by Iain Lindsay
“What was that about?” Tal asked, faintly amused at what he had just seen. That woman had treated their strong and dangerous pirate-captain as little more than a spoiled child!
“You don’t get paid to wonder, Tal, help the crew with the silks.” Gulbrand was saying as he too, balanced a sack on his shoulder and turned to climb over the rails.
On the pier, the crew helped load the Burandin handcarts with the satchels of silk amidst the shouts of a busy dock, Tal’s eyes searched for the larger boy who had insulted his friend, but he couldn’t find him. The crowd of loaders appeared docile and quiet when actually working side-by-side with the ethereal tylaethi and the world’s largest heimr. It wasn’t long before they were finished, and the two humans gleefully clapped their hands and announced their intentions now at port.
“The Grapes – the finest Izantine cuisine in Marduk,” Sevesti groaned in satisfaction.
“The Inns of Needle Street!” Odestin shouted with glee.
“Ugh.” Lura climbed back up the side of their boat. “I have no desire for either poorly cooked human food or questionable human entertainment. I will guard the Storm while you are gone, gentlemen, and see if I can get that air fan fixed by morning.” Tal wanted to say something to her, but she had already flitted up the grab-lines and bounced onto the deck before he could.
“Come now, kid. Let’s see what sort of bargainer you are.” Gulbrand growled, following behind the small flock of handcarts attached to urchins that were bearing their goods away.
17. The Merchant Burandin
Talin felt overwhelmed as he followed the Quartermaster through the twisting and narrow streets of Marduk, weaving through small, cramped marketplaces thronging with people, past long brick warehouses where overseers shouted and rang work bells. He saw animals there weren’t the wild creatures of the far away plains, but instead work beasts or pets; lean desert dogs that followed their masters, tall horses with piebald colors, even a bear on a chain and a gaggle of stately flamingoes being corralled by a woman with a long staff.
“Tal, keep up,” Gulbrand’s deep voice ahead of him, as Talin picked up his pace. The people here too, weren’t like the ones at the Reach. There were a lot of the pale-skinned northerners of course, but they were hardly the majority. There were some with skins darker than Talin’s own, many with the ochre tans of the Izant Islands, and then – Nhkari.
Talin gasped. He had never seen any of his kind who did not wear a servant’s rags. Not that the tall, long-limbed honey-brown skinned people here looked important or rich; none of them wore the gold necklaces and rings that some of the merchants did – but they wore a mismatch of colorful silks or long, pale desert robes. A trio of them stood by the edge of one of the marketplaces, a man and two women, and all of them with ears bedecked with bone and shell earrings as they looked with stony faces at the crowd.
“Hey-!” The young man started to say, to draw their attention, but Gulbrand was already disappearing ahead of him. Did they come from the Susha? Would they know the tale of Serin and Degu?
But he had no time to question them as the Quartermaster directed them around a corner, to where the handcarts were disappearing into a wooden door in the brick wall.
“Burandin,” The heimr called as he stepped into a large open courtyard on the other side of the wall, with Tal following behind.
It wasn’t the workhouse that the youth was expecting, but looked more like a walled garden with wooden open galleries along the far side. Into these the younger servants were already stacking the silks, next to lines of crates, sacks, and barrels. The flagged patio of a house fenced one side of a wall, with bay trees in terracotta pots beside wooden doors, and a stone fountain sat in the middle of the courtyard, it’s fresh waters sounding a balm in the hot and dusty airs.
“Gulbrand, you’re still as big as a horse, I see,” laughed a pale-skinned portly man who sat on the lip of the fountain. He wore purple desert robes, and his smooth-shaved face was tanned. Tal could see thick rings of gold on his hands, and by the way that the servants avoided him, he assumed that this must be the merchant.
“And you’re still making yourself rich off the backs of others,” the heimr said with a hint of winter in his voice.
“When has the world ever been different?” the merchant shrugged, swatting at a fly. “I don’t think the Storm can hardly complain about my ethics now, can it?”
The heimr was silent, but Tal could see the tightening of the troll’s massive shoulders.
“Anyway. What negotiation can come of a dry tongue?” Burandin asked, clapping his hands together. As if they had been expected, one of the servants with a purple sash appeared, bearing a silver tray of glass cordials holding a pale liquid that fizzed as it was presented to them. Tal waited for the heimr to accept a glass, seeing him throw it back in one gulp before he did the same. Lemons, his senses told him, as he sneezed violently and almost dropped the fine glass. The mixture bubbled and fizzed on his tongue, not in an unpleasant way, but entirely new to him. It left his mouth feeling oddly cool and warm at the same time.
“Ha! Never had southern Citrus then?” Burandin laughed as he threw back the final glass. “Ah.” He said pleasingly. “It’s the only thing that keeps me on my feet in this heat.” The round man stood up with a groan, turning to survey the small stack of leather satchels that the Storm had brought.
“Not your usual haul, I must admit, War-Lag Gulbrand.”
“No one calls me that anymore,” the heimr growled, the small glass looking very fragile in his fist.
“But some remember it, even down here. Does your man know who you were, during the war?” Burandin raised an eyebrow at Tal, who remained silent.
“We didn’t come to talk about my past, Burandin – we came to talk coin.” Gulbrand’s hand tightened a little.
“Mightiest war-captain of the heimarian horde, or so they say,” the merchant continued, ignoring Gulbrand’s displeasure. “Killed an ogre singlehanded, and it took two complements of the Queen Guard to bring him in,” Burandin whistled appreciatively, although Tal was certain that the merchant was somehow making fun of the Quartermaster. But why? To show how much his fate had changed?
“Burandin…” The Quartermaster’s fist shook just a little.
“But the War-Lag Gulbrand went missing from the Queen’s prisons, vanished along with a Falcetti Caravel many years ago… What a tale, hey lad?” The merchant smiled, and Tal finally understood just what the man was doing. He’s trying to scare us, to show that he knows the Storm’s secrets, and can sell us out to the Protectorate any time he wants…
Chink! There was the delicate sound of glass breaking in the large troll’s fist, and Gulbrand opened his gauntlet over the servant’s silver tray to drop the sparkling dust that the glass had turned into. Tal saw the purple-sashed servant’s eyes grow round.
“How much are you offering for the silks, Burandin?” Gulbrand said, his voice now ice cold.
“Let’s see now… Six satchels, I presume a bolt each?”
A nod from the Quartermaster.
“But each bolt will have their weavers mark sown in… The satchels are clearly stamped…”
“You’ve never cared for that before,” the heimr started to scowl.
“Ten Ducats.” Burandin nodded.
Gulbrand spat onto the dusty earth. “I hope you mean ten each, old man…”
“Pfah. If they were freshly woven, this year’s fashion and not stolen perhaps.” Burandin’s tone was unimpressed. “Ten for the whole lot. It’ll be hard enough to ship them as they are without raising concern…”
“Thief!” Gulbrand suddenly roared, causing the servant to squeak and run back into the house, and the other servants to stop and cower where they were. “Thirty Ducats for the whole,” he growled, but Burandin however, just shook his head.
“Times are hard, and the Protectorate’s patrols are pushing closer than ever, Quartermaster.” The merchant said. “Twelve, and no more.”
<
br /> Gulbrand appeared to be shaking with fury, and Talin was suddenly very concerned that the heimr was about to do something very silly indeed.
“Uh, excuse me, Master Merchant?” Talin said quickly. “But it seems to me that you know who my Quartermaster here is, you know what he can do, and you’re trying to stiff him on a deal?” He said. Be proud of what you are, his mother’s words in Talin’s mind. Make them see you, fear you. Surely a little bit of Burandin must see, and be scared of the largest troll that anyone had ever known?
“Nice try, but I don’t take kindly to threats.” Burandin laughed in Tal’s face. “The War-lag here is handy with his mace I have no doubt, but his reward alone would make six measly bags of Izantine silks look like bread-money.”
“What?” Gulbrand shivered, took a step forward before his giant form suddenly trembled, and an uncertain look crossed his features. “Merchant – what have you done…” he growled, taking another hesitant step as his eyes started to flutter closed, and his shoulders hunched.
“Extract of poppy in your Citrus.” The merchant smiled, “to be honest, I am amazed that you’ve managed to stand this long.”
Gulbrand fell to one knee, his chest expanding and contracting like a bellows.
“Quartermaster!” Talin shook in fear. He felt no such poison in his system – the servant with the tray must have known which glass to offer. The youth reached for his long knife, but as his fingers closed on the hilt there was a sharp prod in his back. One of the sashed servants stood there, holding a spear levelled at him under a fierce scowl.
“I wouldn’t, young sir. Not unless you want to be thrown into the Mar along with the slops.” Burandin said in a cheerier tone as he carefully stepped around the gasping Quartermaster, who now had both mighty arms braced against the floor, shaking with the effort to remain conscious.
“And besides, I have a job for you. As soon as word came to me that the Storm was coming in, I knew that my day was going to get better. This poppy will keep your Quartermaster under for, ooh, a good night and a day I don’t doubt. More than enough time for you to get that Captain Tremaine of yours to deliver to me the reward price for the troll. Two hundred and fifty ducats, Protectorate coin or equivalent, please.” Burandin smiled, just as there was a heavy thud – the mightiest War-lag of the north had collapsed into the dust.
18. Where Are You?
The western horizon was burning the crimson pinks of evening as the balloon wobbled over the reeds and marshes of the Mardukki estuary.
“Bloody strange, if you ask me,” said Garn, leaning on the top railing of the platform as he looked down at the sight spread below them. The reed beds had slow-flowing water rills reaching through them like fingers, and a hazy mist, lit by the occasional soft glows of green, purple, and blue.
“Marsh gas, you fool.” Jekkers croaked from the singular chair of their cabin, where he was packing his things. He wondered what his less-than intelligent friend would make of the ribs when he saw them, although he didn’t have to wonder for long, as the first shadows emerged through the mist at them.
“Hell’s balls!” Garn burst out, looking at them as if they were made of cow dung. “I’ve heard about ‘em of course, but that’s not seeing ‘em is it? That’s just not right, if you ask me.”
“Oh, I don’t know – they have a certain elegance…” Jekkers muttered from his seat. His skin felt better in this wetter climate, and his lungs finally felt free and clear of the dust that had been plaguing him ever since the change.
The balloon had been lucky, the Southern Viper had whipped up at their back almost as if summoned, and they had sped across the lower half of the Susha to the estuary and the city beyond. There were shouts from up top, calls from the balloonist crew as different ballasts were raised and lowered, and the hot fires in the pipes that shot up to the balloon itself were carefully tamped or tended. The balloon dropped and swung towards the largest arch, lower and lower, until the passengers could see the rolling waters of the wide river, the small boats and the maze of flat-roofed buildings of the city clearly.
“Fire!” Their Captain shouted, as grappling hooks on small crossbows were fired in tandem over the ribs, two, three, five ropes winding and catching to jerk the slow-moving balloon into position.
“Ready to begin your employment, Garn?” Jekkers even found himself smiling. He had the Oculant securely in his pocket, and he was sure that it wouldn’t take him long to track down that impudent, thieving Nhka.
“Yes Overseer,” Garn grunted, in the manner of a man used to taking orders.
They waited as the balloon was secured more tightly by the teams that worked the Ribs, and pulley-lifts rose to meet them. Counterweights were dropped, and box-platforms shot into the air to be slowed as they reached the balloon carriage, to the sound of the Captain’s whistle.
“All off for Marduk! All off!” She was shouting, with a note of relief, Jekkers thought.
Leaving the balloon was the trickier part. A wooden plank was laid, and poles were braced by balloonist and lift operator as the few merchants, traders, the Overseer and Garn crabbed across to begin their descent.
“Heave!” Their operator called and waved a yellow flag, and beneath them other counter balances removed as the lift jerked and shuddered downwards.
“I bet people pay a pretty penny to see this,” Garn observed, looking greedily at the city from the height of the birds. The Overseer ignored him until they had thudded on the edge of a fat jetty built around the rib’s base. Here there was a mill of the unwashed and the optimistic, guides offering tours of Marduk, urchins offering the services of various merchants, or beggars who had managed to avoid the lift operators kicks and punches.
“Clear off!” Garn moved purposefully ahead, shoving trader, urchin, and beggar out of their way alike as he bellowed and stomped.
Yes, this man was going to be useful indeed, Jekkers grinned to himself. His hobnail boots rang on the wooden boards of the docks, where his thrall had more work cut out as he elbowed and shoved his way up to the moderately quieter plaza.
“Where we heading, boss?” Garn said, casting a longing look at the line of taverns that stretched to one side of them.
The Overseer scowled at the sky. The lanterns were being lit. It was evening, and almost the perfect time for him to complete his work. It would be better to strike in the small hours of the night, he reasoned, telling himself that it had nothing to do with the sudden temptation of finer wine and redder meats.
“We take rooms.” The Overseer hissed, fishing in his pockets for the small stash of ducats he had brought. Not enough to get far, but enough to turn the heads of a few guards and innkeepers if they had to.
“And food?” Garn started to snatch for the money purse.
“Ah!” Jekkers pulling the purse out of reach. “Not your usual drinking hole, barbarian.” He cursed. “I need an establishment where we can come and go unobserved and with an innkeep that won’t ask questions. Someone that serves their meat bleeding, you hear me?”
Garn grinned. “I can find that, boss.”
“Good.” The Overseer took out two ducats and placed them into the larger man’s hands. “Tell the innkeep there will be another for information about an airship called the Storm.”
Garn nodded, and waded head and shoulders over the crowd towards the taverns.
Behind him, Jekkers withdrew himself to the edge of a wall under a tall tree with long, frond-like leaves. It was quieter in this nook, and he could see the gaggling procession of people and traders and street dogs clearly as he crouched against the wall, pulling the Oculant from his pocket. He felt that now-familiar flush of unease break around him whenever he revealed the device; although it was becoming less noticeable now that he was used to it. Was it his imagination, or did the nearby stall holders shrug their shawls and robes around them a little tighter; did they look over their shoulder in passing alarm?
“Speak to me, my beauty, where are you?” Jekkers hunched him
self over the device, watching as the small triangular tooth bobbed and pointed in one direction. Eastwards into the city, toward the areas of the established merchants.
“Mister? Sell or trade?” A voice said from the press of the plaza, and Jekkers hissed.
There stood two tall Nhkari, not dressed in slave chains and canvas clothing, but instead the brightly-colored desert robes and baggy pants, their ears bedecked with bone and shell ornaments. One was a woman with braided hair and the other an older man, both had staffs in their hands.
They did not look like traders or servants.
“Begone with you, filth!” The Overseer spat, curling his greying hands over the Oculant and its soft bluish glow.
“What’s that?” The woman said slowly in a low voice as she, eyed the glowing device, as her friend took a step closer.
“You don’t look very well, friend, let us take you to a healer…” The man said.
“Get back to whatever hole you came from!” Jekkers snapped to his feet, producing the blade that had been gifted to him by the Lords of the Reach. It was shaped like a curl of a leaf or a sickly spray of water, and had horrid runes marked across it. Jekker’s eyes were full-dark orbs as he grinned at the interrupters.
“Mnema! Mnemoth!” The woman hissed.
“You were right,” the male Nhkari whispered to his colleague as he dropped into a defensive crouch, and then, turning to Jekkers: “You and your kind aren’t welcome here, demon.”
“Demon? Demon?” The Overseer started to snicker, and then to chuckle, and then to laugh as he took a step forward. “Is that what you think I am?” As fast as a striking snake, the Overseer’s blade flickered forward, the wooden staff that the Nhkari man was holding shattered, followed by a scream.