.”
“Oh!” The image was inconceivable. But Sheinn and Halri’s faces spoke a grim amusement that was not laughter at the indulgence or exaggeration offered to a child. I almost exclaimed, Do I look like that to you?
Then the real concern revived. I could have groaned aloud. “But he’d already sold . . .”
Fiskri snorted again. “Aye, he did. ‘An’ curse the day I let y’r lord cozen me into buyin’ him!’” Now he was caricaturing someone with a higher voice and almost wailing accent. “‘Not clear o’ Ve port an’ he starts heavin’ his belly up! Two days runnin’ for a healer an’ payin’ for pap an’ milk at Mirkadin! Lyin’ to o’ nights to save his precious guts! An’ him carryin’ on the while like Langlieve come home! Fresh air an’ washin’ water, straw to lie on, tantrums if he’d to wait a blink! An’ makin’ trouble’,” it climbed in outrage, “‘in the hold! Tellin’ the others, get the manacles an’ trip us in the dark—get free an’ take the ship!’
“‘An’’,” Fiskri was almost as breathless as Thralli must have been, “‘when I locked the witch’s besom in the bilges to shut him up, him sneerin’ and fleerin’ and lookin’ down his long Outland nose at me—Lay a hand on me, he says, an’ I’ll bruise like young mackerel. An’ where’s your profit then? By the Mither’s eyes, if I’d not let your cursed lord chouse me out o’ such a swingein’ price, I’d ha’ run him out an’ tipped him overboard!’”
“Oh—oh!” I was trying not to laugh and cry at once. Sheinn and Halri really were laughing, with deep, savage glee, but for me terror was only a breath beneath. Therkon had made his weaknesses both offense and defense, he had scourged Thralli with
imperial arrogance and made him rue his buy every inch of the way. And come within a breath of losing his life for it. If Thralli had not paid such a swingeing price . . .
“’So,’” Fiskri was weirdly repeating Thralli’s mingled outrage and vindication. “‘I cleaned him up an’ took him ashore, aye. An’ he’d not reached the block when Herself clapped eyes on him. So if I’ve not the profit I deserve’,” now with a hint of detestable smugness, “‘I’ve no’ the pestilence either. Send y’r Outland catamount after her!’”
Sheinn and Halri had stopped laughing. Their eyes on me held pity, conc
ern, sympathy. But also expectation, a kind of wary
apprehension. And with it, hope.
I took a deep if shaky breath and had to keep my hand from touching the jewel pouch under my shirt. I had stopped Thrif and Tjofor, I told myself. I had met Stokka, and Two got us out of that. I could deal with the Woman of Eithay. If Therkon was sold, he had been sold here. He was going no further. And I had the money. I could buy him back.
I said, “Are there craft shops, in Eithay?”
* * * *
Instead of craft shops, Eithay had an actual changer’s mart: a solid block-house of the reddish-grey local stone was sited conveniently on the waterfront, just beside the long, low buildings raised to hold Eithay’s new and richest merchandise. The slaves.
Fiskri would not let me ashore alone, either. “Y’r knives might stop two men, lass, but show money in Eithay an’ ye’ll have five on y’r neck.” He and Sheinn marched each at my shoulder, with a belaying pin thrust through his belt.
We had to land beyond the fish-market, in the only place open to small boats. But as we threaded the carts, tables, stands of fish, jostling buyers, stink and earsplitting clamour of fishmongers, I heard Sheinn almost explode, “See that!”
I jerked half about. He and Fiskri had both baulked, staring up a regular pyramid of barrels. To me the stink said only, Fish, but their faces cried aloud.
“Herrin’,” Sheinn gulped. And Fiskri, with a longing, an envy near desperation, “Someone struck a shoal.”
The din around me went away. A dozen memories dovetailed, Fiskri’s gaunt face, the gate-watch’s prayer, Fiskri’s talk of slaves, the tally of Ve Pool’s calamities. Herring. Salted herring. That they would not need a fleet to catch.
“What is it, lass?” They had almost cannoned into me, alarmed in their turn.
“Fiskri,” I said, “could Aerful carry all those?”
“Aerful?” He broke off short. The stare became outright shock. “Lass, what d’ye mean?”
“Those fish are for sale.” It was all clear now, lifting my heart against the weight of Therkon’s plight like the opposing side of a balance beam: recompense, more than recompense, better and more immediate than I had given Veenn. “You know what I owe you. All of you. Will Aerful carry those? And should you put a lien on them now? Or will we get the money first?”
For a minute they could have been stricken to stone. Then Sheinn suddenly started trying to wring my hands and babbling incoherencies. Fiskri just stood there, staring, while two tears tracked down his fleshless cheeks.
The mart had a cramped front compartment with a barred window and tiny counter, but the sleek well-shaven face at the grille nodded unhesitatingly when I asked, “Will you change gems for coin?”
Nor was the rate niggardly. But Fiskri handled the fish-sale with a vigor and parsimony that at first astounded me. Why pinch pennies, I wondered, when we had the money? Until I remembered he was buying Ve Pool lives.
“There, lass,” he said, reappearing all but breathless. “They’ve a berth down quay, we can bring Aerful in to load. Have ’em aboard before dark. An’ aye.” Suddenly, shyly, he grinned at me. “The lot’ll fit.”
The three of us stood there, obstructing a whole aisle’s traffic, smiling, grinning at each other, faces shining like sunrise breaking through a storm. Finding no need for words.
Until Fiskri drew in a great breath and straightened his shoulders and said, “Now, lass. Your turn.”
The Lady was nowhere so accessible as her money-changers. We had dropped anchor not long after noon, and there were still perhaps three hours till night, but Sheinn, sent into the town as herald and harbinger, came back dourly shaking his head. The Lady of Eithay received uninvited visitors only from second to third morning watch.
* * * *
We took Aerful to load instead: the ribs had settled far enough for me to help despite the protests, trudging to and fro with heavy little barrels or passing them down into the hold, amid gusts of steadily increasing rain. The wind had risen too, making Aerful push and twist unexpectedly, doubling the effort. I was quite sure I would sleep without stirring till dawn.
But once in my makeshift bunk I woke far too often to riving anxieties. Was Therkon safe now? Better cared for? Would the Lady see us? Could I make her listen? Would the money I had changed be enough?
Nor could I rush ashore the moment Fiskri called us up. “Ye’ll not go to the Lady,” Fiskri told me firmly, “without a tail.” Wild visions of a dragging rope-end doubtless marked my face, for he amended, “Without a following.”
All three of them were coming. “Ye should rightly have a banner,” Fiskri pronounced, “but I’ll be y’r bailiff.” Meaning my herald and negotiator. “A lord’ll never speak first for himself.” My actual “tail” would be Sheinn and Halri, good clothes under their canvas weather-gear, and boathooks in hand. “An’,” Fiskri gestured forward, “ye’ll carry that.”
“Hvestang?” I was startled enough to use the name outright. Propped beside my packs, up beyond the bunk, it had been determinedly ignored by them all. “Fiskri? It’s not mine?”
“Aye.” Fiskri said, and held my eyes. “But it’s his.”
“She’ll know it?” His expression made me catch my breath. “So: it makes him someone? In the Isles? But then, won’t that raise the price?”
“Better a higher price than have her count ye a nithing.” A flicker of grin passed almost too fast to catch. “Bein’ mere Outland’s too little. An’ carvin’ up a couple o’ house-blades with y’r knives’d be too much.”
So I wore Hvestang, hitched weightily and uncomfortably over one shoulder under my cloak, as in still gusting wind and
persisting rain we ploughed through narrow, curling streets, among shabby whitewashed cottages and past tall gables rising beyond new-cut walls of reddish stone, to the Lady’s gate.
The gatehouse was temporary. The court beyond was littered with building apparatus and long banks of rain-darkened red stone: the Lady was expanding, or perhaps improving her hall. But nobody was aloft on the steeply slanted tile roof, or round the peculiar sharp feather-shapes rising from the gable ends, or scrambling over the scaffolding today.
The two sentries at the main door’s decorated lancet arch read us as strangers, but Fiskri’s introduction and a couple of coins took us past. Though dark and smoke-laden the hall beyond was, Two considered, comparable to that of an Amberlight House. Trying to disentangle Hvestang gracefully from a wet cloak, I squinted through the murk.
Beyond the long central hearth the Lady sat, like Skatir, in a carven chair. If the hall was busy, the fire was high enough to light even the recesses beyond the double line of roof supports. Her face showed roselit though sharp featured, with a glitter from some kind of diadem over short, straight, dun-coloured hair.
My heart hurried. My mouth was dry. Fiskri, cool as at the tiller, began working his way among the knots of warriors in mail and sword-belts, sleek persons in double broad-cloth, and
harassed scribes or serving-folk, toward the Lady’s chair.
She received four petitioners ahead of us, apparently with both incisiveness and calm. But as we edged along the hearth I could tell she watched us every step of the way.
“M’lord.” Fiskri stood at the hearth-end, inclining his head one scant inch. The traditional title, whatever the gender. And the salutation of a man elsewhere vowed. “I bring here the lady hight Chaeris, from the land of Iskarda.” We had settled it in the dinghy, rowing ashore. “She has traveled far and long, and she comes now seeking aid and grace in a matter of her kin.”
Her eyes had been on me all the while: narrow eyes, probably a light color if not simple blue, and her skin was pale as Veenn’s. One of the older people, Fiskri said. The pale ones, who filled the Isles in other days. Her voice, I knew already, was carrying and clipped despite the Isle accent, and her decisions spoke a fast
-moving brain.
When Fiskri finished she said at once, “Some back-water o’ the Empire, ye mean.”
“Nay, lord. Iskarda is beyond the Empire,” Fiskri said.
One brow went up. “An’ what’s the sword?”
I had not expected her to waste time but my heart jumped all the same. Fiskri answered calmly, “It hight Hvestang.”
This time both brows rose. Then she looked direct at me.
“An’ whence had ye a blade o’ the Isles?”
This time, I had to answer for myself. I took a steadying breath and let my voice reach the hall.
“It was a gift. To my brother. From the Seer of Evvamoor.”
She might not have known the place but the title she understood. Beside us I heard breaths go in.
“Ye don’t speak like him.”
Fiskri had warned me she was sharp. Veenn’s grand-dam had prepared me. I still had to master my hands’ twitch.
“We were raised apart.”
The riposte I myself had worked out, in those latest days’ voyage.
“Aye?” The lifted brow spoke skepticism, irony. “An’ what d’ye seek here?”
She had already told me, like some reckless gameplayer, that she knew who I was. Who Therkon was. So why make me spell out what I wanted? For amusement? For pride? To bait me?
Or because she meant to refuse?
I took a deeper breath and Two got there first.
“You know.”
Not like that! I cursed in silent consternation. If you must butt in, be polite!
“Ye’re not loose wi’ words.”
She had sat up a little, but the curious half-twist of expression was almost a smile.
Shut, I threatened Two, up.
I must have looked conciliatory enough. In a moment she said, “An’ what’ll ye offer, for this—brither—o’ yours?”