by C F Welburn
“Ikmas?”
Riorn growled. “Keplas then, though it’ll mark up the rate.”
Balagir nodded.
“Be warned, break your word, and no other smith on the channel will do business with you.” Balagir waved away his threat
“Set to it, Riorn. Time is of the essence.”
Riorn’s forge roared and billowed until early afternoon, and Balagir left equipped.
His old sword exchanged for the dull steel Riorn dubbed Greydent, emblazoned with the Enfeebling Frost, as well as a set of tough, light leather that sat unassumingly beneath his old tattered cloak. Set in the breast of the armour was a Clearing Mist, which reputedly trembled when ghosts, wraiths, phantoms, or any other ethereal apparition drew near. Such entities by nature had the habit of surprise, and any warning to their presence was welcome.
Before leaving, he had half-heartedly shown the smith his worn amulet. Riorn had only shrugged and repeated what he knew; that he suspected it some old southern sigil, but his knowledge of the lands beyond the sea were vague at best.
Having passed the door of the Rusted Hook thrice, his morning’s work amounted to a reward. No advantage would be gained working with so parched a palate.
The inn was every bit as tawdry as the facade and cliental led to believe, yet it was warm and had no shortage of tables. Balagir noted Goffle sat at the bar with the jaegir. They hadn’t noticed him, and he decided to keep it that way. Drak, for the nonce, was nowhere to be seen. People were gaming, and he rued the loss of the charmed bones. He signalled the maid who, despite youth and jutting bosom, had fewer teeth than some of Murdak’s crew. When she returned, the beer sloshed onto the table, and he frowned at the hair that floated on the foam.
“You know anything about the Thell?”
She scowled. “I look like I do? They keep to their own, and we to ours.” She snorted with a nauseating liquid sound. “As if their soil don’t stink.” Balagir smiled politely, dragging his beer out from beneath her breath.
“You’ve quite a way with words.” The wench hesitated before showing a black-toothed smile. If her face had not been covered in a rash, he may have fancied she blushed.
“I’ve always thought so, though nobody’s told me before.”
“Quite. In fact, that’s why I asked. It has surprised me that a woman of your... eloquence be excluded from that quarter.” She fanned herself, suddenly flustered.
“You’re a charmer, aren’t you. Want to come upstairs when I finish?” She leant over in a way that made him shudder. No amount of time on the road, even in the company of the ugliest men—and Goffle satisfied that criteria—could conjure enticement at this time.
“As flattering as your proposition is, I’m forced to decline. I have need to speak with the Thell. Then, of course, I’d be enthralled with your company.” She deflated.
“Well that’s it then. You’d not even get into the white quarter.”
“You know of no means?”
“Not dressed like that,” she said, eyeing his garments. It was rich coming from her, though he could not deny it.
“Then it seems my cause is hopeless,” he sighed. “I must leave Grimwater at once to report my findings.” She looked disappointed.
“Wait! I’ve just recalled, there may be a way, though it’d be risky.”
“Everything’s risky,” he said levelly. Drinking this beer was risky. Inhaling her fume was positively perilous.
“Holds a masquerade each year for his birthday. S’pose with an invite and change of clothes—”
“A masquerade, you say?” A masquerade to find a mask; fitting. “Might you know of any good tailors in town?”
“Could try Varm’s across the way. Though I doubt he’ll have anything worthy of the Thell’s.”
“It sounds like a good place to start,” Balagir said, forcing a smile.
“Now, about later?” she said, fluttering her sty-encrusted lashes.
“I’ll see to this first and freshen up. I wouldn’t want to disrespect a lady by turning up so dishevelled.” She ran a hand over his thigh, making his knee leap and rattle the table.
“Room six,” she said. “It’ll be on the latch.”
“Noted,” he said, squirming from beneath her claw. Despite his thirst, he could not bring himself to take a sip, and he left before she could finish serving the adjourning table.
Varm’s skills resided firmly in the workingman’s remit. Even so, he had a couple of passable shirts and a long-tailed overcoat he was persuaded to part with for eight keplas. Later he impeded upon Riorn’s generosity again, who fashioned him a tin owl mask, making his farrago outfit look surprisingly the part.
“You’ll pass,” the smith said, scrutinising his work. “But you’re forgetting the invitation.”
“It’s all in hand,” Balagir said, cogs already turning.
Being suitably attired brought greater advantages than simply shirking derision, not least of which was avoiding the Rusted Hook and gaining entry to establishments such as the aptly named Pretty Penny. The beer and maids were of a different ilk here, decidedly kinder on both palate and eyes. Having less of the vagabond about him, he was not begrudged a seat at the bar, where he nursed his drink and dropped eaves as a fisherman trawls nets.
Conversation revolved around inter-island trade, southern war, smugglers’ feuds, Thella Barrowhawk’s lack of fecundity, and the most fashionable topic, the Thell himself and his preeminent party. Half the tavern proposed to be attending, those who had invites sniping their peers for social one-upmanship and chest-puffing rights.
When the hour had grown late and Balagir sensed enough beer had flowed, he sent Era out.
She flew directly to the pocket of a rosy-cheeked gentleman who had earlier flaunted his invite. The absconded kalaqai moved along the inner seam, sending a small spiral of smoke curling upwards. The red-faced man, well in his cups, noticed not as it sagged open at the corner and the invite dropped to the floor. Balagir was moving to claim it when a cry went up.
“Demon!” He spun to see the barman gesturing towards the kalaqai, who was damningly returning to Balagir below the tabletop. People gasped and jumped back. All except the landlord, who leapt the bar and snatched the chisp in his fist, as though it were a butterfly.
Balagir keeled over, clutching his chest. Fortunately, all eyes were on the barman, leaving him to gasp and squirm in panicked solitude. It felt as though his heart were being crushed. Was this to be his end? Many had been the benefits of the kalaqai’s link, but he had seldom considered the disastrous liabilities.
“I’ll crush the sprite!” the landlord cried. “Beware, patrons, lest it evoke a hex.” The whole inn was so transfixed on the landlord’s glowing green hand, nobody saw Balagir’s face turning purple beneath the table. He twisted and supplicated, but his voice was hoarse and small beneath the excitement. He dragged himself out, extending his hand in a final, desperate plea. But the landlord suddenly winced, and his hand flickered brightly and exploded in a crack of green fire and blood.
The drinkers cried out and shielded their faces and drinks from the gore. The landlord gawped at the place where his hand had been within the smoking sleeve. With a rush, the air inflated Balagir’s lungs. He was aware of people fleeing the tavern; of stools being knocked over and glasses smashed. He rescued the invitation, now blotched with red droplets. As Era disappeared back into his pouch, a medic of some kind began bandaging the partially cauterised wound. Balagir staggered to his feet, straightened his cloak, and stepped out into the evening, where the crowds huddled and made fevered gestures to ward off evil.
He considered making the hike to the fire, but he was too weak. Instead, he forced the door to a woodshed behind the inn. The stumps were uncomfortable, and the gaps filled with webs and beady eyes, but he slept all the same, as still as the stillest of logs.
The next day, as it happened, was the Thell’s birthday. Balagir woke, dusty and sore, but a fleet wash in the cold waves saw him rea
dy to brave the day. Memories of the night before were still tender, and he treated Era as if she were made of eggshell, knowing that putting her in danger was tantamount to doing so himself.
With fewer inns he could safely frequent, he spent most of his day in a smoky, low-ceilinged hovel, misleadingly named The Crow’s Nest. The cliental were mostly silver-skinned gillards, and the beer tasted suspiciously fishy, but no one tried to kill or proposition him, so it was by comparison a vast improvement. The gillards—so called for the gills that allowed them to trawl the depths of the bay for pearls—were a simple yet complex race, having about them a reassuring tranquillity underlined by a set of quirks and etiquettes that left him forever unsure if he insulted or flattered them. Either way, he roused little or no interest, and was left as such to plot the coming night in peace.
Masquerades were a gate-crasher’s dream. It was not so much the obscurity—for as good as his mask was, it contained no magic—but the social niceties that dictated discretion. In order to maintain the air of mystery for as long as the host deemed appropriate, guests were forbidden asking direct questions, and many spoke in ambiguities or remained aloof to uphold intrigue.
Even so, Balagir recognised the Thell by the obsequiousness that surrounded him. They might purport not to know him, yet they were quick to bow and scrape. The portly gentleman with the bear mask professed not to notice, acting as though he truly believed his anonymity, much as—by all accounts—he believed his popularity. Whilst the people played their sycophantic games, Balagir was at liberty to inspect the room. He spent a while sampling delights from the banquet, in more colours and flavours than he knew words for. Fortunately, his owl mask finished in a hooked beak, allowing him to eat readily, which was more than could be said for a greedy weasel whose snout was caked with cream and crumbs. A troupe of well-dressed minstrels provided music, and before long the most beautiful ladies twirled illustriously on the hands of the wealthiest men.
Reportedly, the grand unveiling was scheduled for midnight, so shortly before, when an opportunity presented itself, Balagir neared the Thell.
“A fine mask,” Barrowhawk said. “Might I guess that you have something to do with horses?”
“A good guess, yet wide of the mark. Might I guess that you have something to do with smugglers?”
Even through the bear mask, the intake of air was audible.
“Who are you?” the Thell asked stiffly.
“I thought direct questions were frowned upon.”
“Not nearly as much as attending a party uninvited.”
“Let’s think of me as the owl of justice. I imagine these fine folk, your honoured guests, are not privy to your shady dealings. The lawmaker treating with the lawless.”
“If you seek to blackmail me, then you’re gravely mistaken. A click of my fingers will see you in the dungeon before this dance is done.”
“Your mask is of fine craftsmanship, though it not be the one you seek.” The pause before the bear found his tongue betrayed as much as any facial expression could have.
“I know you now,” Barrowhawk said slowly. “You’re the ashen my guards turned away.”
“Good,” Balagir said, nonplussed. “That saves time on introductions. Now we both know who each other is, let’s to business.”
“You don’t get to make demands here. Now you’re safe as long as my curiosity remains piqued. What do you want with the chart? The other half no longer exists. The storm it was lost in was well documented some centuries back. Therefore, I can only assume you’re a parasite ashen on one of your heinous oaths. Who sent you? The smith? His brother?”
“I came of my own accord.”
“Then you’re wasting your time. The chart is useless to you.”
“You seem to have gone to some lengths for something that’s useless.”
“I’m a collector. Look around. My guests talk about my displays for months after, and that particular artefact will be my latest exhibit to be unveiled at midnight.”
“Might I look upon it?”
“Absolutely not. Now, since you’ll be sniffing after some smoke no doubt, here’s what you can do for me. My collection is aching for a rare specimen, an egg from the northern cliffs.”
“An egg?”
“I’d take some men if you know any.”
“Just what sort of egg requires such caution?”
“A haryek egg.”
“Your own men not capable?”
“This matter does not concern them. It’s altogether private. Break my confidence and perish.”
“And what makes you think I’ll accept?”
“Because you ashen are too predictable. Fighting like dogs over whatever scraps remain. Your quaint ‘you scratch my back, I’ll flay yours’ attitudes. I’ll offer it to one of your comrades if you’re too busy—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“As I thought. Coin, or smoke?” There was an insult in how he spat that last word.
“How about in exchange for the chart?” The bear’s eyes narrowed.
“How about in exchange for not being eaten by rats.”
“Sounds fair.”
“I thought you’d see it that way.”
Just as he felt that familiar hum at his belt, they were interrupted.
“And who’s this, dear?” the young lady he had seen dancing purred through her feline mask.
“An old acquaintance,” Barrowhawk lied. He gave a nod for Balagir to introduce himself.
“Finster, my lady, a pleasure.” If things were likely to go sour, always best to give an enemy’s name.
“Would you care for a dance?” Balagir glanced at Barrowhawk, who nodded. Reluctantly he let himself be led away.
“Such muscles for an owl,” she breathed in his ear.
“I presume you’re the lady of the house?”
“I’m the Thella, as if you didn’t know. I’ve seen you watching me all night.” He hadn’t been, but he couldn’t argue with such self-confidence.
“I’ve seen you dancing, though not with your husband. You like to put horns on him?”
“It wouldn’t be necessary if he could put one on himself.” Balagir recalled snippets gleaned from the Pretty Penny, and suddenly her euphemism became clear.
“I’m sensing the rumours I’ve heard are misleading.”
She snorted. “He saves face if the fault is seen as mine.”
“And you tolerate it? Forgive me, but he’s twice your age and not nearly as attractive.”
“Since when were ashen so charming? Oh come, you think I can’t see those black eyes through your mask?” She smiled and shrugged. “Vanity, I’m afraid. I’m a victim of my own tastes. But sometimes a woman needs more than coin.” She gave his arm a squeeze. Balagir looked awkwardly at the Thell, who was watching intently. “I do what I must of course,” she continued, ignoring his discomfort. “Smile on his arm, attend the dinners, the dances. Even though he’s an old ox ploughing a fragrant meadow, I’ve grown accustomed to life’s finer things. A simpler maiden would have left Grimwater long ago.”
Balagir barely managed to finish the dance without her brushing up against him and returned, flustered, to the waiting Thell.
“You looked to enjoy that,” the bear growled.
“I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Hm. In that case, you should be on your way. It would be inappropriate for you to be here at the unmasking. Finding an ashen amongst us would take the shine off the evening. Rather like finding a worm in the last bite of an apple.”
Balagir forgave the cuckolded Thell his insolence and was thankful to leave the awkwardness behind. What went on behind closed doors made him glad to be homeless.
Wary of what resistance the haryek might pose, he returned to the Rusted Hook to enlist Goffle. His beer, when it arrived with a scowl, had a spittle-like foam swirling atop. He pushed it aside.
“I’m busy,” Goffle slurred.
“But there’s smoke on offer.” For
an instant, Goffle’s eyes sharpened and then glazed over again.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m in the middle of something,” he said with a quick glance at the barmaid.
“You can’t mean with—”
“Camen’s a generous woman.” He hiccuped.
“How much has she plied you with?”
“Now, now, Balagir, don’t be bitter. I know you were interested, but truth is, I got there first.”
“I suppose the best man won,” Balagir said, shaking his head. True, Goffle was no looker, and the road and being marooned on an island with a frog could do strange things to a man. Still, there were things he might take away from Grimwater he would regret. Things worse than his impending hangover.
He tried to convince his shipmate once more, then took his leave, hoping to find a more loyal crew member in Drak.
Deciding to pass the night at the fire and head north at first light, he encountered Drak and the two ashen from the previous night.
“This is Kolak”—Drak introduced the austere jaegir—“and Imram.” The wild, white-haired ashen who looked more ageing professor than vagabond. “I’ve mentioned the ship—”
“Have you now?” Balagir asked, raising a brow.
“Yes,” interjected the jaegir, “and it seems an interesting prospect. You’ve intrigued me by commandeering such a vessel.”
Balagir nodded but would not succumb to flattery.
“If you wish to secure a place aboard, I’d first see you in action. I’ve need of some ashen come dawn.”
“An oath?” Kolak rasped.
“What else?”
“Here in Silione?” Imram queried.
“Indeed. Rest, we set off at day break.”
And so they did. The four ashen left at first light to skirt the rocky headland as lonely waves crashed below.
When the trail had widened sufficiently, they broke the silence.
“What brings you to Silione?”
“An oath,” Kolak said.
“Knowledge,” Imram answered. “Say what you will about the aristocracy, they’ve accumulated a fine library.”