Skifr grinned back. “Funny, eh?”
“Little bit,” said Brand.
Skifr slapped him across the cheek and he tottered against a post, dropped his sack on his foot, and was left stupidly blinking. “Are you teaching me to fight?”
“No. But I see no reason you shouldn’t be ready too.”
“Thorn?” Her mother was offering a hand to help her up. “What happened?”
Thorn pointedly didn’t take it. “I suppose you’d know if you’d been seeing your daughter off instead of snaring our helmsman.”
“Gods, Hild, you’ve no forgiving in you at all, have you?”
“My father called me Thorn, damn it!”
“Oh, your father, yes, him you’ll forgive anything—”
“Maybe because he’s dead.”
Thorn’s mother’s eyes were already brimming with tears, as usual. “Sometimes I think you’d be happier if I joined him.”
“Sometimes I think I would be!” And Thorn dragged up her sea-chest, her father’s sword rattling inside as she swung it onto her shoulder and stomped toward the ship.
“I like that contrary temperament of hers,” she heard Skifr saying behind her. “We’ll soon have that flowing down the right channels.”
One by one they clambered aboard and set their sea-chests at their places. Much to Thorn’s disgust Brand took the other back oar, the two of them wedged almost into each other’s laps by the tapering of the ship’s sides.
“Just don’t jog my elbow,” she growled, in a filthier mood than ever.
Brand wearily shook his head. “I’ll just throw myself in the sea, shall I?”
“Could you? That’d be perfect.”
“Gods,” muttered Rulf, at his place on the steering platform above them. “Will I have to listen to you two snap at each other all the way up the Divine like a pair of mating cats?”
“More than likely,” said Father Yarvi, squinting up. The sky was thick with cloud, Mother Sun barely even a smudge. “Poor weather for picking out a course.”
“Bad weatherluck,” moaned Dosduvoi, from his oar somewhere near the middle of the boat. “Awful weatherluck.”
Rulf puffed out his grizzled cheeks. “Times like this I wish Sumael was here.”
“Times like this and every other time,” said Father Yarvi, with a heavy sigh.
“Who’s Sumael?” muttered Brand.
Thorn shrugged. “How the hell should I know who he is? No one tells me anything.”
Queen Laithlin watched them push away with one palm on her child-swollen belly, gave Father Yarvi a terse nod, then turned and was gone toward the city, her gaggle of thralls and servants scurrying after. This crew were men who blew with the wind, so there was only a sorry little gathering left to wave them off. Thorn’s mother was one, tears streaking her cheeks and her hand raised in farewell until the wharf was a distant speck, then the citadel of Thorlby only a jagged notching, then Gettland fading into the gray distance above the gray line of Mother Sea.
The thing about rowing, you face backward. Always looking into the past, never the future. Always seeing what you’re losing, never what you’ve got to gain.
Thorn put a brave face on it, as always, but a brave face can be a brittle thing. Rulf’s narrowed eyes were fixed ahead on the horizon. Brand kept to his stroke. If either of them saw her dashing the tears on her sleeve they had nothing to say about it.
THE SECOND LESSON
Roystock was a reeking spew of wooden shops, piled one on the other and crammed onto a rotting island at the mouth of the Divine River. The place spilled over with yammering beggars and swaggering raiders, rough-handed dockers and smooth-talking merchants. Its teetering wharves were choked by strange boats with strange crews and stranger cargoes, taking on food and water, selling off goods and slaves.
“Gods damn it I need a drink!” snarled Odda, as the South Wind scraped alongside her wharf and Koll sprang ashore to make her fast.
“I might be persuaded to join you,” said Dosduvoi. “As long as there are no dice involved. I have no luck at dice.” Brand could have sworn the South Wind rose a few fingers in the water when he heaved himself ashore. “Care to join us, boy?”
It was a sore temptation after the hell of hard work and hard words, bad weather and bad tempers they’d been through on the way across the Shattered Sea. Brand’s hopes for the wondrous voyage had so far proved a great deal more wondrous than the voyage itself, the crew less a family bound tight by a common goal than a sackful of snakes, spitting poison at each other as though their journey was a struggle that could have only one winner.
Brand licked his lips as he remembered the taste of Fridlif’s ale going down. Then he caught sight of Rulf’s disapproving face, and remembered the taste of Fridlif’s ale coming back up, and chose to stand in the light. “I’d best not.”
Odda spat in disgust. “One drink never hurt anyone!”
“One didn’t,” said Rulf.
“Stopping at one is my problem,” said Brand.
“Besides, I have a better use for him.” Skifr slipped between Brand and Thorn, one long arm hooking each of their necks. “Fetch weapons, my sprouts. It is past time the education began!”
Brand groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was fight. Especially to fight Thorn, who’d been jostling his oar at every stroke and sneering at his every word since they left Thorlby, no doubt desperate to even the score. If the crew were snakes, she was the most venomous of the lot.
“I want you all back here before midday!” yelled Yarvi as most of his crew began to melt away into the mazy alleys of Roystock, then muttered under his breath to Rulf, “We stop overnight we’ll never get this lot started again. Safrit, make sure none of them kill anyone. Especially not each other.”
Safrit was in the midst of buckling on a knife only just this side of a sword, and a well-used one at that. “A man bent on self-destruction will find his way there sooner or later.”
“Then make sure it’s later.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve a notion how I do that?”
“Your tongue’s sharp enough to goad a tree to movement.” Which brought a mad giggle from Koll as he knotted the rope. “But if that fails you, we both know you’re not too shy to stick them with your dagger instead.”
“All right, but I swear no oaths.” Safrit nodded to Brand. “Try and keep my Death-flirting son off that mast, will you?”
Brand looked at Koll, and the lad flashed him a mischief-loving grin. “Don’t suppose you’ve a notion how I do that?”
“If only,” snorted Safrit, and with a sigh she headed into town, while Rulf set a few who’d drawn short lots to scrubbing down the deck.
Brand clambered onto the wharf, firm boards seeming treacherous after so long on the shifting water, groaning as he stretched out muscles stiff from rowing and shook out clothes stiff with salt.
Skifr was frowning at Thorn with hands on hips. “Do we need to strap down your chest?”
“What?”
“A woman’s chest can make trouble in a fight, swinging about like sacks of sand.” Skifr snaked her hand out and before Thorn could wriggle away gave her chest an assessing squeeze. “Never mind. That won’t be a problem for you.”
Thorn glared at her. “Thanks for that.”
“No need for thanks, I am paid to teach you!” The old woman hopped back aboard the South Wind, leaving Brand and Thorn facing each other once again, wooden weapons in hand, he nearest to the town, she with the sea at her back.
“Well, children? Do you await an invitation by eagle?”
“Here?” Thorn frowned down at the few paces of narrow wharf between them, cold Mother Sea slapping at the supports below.
“Where else? Fight!”
With a growl Thorn set to work, but with so little space all she could do was jab at him. It was easy for Brand to fend her efforts off with his shield, pushing her back a quarter-step each time.
“Don’t tickle him!” barked Skifr, �
�Kill him!”
Thorn’s eyes darted about for an opening but Brand gave her no room, easing forward, herding her toward the end of the wharf. She came at him with her usual savagery, their shields clashing, grating, but he was ready, used his weight to doggedly shove her back. She snarled and spat, her boots scraping at the mossy boards, flailed at him with her sword but the blows were weak.
It was inevitable. With a despairing cry Thorn toppled off the end of the wharf and splashed into the welcoming arms of Mother Sea. Brand winced after her, very much doubting this would make a year of rowing beside her any easier.
Kalyiv was a long, long way off, but it was starting to seem farther than ever.
The crew chuckled to each other over the result. Koll, who’d shinned up to the South Wind’s yard as usual in spite of his mother’s warnings, whooped from above.
Skifr put long finger and thumb to her temples and gently rubbed at them. “Inauspicious.”
Thorn flung her shield onto the wharf and dragged herself up by a barnacle-crusted ladder, soaked to the skin and white with fury.
“You seem distressed,” said Skifr. “Is the test not fair?”
Thorn forced through her clenched teeth, “The battlefield is not fair.”
“Such wisdom in one so young!” Skifr offered out Thorn’s fallen practice sword. “Another go?”
The second time she went into the sea even faster. The third she ended up on her back tangled with the South Wind’s oars. The fourth she beat at Brand’s shield so hard she broke off the end of her practice sword. Then he barged her off the wharf again.
By now a merry crowd had gathered on the docks to watch. Some crew from their ship, some crew from others, some folk from the town come to laugh at the girl being knocked into the sea. There was even some lively betting on the result.
“Let’s stop,” begged Brand. “Please.” The only outcomes he could see were enraging her further or going into the sea himself, and neither particularly appealed.
“Damn your please!” snarled Thorn, setting herself for another round. No doubt she’d still have been tumbling into the sea by the light of Father Moon if she’d been given the chance, but Skifr steered her broken sword down with a gentle fingertip.
“I think you have entertained the good folk of Roystock enough. You are tall and you are strong.”
Thorn stuck her jaw out. “Stronger than most men.”
“Stronger than most boys in the training square, but …” Skifr flopped one lazy hand out toward Brand. “What is the lesson?”
Thorn spat on the boards, and wiped a little stray spit from her chin, and kept sullen silence.
“Do you like the taste of salt so much you wish to try him again?” Skifr walked to Brand and seized him by the arms. “Look at his neck. Look at his shoulders. What is the lesson?”
“That he is stronger.” Fror stood with his forearms dangling over the South Wind’s rail, rag and block in his hands. Might’ve been the first time Brand had heard him speak.
“Exactly so!” called Skifr. “I daresay this tight-lipped Vansterman knows battle. How did you get that scar, my dove?”
“I was milking a reindeer and she fell on me,” said Fror. “She was ever so sorry afterward, but the damage was done.” And Brand wondered if he winked his misshapen eye.
“Truly a hero’s mark, then,” grunted Thorn, curling her lip.
Fror shrugged. “Someone must bring in the milk.”
“And someone must hold my coat.” Skifr whipped off her cloak of rags and tossed it to him.
She was lean as a whip, narrow-waisted as a wasp, wound about with strips of cloth, coiled with belts and straps, bristling with knives and hooks, pouches and picks, scrags, rods, papers and devices Brand could not guess at the purpose of.
“Have you never seen a grandmother without her cloak before?” And from behind her back she brought an ax with a shaft of dark wood and a thin, bearded blade. A beautiful weapon, snakes of strange letters etched into the bright steel. She held up her other hand, thumb folded in and fingers pressed together. “Here is my sword. A blade fit for the songs, no? Put me in the sea, boy, if you can.”
Skifr began to move. It was a baffling performance, lurching like a drunkard, floppy as a doll, and she swung that ax back and forth, knocking the boards and striking splinters. Brand watched her over his shield’s rim, trying to find some pattern to it, but he’d no idea where her next footstep might fall. So he waited for the ax to swing wide, then aimed a cautious swipe at her.
He could hardly believe how fast she moved. His wooden blade missed her by a hair as she darted in, caught the rim of his shield with that hooked ax and dragged it away, slipped past his sword arm and jabbed him hard in the chest with her fingertips, making him grunt and stagger back on his heels.
“You are dead,” she said.
The ax flashed down and Brand jerked his shield up to meet it. But the blow never came. Instead he winced as Skifr’s fingers jabbed him in the groin, and looking down saw her smirking face beneath the bottom rim of his shield.
“You are dead twice.”
He tried to barge her away but he might as well have barged the breeze. She somehow slipped around him, fingers jabbing under his ear and making his whole side throb.
“Dead.”
She chopped him in the kidneys with the edge of her hand as he tried to turn.
“Dead.”
He reeled around, teeth bared, sword flashing at neck height but she was gone. Something trapped his ankle, turning his war cry to a gurgle of shock, and he kept spinning, balance gone, lurching off the edge of the wharf—
He stopped, choking as something caught him around the neck.
“You are the deadest boy in Roystock.”
Skifr had one foot on his heel, the bearded blade of her ax hooked into his collar to keep him from falling, leaning sharply away to balance his weight. He was held helpless, teetering over the cold sea. The watching crowd had fallen silent, almost as dumbstruck at Skifr’s display as Brand was.
“You will not beat a strong man with strength any more than I will beat you with youth,” Skifr hissed at Thorn. “You must be quicker to strike and quicker when you do. You must be tougher and cleverer, you must always look to attack, and you must fight without honor, without conscience, without pity. Do you understand?”
Thorn slowly nodded. Of all those in the training square, she’d been the one who hated most being taught. But she’d been the one quickest to learn.
“Whatever happened here?” Dosduvoi had strolled up and stood staring at Brand as he dangled spluttering over the water.
“They’re training,” called Koll, who’d leaned out from the mast to flip a copper coin nimbly across his knuckles. “Why are you back so soon?”
“I lost terribly at dice.” He rubbed sadly at his great forearm, where a couple of silver rings had gone missing. “Awful luck, it was.”
Skifr gave a disgusted hiss. “Those with bad luck should at least attempt to balance it with good sense.” She twisted her wrist. The ax blade tore through Brand’s shirt collar and it was his turn to plunge flailing into cold water. His turn to drag himself up the ladder. His turn to stand dripping under the scorn of the crowd.
He found he enjoyed his turn even less than he had Thorn’s.
The Vansterman threw Skifr’s ragged cloak back to her. “An impressive performance.”
“Like magic!” Koll tossed his coin high but fumbled it on the way back so it flickered down towards the sea.
“Magic?” The old woman darted out a hand to pluck Koll’s coin from the air between finger and thumb. “That was training, and experience, and discipline. Perhaps I will show you magic another day, but let us all hope not.” She flicked the coin spinning far into the air and Koll laughed as he caught it. “Magic has costs you will not wish to pay.”
Skifr shrugged her coat back on with a snapping of cloth. “This style of fighting you have learned,” she said to Thorn, “standing in
a row with shield and mail and heavy blade, it does not suit you. It is not meant to suit you.” Skifr dragged the shield from Thorn’s arm and tossed it rattling among the chests on the South Wind. “You will fight with lighter, quicker weapons. You will fight in lighter armor.”
“How will I stand in the shield wall without a shield?”
“Stand?” Skifr’s eyes went wide as cups. “You are a killer, girl! You are the storm, always moving! You rush to meet your enemy, or you trick him into meeting you, and on the ground of your choosing, in the manner of your choosing, you kill him.”
“My father was a famous warrior, he always said—”
“Where is your father?”
Thorn frowned for a moment, mouth half open, then touched her hand to a lump in her damp shirt, and slowly shut it. “Dead.”
“So much for his expertise.” Skifr tossed over the long ax and Thorn plucked it from the air, and weighed it in her hand, and swished it cautiously one way and the other. “What do the letters on the blade mean?”
“They say in five languages, ‘to the fighter everything must be a weapon.’ Good advice, if you are wise enough to take it.”
Thorn nodded, frowning. “I am the storm.”
“As yet, more of a drizzle,” said Skifr. “But we are only beginning.”
THE THIRD LESSON
The Divine River.
Thorn remembered listening entranced to her father’s stories of journeys up it and down its sister, the Denied, his eyes bright as he whispered of desperate battles against strange peoples, and proud brotherhoods forged in the crucible of danger, and hoards of gold to be won. Ever since she had dreamed of her own voyage, the names of those far places like the words of a magic spell, bursting with power and mystery: the tall hauls, Kalyiv, the First of Cities.
Strange to say, her dreams had not included arse and hands chafed raw from rowing, nor endless clouds of biting midges, nor fog so thick you only got fleeting glimpses of the fabled land, and those of bitter bog and tangled forest, the joys of which were hardly rare in Gettland.
“I was hoping for more excitement,” grunted Thorn.
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