by Adrian Selby
Good as his word, it looks like he has kept up his Forms and it give me some comfort for what was to come.
We wave farewell to Bridie until a slope in the fields takes the sight of her and we push on till Aoig’s on the wane before rigging a shelter for us to lie under. Ruifsen has been doing this for years and is fierce quick about it. Just as well because the rains come to stay all the way back into Hillfast.
Salia had left word in the Mash Fist I was to head for the market sheds east half a mile from the walls, the Thesselday after the half-moon. Nazz would have the crew ready to go that morning, which was the following day, given my stay at Ru’s, but we decided to make a night of it there with the carters, soaks and others anyway. Me and Ru sang, even danced together the jigs we remembered from our army days. I won a few arm wrestles, was reminded of why I was barred from most other taverns on the quays, mostly fighting and getting juicy with men whose keeps found out and come after me. But all that was long ago. Last night me and Ru just washed everything away with a rare old barrel of soraki, a strong juniper ale few there could afford.
I felt free.
Today’s a busy one on the docks, at least seven ships on the water, four cogs and three whalers already in and gulls and dockers alike are maddened by blood and blubber, crewmasters hoarse, waving their whips at the teams over and in the carcasses. One man’s being carried away dead and two more are howling with breaks as we hop and step around the hundreds giving it their backs and bones amid the black pools, fat and barrels.
We take Skipson Lane, move off the front and into a warren of flophouses, droopjoints and workshops of those that service the quays. We’re heading for the meeting point when an old man calls out from behind us.
“Master Amondsen!” He has the bearing of a life’s service in his straight back and measured, almost ritualised gestures, hands behind him, eternally waiting on the next instruction.
“Luddson, it’s lovely to see you.” I put my arms around him despite him being professionally unable to return the gesture, but I feel his smile widen as I kiss his cold cheek.
“Always a delight to see you, my child. Master Tarrigsen was much moved by your condition last week. You’ll be Ruifsen. I’ve been told a giant might be accompanying the young master.”
“Do you want us to come to Tarry’s?”
“Ah, no. He has sent me. My disapproval of his excessive working fails to excite him to any alternative pleasures, but he’s unwell. I fear that his interests take too much.”
“We should go—there might be something I or Thornsen can …” But Luddson raises a hand.
“He’s not well, Master.” The words are said with a subtle, practised weight, forbidding further dissent. He pulls from a pouch on his belt a small waxed leather wallet.
“The Oskoro have spoken with you once, I see.” He gestures towards my eye. “I hope they will do so again, Master.”
“As do I. They can no longer watch from the shade of the Almet if they wish to survive.”
Having handed the wallet to me, Luddson stands straight once more.
“Master Tarrigsen wishes you well and hopes that you’ll share with him the last of Thad’s leaf on your return. He has another gift, but it must wait.”
“Tell him I love him, Luddson. Tell him also that Thornsen will take over my interest and will cut him in, so that they can maintain our people’s livelihoods. May Sillindar follow you all.”
He bows and walks off with a grave and measured stride, leaving me upset for the news he’s brought. I know in my heart I won’t see Tarrigsen again and I’m angry that the last we saw of each other was that moment on the quayside as I was led off to the Hill.
“Come on, Teyr, let’s go see this crew we’re joining. And if that’s what I think it is in that pouch, I feel a good bit better about our chances.”
I try to smile. “You shouldn’t.”
“Took your fuckin’ time you black-eyed streak. Is that dried- out bag o’ twigs what we waited for, Nazz?”
This is Drogg. Like me, he’s been offered this purse over the gallows. Come from somewhere on the east side of Mount Hope. He’s almost Ru’s size, like someone piled up some big rocks, pebbles for cheeks and a chin, smooth and round.
“This is Teyr Amondsen, Drogg. I’m sure she’ll answer to Blackeye as well. And this is Niel Ruifsen, who I knew she’d bring. Good to see you again, Ru. You look ready.”
“Looks like you paid back in less than I have, Nazz. You ready for this or shall we let Amondsen run it?”
“Fuck you, Ru.” Nazz might have laughed this off years ago, but there’s an edge, a stress on him I think comes from not having had to draw a sack of misfits together tight and strong for a long time. You get nothing but your will done as a feared ganger.
They’re all mounted, the whole crew that’s waiting for us, with our horses and a couple of spares outside the stables of what must be one of Nazz’s farms.
“Master Amondsen!”
It’s Cherry. She dismounts and runs over, throwing her arms around me. My face is full of her wild red fuzz of hair, thick as a pillow of soft grass.
“Thornsen came by,” says Nazz. “Brought a couple of extras to look out for you, make us easier to see out in the hinterland. I hope they’re fucking good enough for this.”
“Helsen’s volunteered,” says Cherry, “you know, that sniffer we use over on the foothills of Crutter. His keep passed on. He wants to do something worth his while, he said. Thornsen didn’t make us come here, Master, he just asked for those willing to help on a crossroads job to go alongside you and make a difference. You been there for me, there for those duts and all down in Carl. We’re there for you.”
“Fucking Sillindar! Stick a few fingers in her cinch while you’re there and finish her quick, Blackeye, we got ground to cover,” says a big haggard-looking woman I learn is Agura. She was in the Coffins for poisoning her sister and sister’s family, hoping to get their plant concern west of Elder Hill. Used to be a legend among the vanners up in the Moors, renowned double-hander, but later in camp I’m going to give her a going-over.
“Who else we got here besides those I know?” I says.
“Good to see you again, Teyr,” says Threeboots. She speaks slowly, pipe in her mouth probably got some threaded bacca in there calming her. There’s half a grin through the smoke, black leathers as she always wore, though Nazz’s people were all in them, new belts and all. She’s kept her shape like Salia has, though she’s nearly a foot shorter, an acrobat as a girl growing up in Khasgal and still no fat on her. Her colouring had darkened like mine, hers browner, almost bruised-looking in patches.
“You met Salia, of course,” says Nazz. “She’s got a drudhan with her, Yame, the girl there with the olive colour from over Western Farlsgrad. My own people are here: Talley, who’s our drudha, Heddirn Thordsen from the Larchlands with the shield there, Caryd, who won me the singleton grand prize at the tourney and finally along with Drogg there’s Gravy, both taking the purse over the noose.”
Yame looks restless, might be a vadse addiction. Thick long ropes of brown matted hair, the front of it tied back and up like laces on a shirt. Gravy’s got a pickaxe of a nose, jacker’s build, he’s with Drogg and it’s clear they’ve known each other a while. Caryd’s from Mount Hope if I go by the name, but also the green eyes, and black hair worn short. I can see her hands tremble from fifteen feet off, she’s somewhere on betony’s road, but heading in or out I can’t tell for all she’s young. It’s her eyes, the eyes of a far older woman. Heddirn’s trying to look bored because he’s young, but mostly he’s just glancing at Salia’s backside, his horse being behind hers. Like Talley he’s been inked, something Nazz likes from his people. Talley’s shaved her head bald, and she’s got tears inked all over her head and face, all drawn to fall down to her neck. Heddirn’s just got the Thordsens’ kissing trees crest over his face.
Fourteen of us all told. There’s enough here with a bit about them we might last a
few weeks, hopefully enough to get to Khiese. I’m sorry for Cherry and sniffer Helsen of course, but like Ru they’ve chosen this and I don’t want to let them down whatever else happens to us.
“We calling you Captain, Nazz? It isn’t right calling you by your name, not if we’re operating as a crew,” I says.
“Hasn’t seen you in years and she’s giving you orders again,” says Threeboots.
“Seems to be,” he says. “But she’s right. It’s Captain now. Crossroads purse. We’re after Samma Khiese, his brother’s a bonus but he’s fuck all, so once Samma’s done we’ll mop away whatever’s in our way and Othbutter can come and sort out the Circle. We ride for Faldon Ridge. Teyr’s got an outpost there and it’s a good base for Othbutter to hold and retake Elder Hill, close the Sedgeway. It’ll be full of whiteboys, full of killing.”
“Should’ve become soldiers, shouldn’t we? Getting paid to kill ’stead of all that sneaking an’ stealing,” says Drogg to Gravy, making it obvious Gravy is running him.
I see Salia shake her head and lead her horse about to head out east. Nazz takes the cue and we ride out for the Circle.
Faldon Ridge
Agura hasn’t spoken to me since I hit her a couple of times on our first night out. Her fault for keeping going on Cherry and Helsen for their following me. Big as she is she’s slow and has a bit of fat on her. There was some cheering, Drogg and Heddirn among them, thinking I’d really have her, but long gone are the army days where who ran what tents was decided on the first day of each campaign. We used to call it the Ladder; dayers, gloves, blades, oaths. Me, Nazz and Ruifsen was tight, Ruifsen’s size settling us on the Ladders with little fuss so’s we’d get our pick of tents and be first at the drudha and tally benches for plant and pay.
We wait in the rain, in trees near my outpost, Faldon Ridge. I had to say something about the Oskoro eye, so I thought I’d tell them all how I come about it. It shut a few of them up, and I might have said that I could see a bit more about each of them than I really can, if only to get some peace and quiet. Now the night hides less than it used to. A great sorrow for me as the first to make a sortie. The fine red gates of Faldon Ridge have been burned, but they’re still there, the walls have bodies all mangled and black nailed to them. Large and small. Cherry left me for Ablitch as I’d asked when we was down in Carlessen land with the Kelssen duts, and it was there she learned that the Ridge had been taken, no birds flying north or south, no people coming or going either. Khiese had let one of my people go, to spread the word of his success, and he was likely pushing to Ablitch when she was heading out of there to Hillfast.
Then I see Omar is nailed on the gate itself. With tears I remember him and the joy of his company, but anger’s taking hold of me, not grief, and I relish it. A few guards are standing in pairs, holding sheets over their heads, probably to stop that stupid fucking chalk from running. They’re not up for this job, not tonight, so tonight’s when we go in, I reckon.
Nazz melts out of the trees behind me, and Threeboots I sense a flicker of to my left. I turn just as she looks at me, and I think she’s a bit surprised not to have flanked me.
“Report,” Nazz whispers.
“Two up there, two on the gate. There’s two the far side, the rest hidden behind the walls out of this rain.”
I’d found a patch of earth earlier on to draw out the layout of the outpost with a knife so the crew knew the layout thorough.
“Good,” he says. We move back to the crew. There’s no fire, just a silent group that haven’t been getting on very well.
“We’re going in,” says Nazz. “In line both of you.” Meaning me and Threeboots. Been a long time since I had a captain giving me orders and I’m happy about it. I told him what I knew, now he has to show he can make the right calls and start pulling us together.
“Caryd, Teyr, Salia and Yame, you’re all good with bows, you’ll work on the guards nearside wall and the gates. Threeboots is going over the wall with Gravy and me at the back. Hedd and the rest of you are going in the gate once Threeboots has it opened …”
“Wait, when—” begins Drogg. Nazz steps forward and slaps him across the face. Drogg brings his arm back to flatten Nazz when Heddirn thrusts his sword between the pair.
“It’s not fucking difficult, Drogg. You do what the captain says.” This is Heddirn. Nazz gets in Drogg’s face then, or close as he can get given Drogg’s height, but it’s clear who’s on top and Drogg just nods.
“Right, Talley, get the brew round. We’ll give Drogg his first,” he says.
The drudha slips off the pack she’s got over her shoulders and from it pulls a leather bag. The brew inside gives off the smell of rotting grass and don’t look much different. My eye can see the vapours coming off it and I feel the nerves, my throat drying. I shake a bit. None of us enjoys taking it, let me be clear on that. Nobody takes a brew for pleasure, no matter how strong it makes you feel, how it changes you. Helsen will stick to a strong dayer, he’s never done a brew, and without work it’ll kill you.
The thirteen of us that’s had fightbrews all go quiet as we do whatever we’ve been taught by our different masters to stone the brew, preparing our minds for it. Talley comes to each of us in turn. There’s a mouthful of a prepper that I can smell has at least juniper oil, something we used to have down in the Roan Province, and garlic. She’s learned recipes off Nazz’s old drudha at least, before he went and paid the Drudha’s Share, throwing himself off a cliff, according to Thad.
Then she pushes the mulch in our mouths, and it’s chew and swallow as fast as fuck because you can’t throw it up no matter how much you want to. Nazz helps her, putting the strap over our mouths so we have to swallow back anything we reject.
My throat burns with something like raw ginger, fire ants, hot seawater, then the strap comes away, taking its faint scent of mint, and she’s on to Ruifsen next in line.
No going back.
The moments go by slow. Slower. My belly fills and my heart quickens.
I’m waiting for the wave, the one that rises far over a ship to take it to the dark depths with a violent, shattering inevitability.
Some recite rhymes as the brew takes hold. I have a single note I hum. It must not break, it is a slender steel rod, smooth. I hum its flawlessness as the wave rushes up, the spasms start in my belly and the heat bleeds out of it, gouts of heat, thick bubbling liquid meat and bone, and I force it all through the steel rod, the single line that must be flawless, smooth, that must grow and control all my new strength and sense, flawlessly, featureless and calm. My eyes see too much, my black eye feels like it’s come alive, it joins earth and sky together for me, leaves and rain, clears them, brightens them for my inspection, every inch, through the mist, into the knots of bark, the rumbling of the soil and the stone beneath our feet, rustling of the worms, twitch of spiders hiding under leaves, mushrooms stretching their veins, exhaling their spores …
“Move!” It’s Nazz, teeth chattering, hopping as though on coals, grinning and licking his teeth, sword shaking in his hand. How stupid he looks, like he’s playing in some drama the role of a fool. I take my bow in hand and I’m running. The smell of the dead comes heavy, the frying bacon beyond the walls of the outpost, the sweat and the hops on the bodies and breath of the guards. Salia stands next to me as we take our positions to shoot, her skin changing, bright enough I almost tell her to quieten, that they’ll hear her colour. She’s ignoring me. She’s so beautiful, arm extending out, arrow on her finger, drawing back the string to within a whisker of her full pink lips. They mesmerise me. I’m in love with her, I want to pull her to the ground, but there are men and women we must kill together, those that took everything from me. I draw, we loose together, arrows leaping like wolves off the bows, shimmering, bending with their release, a moment to the guards’ soft necks, their death already a truth before our fingers have rolled off the strings. This is the song my eye sees, the sight of Sillindar himself.
Salia runs forw
ard. I run forward. The guards are dead at the gate, a shout comes from inside the outpost. A shadow up on the wall—there, gone. Threeboots it was, a brief orange glow I knew was hers as she scaled the wall in a moment. She’s lifting the gate bar with someone else, Nazz maybe. I get to kill now, close. I splash through the mud of the trail and follow Heddirn and Drogg through into the main run. There’s nobody on more than a dayer in here. Most are whiteboys, some aren’t. It makes no difference in this cold, soft rain. A sword’s raised, a stance attempted, but my bind rips it from his hand and I’ve got my sword through him, my hand on his shoulder to get it further into the hilt. I realise my bow is across my back, no recollection of drawing my sword. This delights me and I can’t help but laugh. Someone blows one of their high reedy horns, a cry for blood. I breathe like a buffalo now, my leathers tightened by how I’ve grown, what I’ve become. A door opens, the almshouse, now a billet for these boys and girls. Ruifsen leaps past me, his spear driving into the man that was readying his own, and he pushes him back, making room for me to run in behind him. The light of candles is the light of Aoig, brutally exposing the five or six who are jumping up, naked from their sex or slumber. They scream for we are bright and blackened with mud and rain. We screech like War Crows. I see flesh and helplessness, chalk faces and necks, pink bellies and chests and legs. I feel like a butcher starting her day. One tries to run, to duck to my right near the wall by the door. I drop my sword to better grab his hair, holding him squealing, twenty if he’s a day. My left fist, the stubs of nails stitched into the glove’s knuckles, tears open his cheek, smashes his eye to a mess and I keep punching just to see how far I can go.