by Iain Lindsay
Father Kef’s hooded form shrugged. “Oases attract all the travelers. Ancient courtesy dictates that no blood is spilled at an oasis, but…” Another lift of the shoulders.
“But no one’s counted on courtesy for a long time…” Tremaine agreed. “Well, if the Storm has to blast a hole through a fleet to get that water, she’ll do it.”
“I do not doubt.” Kef said. “Do you have a plan? What you will do when you locate the Princess?”
Tremaine sniffed, looking at the chart. “Smash in, me and Gulbrand will snatch her, and get out as quick we can.” He gave the man a nervous grin. “Don’t worry, Father, we’ve done this kind of thing before…”
“Not against the Volt, you haven’t.” Father Kef said, holding the Captain’s gaze.
“And you have?” Tremaine knew that he was letting the heat get to him, but he couldn’t help it. Father Kef shook his head.
“Not against the Volt, but the Nhkari have roamed the southlands for thousands of years. That is why the Blue Princes chose us to be their guides, after all.” He said, pointing at the far eastern side of the hills. “Here, there will be cover from the sands. Some vegetation, water, even life.” His finger moved to their nearer, western flanks. “Here, the flying will be tough. The winds hit these hills full of fury.”
“So we don’t fly down the western edge,” Tremaine rolled his eyes. Was his sister’s counsellor really trying to tell him how to pilot his boat?
“But the Blue Princes will also be taking the refuge of the eastern edge, if they are clever.” The old man said. “There is another way. There are trails through the canyons and gorges of these hills, but the trails change every season as the sand fills some, and unblocks others. A few are even large enough for the Storm.”
Tremaine’s eyes squinted at the man. “You want us to get in as low as possible…”
“Then move out on foot. I can find the fastest ways through these lands. Not ‘smash and snatch’ as you say…”
“But sneak and steal…” The Captain finished the man’s sentence. “I’m beginning to like you already, Father – even if you do work for my sister.”
“Obliged to be of service, Lord Tremaine,” Father Kef said, and Tremaine was certain that the man poking fun at him. “One other thing…”
“Yes, what is it?”
“The boy. Talin.” Father Kef paused at the door. “Do you know where he comes from? Why the Mnema hunt him?”
Tremaine made sure that he kept on moving very casually as he rolled up the chart. Should he tell this man about the Ship’s Medallion? He didn’t understand its significance yet. All elements of the Boreal Chambers were disposed of by the Breakers when an airship came to the end of their lives, which, unless they had suffered calamity or bloodshed, wasn’t very often. This had the stink of mystery, and Tremaine didn’t like mysteries.
“I do not know, Father.” He lied. “All I can say is that Talin is a member of my crew, and whatever is coming for him will have to go through us too.”
“It will, Captain.” The Father said darkly, before adding. “There must be something strange about the youth. Something…sorcerous.” Tremaine heard the word spit from Kef’s mouth. No one liked sorcery, it seemed.
“Talin is my Hand, Father Kef.” Tremaine turned to say fully at the older man. The warning in his voice was clear.
“Just make sure that he is not your doom as well, Lord Tremaine.” The man turned and left the state room, leaving the Captain in a worst mood than he had found him in.
27. Breaker’s Mark
Garn picked at a bit of loose skin around his temple. The large man knew that he shouldn’t – that he should leave it alone, but the itchy heat of it had been driving him mad ever since the scab had started to form the morning after the fight.
“Not so much a fight,” the bog man grumbled to himself, remembering how the rangy man with the blackbeard had bowled him over. He should have been better than that. He was better than that, the northerner growled to himself. “I’ve fought trolls and knights and Champions, and it’s some crokking pirate that gets the better of me,” another growl, another painful prod on the graze where the wood had met his face. He leaned back on the stool, back against the warm stones of the fireplace of the inn. The Drowned Man was deserted at this time of the day (thanks to his master’s mark and promise of gold to the innkeep, as well as his strange eyes). Garn would have liked a few comrades to share tales with – and to buy him a flagon or two.
‘How come a big man like you lost?’ He imagined them asking in wonder and fear.
Because I don’t usually fight wrapped like the dead in wet linen, or in the middle of a firestorm, either, the Garn, in a rare moment of self-reflection, noted. Garn didn’t like failing. And he didn’t like being reminded how he had failed. That was because failing usually gets you killed in his line of work.
It had been the same in the Empress-Protector’s war pits along with the other thralls. It had been the same on the battlefields of Old Heim next to his slave-soldier brothers and sisters, and it had been the same way back when he had been the largest boy in a mountain town far to the north, in House Spearlock lands. Be bigger. Be tougher. Fight better.
A creak on the floorboards and a hiss from the door under the stairs, the one that led to the largest suite of rooms that the Drowned Man had to offer, and the ones that the Overseer had, of course, requisitioned.
“Silly old bugger,” Garn sniffed at the air, wondering if it was true what they said, that you could smell sorcery. Being bored, and already having had two too many flagons of the inn’s finest, he lurched to his feet, crossed the space to the door, and set his eye to the crack in the wood.
The Overseer was kneeling on the floor of his large room, hissing and shaking in his weird little voice. Was he…crying? Garn thought. It was true that the cruel little man had taken the loss of their quarry hard when Garn had re-emerged from the smokes and fires emptyhanded. He had even dared to slap the barbarian with his gloves as he shouted obscenities at him! If there hadn’t been the promise of pay that the Breaker’s mark inscribed on his master’s skin assured him, Garn wondered if he would have strangled the horrible Jekkers in his sleep by now.
Not that he seemed to sleep much. He was always up earlier than Garn – which wasn’t exactly a miraculous feet, but it did mean that Garn hadn’t had any chance for his usual petty thieving and snooping that he had always enjoyed with his previous clients.
And he doesn’t eat much, either… Garn thought, his eye looking down to see that there was a wooden bowl in front of the Overseer. But it didn’t have stew or meat or even a bit of cheese in it, no. It held fractures of glass from that round thing he had carried, before some Nhka broke it for him.
“Are you sure? Are you sure this is the way…?” He heard Jekkers hiss and grumble, but Garn didn’t think that there was anything else in the room with him.
“It must be…” Jekkers whispered back at himself, his voice strangely sibilant.
Garn watched as the man sieved through the broken fragments of glass to select one, little thing. He thought he saw a flash of it; a triangle between thumb and forefinger, no bigger than a thumbnail?
Gulp. Then, as fast as a snake, the man had shoved the object in his mouth, and swallowed it whole.
Eurgh, Garn pulled a face. What sort of twisted game was this man playing? He stepped back, shaking his head as he returned to the taps to pour himself another flagon of ale. He had to step over the body of the unconscious bartender behind the bar, a bruise the size of Garn’s fist blooming on the fat man’s cheek. He hadn’t wanted Garn to be drinking so much without coin up front, and the thrall had objected quite seriously.
“Barbarian!” the shrill voice suddenly exploded from the room as the door was swept open, and there stood the Overseer.
He looks bleedin’ terrible, Garn had a moment to think, registering the tracery of black veins spreading across his entire face, under the botchy and oddly shiny grey s
kin. His eyes were pits of blackness, and he was licking his lips constantly. He moved strangely too, now, quick, jerky movements followed by slower, gliding ones.
This smells like sorcery… Garn’s upper lip curled.
“I knew where we go, barbarian.” The black orbs betrayed no hint of emotion. “I can feel it.”
Garn suppressed an involuntary shudder. “Where to next, boss?”
“East. We have to head east.” Jekkers turned his head and stared at the wall, and Garn had the unsettling notion that he was also staring through it.
“There’s nothing east of Marduk but desert, boss…” Garn added helpfully.
“Nuh…not true!” A worried grunt from the floor. Oh. He’s woken up. Garn reached down to pluck the innkeeper and lift him one-handed into the air.
“’You talking to us, friend?” Garn glowered.
“Blue Princes. They’ve been running yachts out east every day now,” the barman hissed. “Some say they’ve got some big deal going down – but everyone knows they ply the Burnt Lands. If you want to head east, I know someone who knows someone. I can get you on one of their boats…”
“Well, that is interesting news.” the Overseer purred, in his new sibilant tone that made the barbarian shiver with unease.
28. Casimar’s Oasis
Casimar’s Oasis appeared on the horizon like a finger pointing to the moon, clearly visible even in the dark. Water. Holder’s words echoed in Tal’s mind as he sat, legs up on the bench under the forecastle window. He was shattered from his long stint on the rigging, and had been snoozing in the kitchen and crew area as Sevesti worked, clattering bowls and sorting food.
Maybe that is why it is so easy for her to reach me, Talin thought muzzily. His sleep had been an overlay of blue-tinged dreams, and now, half awake, he could still feel them clinging to his consciousness.
“We’ll be there in a little while,” Sevesti yawned, “thank the Gold. Last drop of water has gone from the barrels already.”
Talin knew that fact only too well, with Holder in his mind. Lura had recovered from her heatstroke – somewhat – and had returned to the rigging as Odestin had relieved the Quartermaster at the wheel. Father Kef was nowhere to be seen, and Talin presumed that he must have eventually descended to his own bunk for some sleep.
Talin tried to puzzle out the sight of the Oasis ahead of the Storm as they slid towards it. Above them, the sky was once again alive with the hard points of stars, and straight ahead was a wide stone tower that reached a few hundred meters into the air. Clustered at its base where the darker shadows of vegetation, trees with sharp fronds, and scrubby bushes.
“There’s the Tallyman, to the north,” Sevesti paused to point out the window.
“The what?” Talin rubbed tired eyes.
“Don’t know your stars, boy?” Sevesti blustered in good-natured horror. “The Tallyman is the brightest star to the north. We airshipper’s have been using him to guide by for years, because he’s a constant.” Talin looked and saw the hardest light to the north of the Oasis, high in the sky. “He dips low in the summer, and an Old Gravos legend says that’s because he is so busy counting the sins of summer, ha! In winter he rides high, like he is now.”
“Oh,” Talin nodded to another zigzag of shapes low in the Eastern horizon behind the Tower. “What’s that one?”
“Bah.” Sevesti pulled a face, making the three-fingered sign to avert evil. “That’s the Octopus; those outward stars are his tentacles, see? It’s an evil sign, Tal, as the legends state that the Octopus is trying to seize the world and drag it down to the Abyss.” Sevesti pulled a garish face, then shrugged. “But they’re just stories from dead empires, lad. It’s never managed to do it all the years I’ve been in the air.”
“How long have you been up here?” Talin asked. He thought that Chef Sevesti was almost the kindest-seeming of the pirates of the Storm; good-natured and round, eager to laugh. At his questioning now, though, the Chef looked grim.
“You can see I’m an Izant, right?” he gestured to his terracotta skin. “You know much of the Izant Islands?”
Tal shook his head. All he knew was that they were a rich trading nation, allied to the Protectorate. And that they had the Falcetti Air Yard on their land, he thought. The finest airship builders of all three.
“You poor heathens,” Sevesti ghosted a smile on his broad face. “Not having the luxury of an Izant heritage, that is. The Islands are ruled over by the Family – they own everything, everyone. The best airships, the best silks, the best food…”
Talin began to suspect that the Chef might be biased.
“…only not so good if you manage to fall out of favor with them. Like I did.” A grimace. “I was trained at the Iza-Dureyn Culinary Academy… Oh, you should see what I could cook in my youth! Seven-tiered cakes with gold baubles, sugar replicas of the Yulayenne Castle itself…” The Chef looked blissful for a moment, before his face darkened. “But one of the young Marquis’s took a dislike to me. A personal matter, and so I decided to teach him a lesson, I…”
“Hands!” Tremaine’s shout broke the Chef’s story, who nodded at the boy.
“Another time, master Tal. Go see what the Captain wants, quick now.”
Talin shook the sleep from his head as he hastened from the Forecastle, to see Tremaine had replaced Odestin at the wheel, and Lura was sitting on one of the lower crossbeams, while Father Kef was emerging from below decks with a groggy-looking Gulbrand following him.
“We’re almost there. We get water and rest for a half watch – but I want us leaving at first light, hear me?” Tremaine looked tired and annoyed, and Talin wondered if the man had taken any sleep while the crew had shared out their rest and work shifts. A chorus of ayes, and Tremaine gestured to Father Kef.
“The Father knows the area, so we take our lead from him in this – and then afterward he’ll be guiding us down to intersect with the Blue Princes. You all know what that means.” Tremaine’s eyes found the Quartermaster’s, who nodded once, as Tremaine started ordering the tasks for the mooring.
“The Captain’ll want us ready to fight tomorrow.” A light thump as Lura landed beside Tal. She looked better than she had done in the heat, but still a little cautious as she moved. “I saw you with the buckler and blade at Burandin’s… You were quick, strong for your size – but you need a lot more training. Come see me tomorrow, after we up-anchor and I’ll run you through some of the basic drills.”
“Yes, Master Rigger,” Talin said, groaning inwardly. More work?
The approach to Casimar’s was easy in the gentle airs of the night, and Talin saw that his initial guesses had been correct. The Oasis itself was a well – but a huge tower well with an open top, almost as wide as the Storm itself was. At various points between the stones there had been driven large metal spikes and jags of metal, which Lura threw lassoes to catch, as Gulbrand unwound the fore anchor winch slowly. A terrifying moment as the Storm wavered and threatened to rock against the stone tower itself, before the distant thud of the massive iron anchor into the dirt below. Tal helped Gulbrand tighten the line, as Father Kef told them what they had to do next.
“Buckets, pails, casks – you need enough rope to lower them over the well all the way to the water within, or there are steps that go around the inside, if you don’t mind climbing up and down a few thousand paces for your water.”
Sevesti and Odestin worked to rope together large rafts of empty barrels, attaching to the largest jig that unpacked and swung out over the side of the airship as Gulbrand pushed the other end.
“Hold the weight.” The troll boomed, and all the crew – Tremaine included, braced the crane-jig’s ropes as they let them down, foot by foot, meter by meter, into the darkness. Pull, relax, pull. Feeling the lines move between them all, Tal once again had that sensation that they were all one creature. He could almost predict through the rope what had to happen next; who had to pull before they did, who was out of synch and who was in. Because
we are one, Holder emerged in his mind. All of you, are one with me.
The refilling process took a long time, and Talin would watch as the Octopus seemed to rise a little over the horizon by the time they had done.
“Water!” Holder’s voice echoed through Tal’s own, and a lazy smile swamped the boys features as he knew that the casks had found their destination, somewhere far below them in the dark.
“How does he know that?” Odestin laughed, but the shout of Lura (climbing out on the crane-jig) revealed that Talin had been right.
How did I know? Talin thought. I felt it through Storm-Holder. “A lucky guess,” he said to the blackbeard, who laughed all the same. But when Talin raised his eyes to see if any other of the crew remarked on his apparent sixth sense, it was only Father Kef who was regarding him steadily.
They made two such drops, filling every spare available cask and water pouch that they could by the same method, before Tremaine eventually called them to cease. It was near midnight, and they would only have a handful of hours before dawn.
So tired… Talin yawned, even as he took a deep swig of the proffered water pouch, finding it cool and sharp with minerals. The satisfied feeling of the creature that rode his mind at the sensation – or was it the other way around, and he rode its mind?
“Talin?” It as Father Kef, standing in front of him. “You should get some rest.”
“Okay…” Talin frowned. Why was Kef telling him to sleep? Because of the dreams. He wants me to tell him my dreams, he knew, and turned away before he could share his dark look with the older man. They are my dreams. My dreams with Storm-Holder, not for anyone else!
Odestin’s voice rose in a cheerful song as he splashed water over his head, before Gulbrand shouted at him to shut up. The crew were laying out blankets on the top deck and sleeping under the cool airs of the Oasis, but not for Tal. He retreated to the powder locker, there to fall into a deep slumber of blue and tranquil airs.