by Julia Knight
They walked through streets lined with little white houses, all the same, like hexagons in beehives. Everything was neat and tidy, not a leaf of a shrub out of place, all as it should be, and that quieted the rogue thoughts in him. Patterns and constants. Every house with a flowering plant outside the door, every door scrubbed to shining, every window sparkling and bracketed with shutters painted in subdued tones of blue and dove-grey. Clean, well-fed children ran in the streets, quiet and respectful. Men nodded at him as he passed, noting the insignia on his silk overtunic.
It didn’t take long to reach his quarters, a little house like all the rest that stood on a hill overlooking the docks and the ships under his command. He’d chosen it for that, and for the view of the far horizon, for reasons he couldn’t recall—long-buried memories of his youth when his bond had been looser. When he’d had dreams and played out those dreams. Only he couldn’t quite bring them to mind. He couldn’t remember much before he’d been made up to captain, then commander with a half-dozen ships under his command, his past mostly a mystery to him, but he had the vague feeling that this too was a blessing from the Master.
All he had to show for where he’d come from was the view from his house and the dim recollection of long hot nights under stars, nights he was not alone, nights that were full of laughter, of women who weren’t bonded. The memories disturbed him, and he tried not to think of them or the dream he sometimes had where he ran, naked and shouting through the marketplace, laughing at the shock on the faces there. Just a dream, nothing more. He didn’t laugh when he was awake, why would he when asleep? That he couldn’t remember what words he shouted in his dream made no matter.
He opened the door into the familiar dark of his home at sunset and Ilsa scurried in behind him. Even once he’d lit the lamps she showed no curiosity about her surroundings, didn’t seem to see the spartan furnishings or the masculine minutiae of a life lived alone. A table precisely set for one, a small library of books about sailing, an ink drawing of his mother, curled now at the edges but still in pride of place on the mantel, her bond-scar hidden behind long sleeves. Everything neat, in its place. Orderly.
Ilsa stood gazing up at him until he couldn’t bear it any longer. He had her sit by the hearth in the worn leather-covered chair where he spent his evenings contemplating flames and trying to recall long-dead dreams.
She smiled at him, clearly confused. “Master, aren’t we—”
“Don’t call me that, never call me that. I’m Holden.”
“But I should…” She trailed off with a frown. Bonded to willingly serve his every desire, taught to call any man she was bonded to Master, the contradiction made her hesitate. The bond won out, the bond always won. “Yes, Holden.”
Hers wasn’t the only one that held. His wrist burned and pulsed, sent its message through him. Use her well, make many children for the Remorians. All resistance bled out of him as the tightened bond settled and swelled, covered his senses with a grey blanket of duty, of service. Any dreams he’d once had dissolved into that grey, gone beyond any reach of his. The Master’s will was all.
He held out his hand. “It’s time for bed.”
When Van Gast woke up Josie was gone, but that was nothing unusual. She always was. He stretched luxuriantly, winced a little at the satisfying ache in his back and arse that meant a night well spent, and got up. Not long now, not long until it became clear they weren’t just a usual tumble, until he could call her lover. For him it’d been that way a while, but slippery Josie was taking longer to come round to the idea. Besides, they made so much money from their supposed hatred, from the pickpocketing and the counter scams they ran, where one of them would persuade someone to help them scam the other—and end up twisted out of the deal in such a way they couldn’t know their erstwhile partner was scamming them. But soon, soon he would tell the world.
He whistled cheerily as he washed at the basin in the corner and pulled on the weather-beaten breeches that had once been a violent green and the bright blue shirt with its hidden pockets. He was careful putting on the knee-high boots, mindful of the daggers hidden in the lining. Being a rack was all attitude and that was nowhere more apparent than the gaudy clothes.
By the time he’d crept out of the window—she’d hired the room and no sense letting anyone know who’d shared it with her—made his way back to the inn his crew were installed in, taken some bread and honey for breakfast, and fielded the usual offers, questions and banter from the innkeeps, the sun was halfway up the sky. He had too much to do. A land trader to persuade that what Van Gast had in his hold was real silk, not a convincing fake. A noble lady to sweet-talk until she was sure she needed to invest in a wholly invented consortium of the delightful, and eminently respectable, merchantman he would appear to be. A dozen other enterprises he might fancy. Those could wait.
First he had a few items to lay off, which might take him half the day. Then Josie tonight, a last night in port for them both until a month from now when he’d see her again, when they’d meet in Dorston and there’d be a brawl or similar and they’d sneak off in mid-distraction, or maybe just slip off to the house he kept there. Until he’d finally get her to tell him what he wanted. And she would, he was sure. Not long now. He was content to wait.
Until then life held a myriad of potential surprises and riches to steal, and Estovan—vast, sprawling, down-and-dirty Estovan—was the place to do it. Respectable on the face of it, as seedy and underhand as you’d care for underneath, if you knew where to look and how to keep out of the guards’ way. Plenty of trade for merchantmen and racks alike, and where there was trade, there was room for a scam.
He strode out into the humidity of noon, into the heart of Estovan. There wasn’t a road as such, just gaps between rickety buildings made from driftwood and whatever the owner could scavenge, the paths boggy this far out into the delta. A man could buy anything here—a slave, a lion, a whore, a circus of jugglers, any number of stolen items. The shifting, shanty nature of the smaller delta islands farther out afforded a measure of anonymity. The island the inn stood on was more permanent but still good for secrets. The city’s guards didn’t like it down here, with no path clear to see along for more than two steps, and the miasma of rotting seaweed and effluent-ridden water clogging the air.
Van Gast found the tumbledown little bridge that led closer to the mainland, to the more prosperous traders who’d give him a better price for what he was carrying. The bridges here in delta-town were low, too close to the water, and he kept an eye out for the slow water-raptors that often lay in wait near the end for the drunken men who made an easy meal.
After a dozen or so rickety bridges, the boggy paths began to widen into earthen streets, the bridges became higher, with stone walls guarding from the water-raptors, and a hot breeze swept some of the humidity away. It wasn’t long before he stepped into a wide plaza that lay on the edge of the mainland proper.
The city wall stretched as far as he could see in either direction, hurting his eyes when the sun blazed off pale sand-colored stucco. The plaza was full of stalls, some permanent fixtures in the wall, most just an amalgamation of wood and silk and cotton haphazardly arranged to shield the wares from the sun. It was almost impossible to move without stepping on something—the hand of a stallholder as it hovered on a blanket displaying little wooden toys, a stray piece of fruit knocked about underfoot, the toes of passersby, the pliers of the dentist or, if you were unlucky, some donkey dung or a snake no longer charmed but pissed off and hungry.
Van Gast insinuated himself through the heaving, sweating press of people, his feet always landing on the solid dressed stone of the plaza, and took advantage of the crush. By the time he reached the dark and narrow crack in the wall that led inside to the city, he’d acquired two heavy purses, one silver necklace and a piece of roast water-raptor that he chewed as he dove into the shaded darkness of the real market.
Estovan was a haven for the exotic, for everything that could be brought f
rom the interior on the vast, slow Est River and unloaded either at the river docks for the city, or in the small harbor so that it could be shipped elsewhere. Getting a place in that harbor was a tricky business, kept only for those with a proper license from the Yelen, the council that controlled trade here, and with trade, controlled everything. Most others had to find a narrow berth among the islands, but that had its advantages, especially if you weren’t fussy about the legality of your cargo. The free ports all along the western coast weren’t too particular about who came to town, if they had money to spend. Even Remorians were tolerated, provided they kept their bonds to themselves, because of the trade they pulled through the harbor.
Inside the city walls, everything was shaded against the harsh sun. Reeds covered narrow walkways, giving way to silk awnings as Van Gast progressed toward the more affluent areas. Toward the traders who might be able to afford what he had to sell. Everywhere was a press of people, a jabbering, hawking, elbowing, begging mob. A mostly honest mob at that, the Yelen saw to it, their reputation as rulers of the finest trading port on the western coast a jealously held one. Traders might try and rip you off, but not too much or it’d be their head. Dishonest ports and traders—or at least more than usually dishonest—drove buyers away, and that the Yelen would not stand for.
Heavily armed Yelen guards patrolled the streets at regular intervals, sharp-eyed, unbribable and merciless. Van Gast curbed his wandering pickpocket hand, because he wanted to keep it.
The narrow alley widened out into the Godsquare, the teeming center of the trade district. Nine temples towered above him, one for each god or goddess, throwing their welcome shade over the multitude, and priests mixed with hawkers and merchants, chanting their mummer’s shows to lead the sinful to pray. Van Gast skirted Oku’s priests carefully, never having been one for justice too rigorously pursued, though he dropped a coin in the bowl of the troupe of Kyr’s mummers as they performed their mercy play. Mercy was a commodity much in demand, and one you couldn’t pay too much for. Van Gast hoped Kyr would listen, but you could never tell with women, even when they were goddesses. Too unpredictable by half. One of the troupe caught his eye and looked away hurriedly. Too hurriedly. Van Gast’s little-magic began to itch, deep under his breastbone. A tiny scratch as yet but something to beware.
Trouble.
The trader Van Gast was after had set up in a corner. The blast of vivid pink-and-gold-striped silk butted up against the temple of Herjan, chief of the gods, the one all the others deferred to in thought and wisdom, the god to pray to when you needed an answer. Trust Haban to try to make himself look wise by courting Herjan’s adherents. Van Gast slid in between the silks into a space heavy with the scents of incense, mint and money. Haban clapped his hands in delight, his mouth a beaming white crescent against his polished dark skin.
“Van Gast, you dog! It’s been too long. Sit, sit.” He clapped his hands smartly twice. “Boy, refreshments, at once.”
A small lad, skinny as Haban was expansive but with the same burnished skin, darted out into the square. The flap of the awning fell back into place and a beggar flicked a glance their way. The itch grew worse as Van Gast made himself comfortable on the bright silk cushions that littered the vast, intricately woven rug worth half a ship. Haban might always protest he was just a poor honest trader, and reasonably honest he might be, but poor was one thing he could never be accused of. Which was why Van Gast was here.
“So,” Haban said. “Van Gast comes to Estovan, and not only that, but to me. You have something. Something good. I know it, I can tell by the way you walk. Something very good.”
Not a question, a statement. Haban’s little-magics at work, ones that had made him one of the richest traders along the western coast. Van Gast let his mouth twitch in a noncommittal smile. He’d been saving this for a couple of months now, since they’d taken the Sea Witch and marooned her crew, saving it to bring to Haban, who would know where to lay it off and give Van Gast the biggest price. Best not to seem too eager though, or Haban would pounce like a cat on a mouse, and when he haggled, it had sharp claws.
“Possibly I have something that may be worthy of you.”
Haban shook with laughter, holding his belly as though the movement would shake his guts loose. “Oh, I know you have. The Sea Witch, I bet a thousand gold sharks that was you who took her, and I know what was on it. Oh yes, a very fine shipment, and not only in jewels and goods. Did you like her?”
“Like her? Oh, the girl. Not my type.” Not Josie, and what sort of racketeer was he to pass up a tumble when it came his way? The sort he could never admit to becoming without being laughed off his ship.
Haban shook so hard, his guts falling out seemed a real possibility. “Oh, Van Gast, so enigmatic, but I know, ha! Yes, all the world knows the sort of dog you are. You’re a rack, no? But a discreet one, I admire that. Ah, but there are many people unhappy. Many, many. Not least her father, though for the loss of the dowry and the trade agreement it was to seal, not the daughter.”
“People are always very unhappy to see me, it’s true. Especially when we meet at sea.”
The boy slid through the awning with a silver tray piled with steaming plates of delicacies that made Van Gast’s stomach growl. A pot of mint tea balanced precariously among the plates. The beggar was still just outside, pretending not to watch. The itch in Van Gast’s chest made the growl in his stomach fade away—the little-magic that told him when trouble was on its way.
Haban had the boy put the tray between them and they began to pick at the sweetmeats. They toasted each other in mint tea and took tiny sips of the scalding liquid.
“So, come on, dog, what have you got?”
“Ah, nothing much, I doubt you’d be interested. Not rich enough for a man of your standing.” Van Gast reached into a pocket sewn into the inside of his shirt and pulled out something in a closed fist.
Haban tried to keep his eyes placid, but they widened when he noticed that Van Gast couldn’t quite close his fingers over what he held. If Van Gast hadn’t known better, he’d have thought the trader was holding in drool.
He turned his hand over and relaxed his fingers. The find of a lifetime—a single, perfect diamond. “Her father must have been keen for trade. Who was he sending her to?”
Haban licked at dry lips, unable to contain his surprise. “Kyr’s mercy, Van, it’s huge! I don’t know. One of the Yelen’s daughters, and all secret secret. No one knows where she was bound. I can’t sell this here, Van. He’d know it was his, there can’t be two like that in the world. Boy!”
The boy scuttled into view from behind a curtain and staggered when he saw the diamond, his eyes wider than the sky.
“Boy, you get outside. Get down the corner to the bodyguard pen, get the biggest, meanest one you can find. A blond one, one of the Gan if you can. Tell him I’m doubling his wages if he gets up here now or sooner. Then you keep your eyes open out there, understood? I want to know who’s watching.”
Only Van Gast knew who was watching. The waft of the awning, the itch in his ribs told him. The beggar outside looked as though he was talking to himself, but the man from Kyr’s mummers earlier stood behind him looking far too nonchalant. Listening?
“Look, can you take this or not? And what have you got in return?”
“Kyr’s mercy, that’s worth more than everything I have here.” Haban cocked his head to one side, considering, his eyes narrowed and shrewd. “Old Haban has never ripped you or twisted you, yes?”
Van Gast lifted one shoulder and twitched a lip, all but saying “Not yet.”
Haban spread his hands wide. “Van, I would not, for my reputation. Half my trade comes from racks and they’d not be pleased if I did. I’d have no trade left. But this, this will be hard. I’ll need to ship it, I can’t sell it here. Wait, wait,” he said when Van Gast shifted impatiently. “I have something, something to cover part of the cost. The rest…the rest I will owe. Gold, a favor, a woman, whatever you ask, I
will give. On my reputation, and may you blacken it as you wish should I fail you.”
Van Gast considered. The little-magic, that thing that some men had, that all racketeer captains had, that set them apart from the norm. A talent of some sort, such as a fisherman who always knew where the fish were, a rack captain who could sniff out a dead-in-the-water merchant. Traders like Haban who could tell a fake from the real thing at a glance. Only Van Gast’s little-magic was knowing when there was trouble, when to get the fuck out of town. His was telling him to get out, now, the itch not an itch anymore but a burn. If he wanted shot of this diamond, to make anything from it, he had to take what he could. He could trust Haban to a point, and whatever he got now was better than nothing, and better than a diamond he couldn’t sell and was instantly recognizable. “What have you got?”
“Ah, you’ll like this.” Haban flicked back a part of the rug behind him and there sat two glass daggers, filled with some golden, oily liquid.
Glass daggers? What good were they?
“Rarer than a lion’s feathers, these. Oh yes, only pair I ever managed to get hold of. Beautiful aren’t they?” Haban lifted one up and let the light fall through the glass to reveal the etching, so fine it made a spider’s web look crass. “Wedding knives.”
“What, you get married and stab each other? I’ve heard a wedding is the death of freedom but—”
Haban looked at him sternly. “Do not mock what you don’t know, Van. Whatever you racks think of marriage…but I digress. Olar wedding knives. You know the Olar? No, I suppose not. No sea there for you to sail. Very far inland, a month’s caravan or more to reach them. Their Yelen, they are wary of women, those who would marry for money, status. So they make these, wedding knives. On the night of the wedding you drink the liquid inside the dagger, one each. And then you stab the other in the heart. If they marry true, for love, then the glass dissolves and they live. If not…well, if not, you’ve found out that you shouldn’t have married that person, no? And yet you still have all your money. They take weddings, and money, very seriously in Olar.”