The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  “Well spoken. Both of you.” He looked over to Bassinio, whose jaw was clearly pulsing, clenched in pain. “Bassinio, seek out the Widow Pandarus. She may be able to treat your wounds.”

  “Only if she has some acqua vitalis squirreled away,” he said, before turning and shuffling out of the cabin.

  “I did what you ordered me to,” said Gregorvero, his voice tired, after Bassinio had gone. “But you should have told him the truth of it. He deserves that.”

  “What? And risk a mutiny by the rondelieri? I’ll not take that chance.”

  “So… you lie to a friend and comrade? You had better hope he doesn’t soon discover that we’re not sinking.”

  Danamis pulled himself up straight, his head brushing the stone-hard oaken beams. “I will do what I must to get my fleet back. Anything. And I won’t waste time lying-to out here. We must put on some sail through the night and make headway east.”

  Gregorvero stepped forward. “Risky,” he said. “But I agree. There’s little to be gained from standing still and drifting. Foremast mainsheet and spritsail only and I’ll make sure the helmsmen damn well stay awake. Come daylight we can raise more canvas.”

  Danamis gripped his shoulder. “Good. Set sail and make course east.”

  Gregorvero returned a look of cold resolve. “Aye, captain. But, in future, don’t lie to me.”

  OUTSIDE ON THE main deck, Strykar’s men stood at his approach, gathering amidships from where they had been, whether sitting or sprawled out on the planks, sick from the rolling of the Grace or from the meal of black bread and smoked mackerel they had been given a few hours after their escape. Strykar beheld them in the light of the huge lantern that hung from the fo’c’sle. They were no men of the sea and nor was he. Many had never been on a boat before. He stepped into their midst, clapping the shoulder of one he knew well, Brognolo, a sergeant a fair bit older than he was. He looked from face to face—some young and beardless, others grizzled and well-lined, but all tired and streaked with sweat and salt spray. They had been chosen to enter Palestro first, to lead the way for the company in what should have been a routine trade. Then, that done, they were meant to partake of comfort and merriment, of good food, passable drink, and women with little virtue. Instead, they had fought for their lives, lost a quarter of their comrades and were now on a stinking and sinking ship of a pirate who had nothing left but his name.

  “Well, here we are my lads,” he said. “On the sea voyage you always wanted.”

  Those who weren’t seasick laughed.

  “It’s been a close scrape today, I know. The Lord does that to us sometimes. Tests us and our faith.” He moved amongst them. Looking them in their eyes, grasping a shoulder here and there. “But we fought off that rabble on the docks and we live to fight again.”

  “Will they bury the dead we left behind?” someone shouted.

  “If there are still good men in Palestro then yes, they will. But I cannot promise you that. It is for us now to look to our front and where we are headed. All of you I chose because you can be trusted with my life. And because you’re damned hard to kill.” A ripple of laughter laced with fatigue rose around him.

  “And I am telling you that we must journey to Perusia.” A murmur ensued. “I have just been given news that cuts at the heart of Maresto. The traitor in Palestro who took our comrades this day also means to make war on Duke Alonso. In alliance with Torinia.”

  Strykar raised his hands for silence.

  “That is the truth of it, my lads! Now…who do we serve? We serve Count Malvolio. And he serves Duke Alonso. And Duke Alonso serves Maresto.”

  “But why Perusia, captain?” It was Brognolo.

  “Because sergeant, that is where the king is. And he has the gold and the men and the ships to put Admiral Danamis’s arse back in Palestro. And that is what the Duke of Maresto would want.”

  Brognolo gave Strykar a smile. “I don’t need to hear no more, sir. I am with you. We are still of the Black Rose even at sea.”

  “And what say the rest of you?” Strykar’s eyes shifted from man to man. “What say my chosen men?”

  A murmur ensued again followed by shouts of “Aye!” and “Perusia and the King!”

  Strykar nodded in approval. “Good, my lads. The pirates say they will feed you below and give you a place to put your heads down. Get some rest tonight if you can. We do not know what the morning will bring.” And he pulled Brognolo aside. “Make sure they all get billeted down properly. I will send the ship’s master your way.”

  Brognolo grinned, half his teeth missing like the windows of a ruined manor house. “I could do with some grub after this day’s work—even if it is ship’s fare.”

  Strykar made his way aft, wobbling slightly, his head throbbing. He needed to eat and sleep. And to pray that the ship would make it to Perusia before sinking.

  ACQUEL LAY IN a narrow hammock and blinked in the darkness of the fo’c’sle cabin. He was wedged in among rondelieri who snored and gurgled away in their fitful slumbers. It was as if he was back in his dormitory with the greyrobes and novices—only louder and smellier. He had somehow drifted off earlier but now was wide awake. He squeezed out of his berth and felt his way to the hatchway, outlined in light from the lantern that burned on the main deck.

  He was not challenged as he made his way astern. He could see one great sail on the foremast filling with the light warm breeze that washed over the deck. The few sailors on watch paid him no heed, nor the helmsman on the whipstaff at the base of the sterncastle. He mounted the ladder that led up to the two cabins and went inside. A punched-tin lantern with a single candle was on the table and he could just make out the hulking figure of Captain Strykar rolled up in a berth rack. He was snoring softly. Timandra raised her head as he entered, pushing herself up into a sitting position from the mattress on the cabin floor.

  “I can’t sleep anymore,” he whispered as he padded inside. She gestured for him to come to her and he sat down next to her, folding his long legs underneath himself, back against the bulkhead.

  “Nor me,” she said. “But not a problem for him.”

  Acquel tilted his head towards the captain. “He’s going along then with the admiral? To Perusia?”

  “I think it’s a fool’s errand but he has other concerns.”

  Acquel looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  Timandra pulled up the thin coverlet she had over her and tucked her chin into it. “He’s trying to think what Count Malvolio and the Duke would have wanted. He knows they want the alliance with Palestro to continue. With Tetch seizing the fleet that will now change.”

  “But why these pirates of Palestro?” he whispered. “What makes them so useful?”

  “Maresto has few warships but a lot of wool merchants. Danamis’s fleet gave protection to our shipping. They beat up the Southlander corsairs so badly they rarely come into coastal waters anymore. If Tetch gets his way with Torinia, Maresto will be exposed to Torinian extortion. Pay us or we take your ships. There is no love lost between those two houses.”

  Acquel’s brow furrowed and he pointed to Strykar’s sleeping form. “But… he’s just a mercenary captain. That seems a concern far above his station in life.”

  Timandra smiled and shook her head. “Perhaps.”

  Acquel found it difficult to take his eyes from her cascading hair and her full lips. He put his hands on his knees and contemplated his feet instead. There was silence in the cabin except for the steady snuffling of Strykar and the unceasing creaking and rocking of the ship. After a short while Acquel ventured to speak again.

  “Three days ago I was chased out of Livorna and nearly killed. Now I am on my way to the royal enclave—maybe even to see the king.” He turned and looked into her eyes. She was watching him intently. “This is all happening for a reason. Can’t you feel it?”

  She could see the golden chain dangling around his neck, disappearing down into his shirt front. Her own eyes had witnessed what the remarkab
le jewel that he wore could do, and she had more than once thought about what other powers it might hold. And more to, why it had chosen Acquel—and now her and the Black Rose—to keep company with. She desperately wanted to believe that it was a holy miracle but a part of her held back, fearful that it represented something wholly different.

  “I’m not sure that I can,” she lied.

  “Well, if I cannot rid myself of it then I will have to see where it takes me… for better or for ill.”

  She reached over and grasped his hand. Acquel squeezed hers in return.

  “Maybe I can find someone who can tell me more,” he said softly. “Someone in Perusia. Have you been there before?”

  “I have. It is a great city.” Her eyes settled upon the chain again. “Acquel, will you let me have a look at the amulet?”

  He lowered his chin and lifted the chain over his head, pulling the strange pendant out of his shirt. As he offered it to her, he leaned in closer, dropping it into her palm. The urge to kiss her was overpowering him and his face moved towards hers. Timandra drew back as her hand folded around the amulet and Acquel, embarrassment flooding over him, pulled back too. She recovered from the awkwardness without even a twitch, ignoring what might have happened if she had noticed it at all.

  Acquel watched as she held the amulet close, examining the writing in the guttering candlelight.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” She turned it over. “I cannot read this old Valdurian script. But I might know someone who can.”

  “Someone in Perusia?”

  Timandra nodded. “There’s a chance. But I think we have to be very careful about who we share this secret with and how. Understand? So, do as Strykar bids you. Show it to no one and tell no one. I will think upon what we might be able to do.” She handed it back to him.

  “Seems I know too many secrets,” Acquel said. “I discovered Elded’s and now I won’t be left alone.”

  “Don’t say that. You think you saw something in the tomb. But you don’t know the truth for certain.”

  Acquel shook his head. “You don’t understand. I have seen Elded. In my dreams. And more than once now. He is merfolk. And they are trying to kill me for it.”

  He saw the look of reticence on her face and regretted his words. “I should go back now.” He stood up, careful not to wake Strykar who had turned over, groaning in his sleep. “I hope you are able to rest, Timandra.”

  She smiled that he had finally called her by her name. “Fear nought. You are with the Black Rose now. We look after each other.”

  “For all you and I know, he will throw me back to the Ara if he is ordered to.” Acquel gestured to the sleeping mercenary.

  “Do not be so hasty to judge him.”

  “But he seems to have no other loyalty than to the Black Rose. No wife? No family? And you ask me to trust him with my life.”

  Timandra looked at him, her eyes scolding. “He lost his wife and all his children ten years ago. A raid over the border by a band of Torinian soldiers turned rogue. He has had no other woman since.”

  Acquel looked down. “I am sorry to speak so about your kin,” he said quietly. “I will go now.”

  She grasped his hand and squeezed. “Fear not. All will be well.”

  But his words still ran through her mind. And with them all the doubt and worry that they conjured. The mystery of this monk persisted—and with it an unwanted ghost that hovered over all of them.

  Fifteen

  DANAMIS FELL INTO a slumber so deep and so dark that it seemed he dreamt for years on end.

  He was a boy again, with his father on Royal Grace, sailing to Naresis to dictate terms to the corsairs. Something he always thought amusing since they themselves were supposed to be pirates. But the ship was far bigger than he remembered, the Sea of Valdur transmuted to purple wine, and his father slowly transfigured into a merman as he watched, horrified.

  The dream shifted again. He was with Citala, the mer chieftain’s daughter, looking into her eyes of deepest violet; fiery and unnatural. They were embracing, kissing. Her lips were warm when everything told him they should be cold. He desired her completely. They were in the sea together, sinking down deeper, entwined. But then he was drowning, water filling his nose and mouth, suffocating. He thrashed wildly and in doing so, he awoke.

  Shaking his head like a dog that had just been kicked, he swung his legs out of his boxed wooden berth and grabbed his boots from the floor. It was full light. Gregorvero should have woken him earlier. He mumbled a curse as he laced up his boots. With just one arm in a sleeve he bent his shoulders down and barrelled out of the cabin.

  IN THE FO’C’SLE, Acquel was being prodded into wakefulness by the toe of a rondelieri’s boot. All around him the soldiers were rising, coughing and farting, and he could see a line of men out the hatchway to the fore, all waiting to take their easement out on the ship’s prow. Sometime in the early hours of the new day he had finally drifted off to sleep, and now, he was one of the last to awake.

  “Have a care, brother monk!” He was shouldered aside by a short burly soldier, intent on getting out into the fresh air. He hurriedly pulled on his doublet, damp with the moist sea air, cinched up his hose and fastened his belt, dagger and pouch. On the main deck the life of the Royal Grace had begun anew. And though he had just arisen, already he felt like superfluous baggage with no purpose other than to keep out of others’ way. Sailors were climbing the rigging, hauling on lines. Rondelieri—sullen and bleary in the main—hung about the gunwales staring out at the endless azure water. Acquel saw that the mainsail and mizzen sails had been set and the ship was moving faster, the sheets snapping. He looked up astern and saw the ship’s master and Captain Danamis exchanging words, hands gesticulating and arms pointing out to the west. He walked across the deck, jostled by men intent on their duties, and ascended the ladder up to the poop.

  He approached Danamis who was staring intently out over the rail, looking west.

  “Good morrow, holy man,” he said, not turning. “How good are your eyes?”

  “I’m not sure, my lord,” he said. “Too many manuscripts copied in bad light for too long, I think.”

  “There! Look along my arm.”

  That the hazy sky seemed to merge with the horizon did not help as Acquel squinted and shielded his eyes with his hand. But after he blinked a few times he saw them. Two sets of sails, close together, hardly more than mere specks but vessels nonetheless.

  “Yes, I see them now. Two ships. Is it Tetch?”

  Danamis gripped the railing with both hands. “Too early to tell.”

  “For my money,” said Gregorvero, “I reckon they’re Southlanders. But we’re running broad now and making good speed to the east.”

  “Hell’s teeth,” cursed Danamis. “The good Lord is not looking kindly on me these past few days. Can you help with that, brother monk?”

  Acquel bowed his head. “I fear not, my lord.”

  “Then we’ll just have to trust to the winds.” Danamis pushed himself off the railing. He took another long look at the distant vessels, hoping for one or the other to change course, if only to afford a clearer view. “Gregor, nudge us northeast by east. Get us closer to the coast.”

  “That’ll be Torinian waters, you know.”

  “I do know. So what would they do if they saw this flagship? Attack us?”

  Gregorvero shrugged.

  “Just keep a sharp eye on those ships,” said Danamis, stabbing a finger westward. “And pray they’re not pursuing.”

  Gregorvero gave Acquel an almost apologetic look and then followed Danamis down the ladder. Acquel looked about him. Four cast iron swivel guns were spaced out on the stern railing and he suddenly imagined what it would be like to face the might of such weapons. If he had felt useless when he had first stepped out on deck, he felt now probably worse than that: he was the bearer of a curse.

  Some time passed, in which worry gnawed at the monk and the crew of the Royal Grace grew mor
e tense with the two vessels nearing; Danamis was back on the poop, looking out over the transom. In addition to the ship’s master and the young monk, Strykar and Timandra Pandarus were there too. Over the larboard side, a dark undulating line on the horizon ran as far as the eye could see. The coastline of Valdur was again in view.

  Strykar was staring out over the railing west and shaking his head as if he was seeing a phantasm. “Are you sure? Fucking Southlanders?”

  Danamis was subdued. “Yes. We can tell by their rig.”

  And Strykar could clearly see that the two ships bearing down upon them carried three large red triangular sails. “We are truly being shit upon from on high. Can we outrun them?”

  “No. But we can try and out-manouevre them,” replied Danamis, “but we must prepare to fight if it comes to it. You should tell your men.”

  STRYKAR’S LAUGH WAS bitter. “Well, you have barely thirty rondelieri who just happen to have left their shields back in Palestro.” He jerked his thumb towards the Southlander ships. “And how many men do they have?”

  “If they’re hunting, it could be over a hundred and fifty per ship.”

  Strykar swore. “What is it, Admiral Danamis, that drives you to persecute me so?”

  “Fate has been cruel to us both, I’ll give you that. But I’ve got four sakers, ten falcons, and a dozen swivel guns on this ship. We can give them a belly full of stone shot. That will give them pause.”

  “But how many soldiers have you got left to fire them? Or bowmen.” Strykar turned to Acquel. “Brother monk, you had better start your prayers now, my boy!”

  “We’ve got a few hours before they can catch up to us,” said Danamis. “And maybe the wind will turn against them. But we will prepare now to be boarded. Gregor, get the nets up over the gunwales and break out the charges and shot for the guns.”

  Strykar looked at Gregorvero. “Is he mad? Boarded by over two hundred to our… Elded’s beard! I don’t know how many we’ve got left but it’s barely enough for a tavern brawl.”