The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  Kodoris could not look him in the eye, his chin falling as Acquel spoke.

  “You must atone for the blood on your hands. And you will do that by working with me. Working to spread the truth of Elded’s teaching. None of my brethren—nor Timandra—will have died in vain. These texts, the sacred words of the saints, will be taught to all. Every man, woman and child. Do you understand me?” Acquel bunched the fabric of Kodoris’s robes around the old man’s throat.

  Kodoris raised his eyes to the greyrobe, glistening with tears, and nodded his assent.

  Acquel gestured with his head over to where Flauros lay in a heap. “And there is the murderer you have sought. Your scapegoat. That is the one lie I will permit to save us both that we may carry out our mission. You will proclaim my innocence.”

  Kodoris nodded slowly. “Elded’s will be done,” he croaked.

  Out in the vast undercroft, in the glow of sputtering torchlight, a hundred cracks had spread across the rippling flagstones like the tendrils of a kraken. If a soul had been there to witness, looking closely at those rent paving stones, they would have glimpsed the tiny blackish-green shoots of vegetation that had already burst upwards from the foul-smelling earth below.

  Thirty-Seven

  TWO MILES OFF the west coast of the Duchy of Maresto, and just beyond the Gulf of Saivona, the anchor of the Vendetta dragged along the sandy shallows until it snagged on a jumble of thongweed-encrusted rocks. The caravel stopped its drift and its bow gradually swung into the direction of the prevailing current.

  From his command on the quarterdeck, Danamis watched, a smile on his lips, as Citala swam around the ship, her undulating motions propelling her faster than he had ever seen anyone swim before. A large dolphin broke the surface near her and she glided straight to it. He could hear her laughter even from a distance. She grasped its dorsal fin and it took her away at even greater speed, out across the smooth blue water, occasionally disappearing beneath gentle swells and then bursting forth again. He had marvelled at how quickly she had recovered from her wounds, her cracked and peeling skin wondrously healing after only a few days of her re-acquaintance with the sea.

  “She is an interesting creature, I’ll give you that.” Strykar had joined him at the rail, stretching his tall broad frame. “I’m still trying to puzzle out why the dogs attacked the Count but not her too. Hoy! You down there! I told you bastards no dicing on the main deck!” Strykar’s ear had caught the sounds of merriment and argument and he had poked his head over the forward rail, narrowly avoiding smashing his forehead on the mizzen spar. “Brognolo! Damn you, give these fools a boxing and get them below where they belong!”

  He was truly well pleased with the conduct of his men but he wasn’t about to stint on discipline when it warranted. And he was thankful the two he had left at the palazzo to guard Citala had been found alive, chained in a storeroom but none the worse for wear. He shuddered to think that they might have shared a terrible fate, far worse than falling in battle. He and his rondelieri, chafing at the days of confinement despite the brief mayhem at the palazzo, were happy to be returning to Maresto but Strykar knew his service with Danamis would not end there. Now that the orichalcum guns were theirs, it would soon be time to engage Giacomo Tetch and the mutineers. Though he was by his own admission no sailor, Strykar was taking a dim view of a single caravel—even one well-armed—taking on the Palestrian war fleet.

  “That has bothered me too,” said Danamis as Citala waved up at him. “She says that she has no memory of how the dogs came to attack. Damned peculiar since they were Leonato’s own beasts. Thank Elded that they left her untouched. I imagine the curs had been driven mad by the sight of that horrible tree.”

  “Mad?” Strykar laughed. “The townsmen have declared those mastiffs heroes for killing the bastard. They even gave them new tabards! Little thanks we got.”

  “I am pleased enough with the guns—and Citala’s deliverance,” said Danamis as he watched the mermaid swim towards them. “I suppose the treasure will go to the Decurions now, and they will remember its provenance. No bad thing if we need to visit again.”

  “And what will the Ivreans do now that they’ve learned their High Steward was a murdering devil worshipper?” Strykar shook his head in disgust. “Still can’t believe that fucking monstrous tree. A Decurion told me it howled like a man when they poured the pitch on and torched it.”

  “And they hanged all of his household. Makes one wonder who they missed out. No one keeps a secret that terrible without help in many places,” Danamis called out over his shoulder as he moved to the steps leading down to the main deck. “The king will have to be told by the Ivrean Council. And then Sempronius will have to appoint another High Steward to clean out the horrors there.” He held out a silken gown for Citala as she clambered up the side at the waist of the ship, as nimble as a cat leaping up a tree.

  “I am in no doubt, my lady, that you could out-race this vessel if you had a mind to.” He was grinning like a fool.

  Citala smiled as she let him drape the gown over her shoulders, covering her nakedness. From his vantage on the quarterdeck, Strykar cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “Besotted. And no good will come of it.”

  ALL THE NEXT day, the Vendetta worked to windward, beating its way southeast along the coast, a back-breaking time for the crew who had little respite as the ship groaned and tossed, the rigging whistling. Danamis worried that if the wind grew stronger, they might have to come about and head out further to sea to avoid being blown onshore. But as the sun dipped low on the horizon, the island of Piso rising up before them in the distance, the stiff wind lessened and a sweeter breeze from eastwards began to ease them onto the desired course. Others vessels hove into view that afternoon, old cogs with their single great square mainsails, a stately merchant carrack probably bound for the city of Saivona at the head of the Gulf, even a long graceful galley of the king’s fleet was glimpsed from far off but much closer to the tree-lined shore.

  Since leaving Ivrea, once a day Danamis had ordered practice on the new guns. He had managed to get one of Ivrea’s master gunners to take his bounty (after also paying off the commander of the guard). Tadeo Verano had proved a good instructor and diplomat, somehow managing not to offend Danamis’s own gunners and mates as he warned them of the deadly peculiarities of the orichalcum pieces. A few water casks lashed together and fitted with a spare spar for a mast served as their target and the crew of the Vendetta laboured hard to judge the roll of the ship, up and down, when firing. The difference, at range, could mean a shot passing through rigging and sails or bouncing on the water. They had to learn in little more than a week how to shatter hull and masts from distances they had never engaged at before. Or they would die.

  On the morning of the sixth day, the ship dropped her mizzen and mainsails along the southern edge of Piso, her speed becoming lazy as the foresail alone took in the light wind. The sea ahead of them was a familiar azure now that they had left the tumultuous white-flecked swells of the dark Mare Infinitum. Danamis could not tell Gregorvero exactly where they should drop sail, that was for Citala to decide. She had not revealed to him where the Pisoan colony of the mer lay, whether on the main island or one of the many smaller islets that surrounded Piso like so many children around their mother. That was a secret he agreed needed to be kept. She emerged from the stern cabin, her yellow silk gown wrapped about her tall frame, and joined Danamis on the main deck as he surveyed the scrub-covered rocky island. Its wind-tortured amelasia trees ranged on the cliffs, waving their evergreen branches frantically as if to ward off all comers.

  She stood beside him, looking outwards. “We are nearly there. And… I am ready to go.”

  Danamis looked at her and nodded. “Come, speak with me up on the quarterdeck.”

  For the moment at least, they were alone, and he walked the mermaid to the stern rail. “Everything depends upon you bringing the mermen out with you. If they do not come, I will likely lose it all. Everyth
ing.”

  Citala raised her chin a little, her violet eyes growing slightly larger. “They made their promise to me that they will join me—and you. I told them what was at stake.”

  “That was near upon a fortnight ago.”

  Citala smiled, her purplish lips parting, teeth sparkling, not nearly so ragged and sharp as those of mermen. “For the mer, a fortnight is no time at all, Danamis. They have given me their word.”

  “And you can again explain what I need them to do? Your warriors need to be as ghosts. Working by stealth. If the fleet thinks merfolk are attacking how can I deliver your people back to Valdur? No shedding of blood.”

  “Danamis son of Danamis! They were in full agreement when I told them before. They will do as you have asked. It is an admirable plan. And they too want to go home.”

  Danamis smiled, embarrassed, and took her hand. “Are you well enough now? I would never have left you had I known what would have happened. Not someone I owe my very life to.”

  She moved her head from side to side, inviting him to inspect her skin. And he saw how smooth it was again, blue-grey at her bosom, fading to pale lilac under her throat and chin. He laughed and she burst into a wide smile, her strange yarn-like hair caught in the wind that whipped around them.

  A silence fell between them as they regarded each other. And then Danamis asked her what had worried him. “Why did you lie to me, Citala? When I asked if you could remain out of the sea.”

  She looked away a second before facing him again. “I knew that if I told you the truth you would have taken me back to the ship, and you would not get your guns. It was a risk that had to be taken. I thought that I could survive until you returned.”

  Danamis frowned. “I might have come up with another plan; indeed I had one to steal the guns if needs must. Is that the only reason you risked your life?”

  She blinked. “I did not want you to think… that I was not like your kind. That I was more fish than woman. For that is what your people call us.”

  Danamis grasped her hand, his countenance flushing. “Dear Citala, from the first I beheld you I never thought you anything less than the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. And no less a woman than any that walk the land of Valdur.”

  She placed her fine, long hand over his, her slightly webbed fingers fanning out. “And I never doubted that you would come back for me.”

  Gregorvero bounded up the stairs, bellowing back to some sailor as he came, and Danamis released her.

  “Begging your pardon, Captain. The helmsman is asking what course you want now. God knows I can’t tell him what it is.” Gregorvero belatedly gave a curt bow to Citala.

  Danamis looked at her. “Tell us where we need to sail.”

  She nodded and moved to the edge of the quarterdeck facing the bow. She raised an arm and gestured. “Over there, off that spit of land on the island. From there I can reach where I must go.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Danamis and Strykar stood amidships between two of the sleek sakers, gleaming golden and bronze in the sun. Citala emerged from her cabin, clutching her silk gown about her as she joined them. Sailors and soldiers alike parted to make way for her, silent and respectful.

  Danamis stood close to her. “I didn’t forget what you asked for. Will this do?” And he handed her a long thin dagger in a sheath, an amethyst set in its silver pommel. She took it from him and turned it over in her hand.

  “Thank you. I pray that I won’t need to use it.”

  Strykar smiled. “Use it on who?”

  “Why, sharks of course,” she replied, somewhat surprised by his ignorance. She thrust it into her woven tapua braes and made sure the hangar of its sheath was lodged securely at her hip.

  Strykar’s eyes widened at the thought.

  Danamis placed his hands on both her shoulders. “Look for my ships off Palestro in six days’ time. My enemy will be coming to meet us there. Bring me your news before they reach us if you can.”

  She nodded and turned to look at the crew ranged across the deck. “God’s speed to you all!” she cried out. “May the saints watch over you!” And Danamis was amazed as nearly every man acknowledged her with a nod, a bow, or a gesture of blessing, forehead to breast.

  She turned to Danamis and peeled the silken gown off of her shoulders. “Keep this safe for me, Danamis son of Danamis. I am beginning to like it.”

  “God keep you,” he said, a large part of him not wanting her to leave, though leave she must. Citala gave them both one last flash of a smile and slipped over the side and slid into the sea with hardly a sound, disappearing beneath the surface without a trace.

  DUKE ALONSO SWEPT into the receiving chamber, his advisors following at his heels like so many fretting hens.

  “Lord Danamis returned from the north! And I am told you have brought back that which you sought.” He clapped his hands first on Danamis and then his half-brother Strykar, his many golden rings clacking together as he did so. “Now, I will expect the both of you this night at my table but do tell me if you dodged the blockade without incident. Your erstwhile uncle’s ships are still pestering us here.”

  “Good my lord! We slipped in quickly before one of their carracks could manoeuvre to cut us off. I think it was Hammerblow. A fine ship but not a particularly fast sailer. If they had known it was me, I dare say they would have laid on the speed.”

  Alonso laughed and waved his arm behind him to fend off a councillor who was trying to thrust some letter or other into his hands. “And Captain Strykar, how does the Black Rose contingent fare?”

  Strykar gave a polite bow of his head. “They gave good service in Ivrea, your Grace, but are glad of heart to be in Maresto once again.” He glanced over to Danamis. “And they have not forgotten that they will be called upon again shortly. They won’t have long to dry off.” He made light of it but his own heart was troubled. As he and his rondelieri had returned to camp that morning, Poule had given him the news of the widow’s abandonment of the company to pursue the young monk. He was now regretting having ever released the greyrobe. Or even ever finding him. Poule was dragging his tail about the camp like a forlorn lover and the boy Poule had left in charge of the sutler’s wagon had thieved what he fancied and run clear away. With war against Torinia now likely within weeks, how could he even hope to go in search of her?

  “They are the best of soldiers without doubt,” added Danamis. “We mean to make sail for Palestro to seek out Tetch and give battle as quickly as we can ready Royal Grace.”

  The Duke shook his head in disgust, pointing to the letter that the little man behind him was still fluttering in a shaking hand. “Another demand from Torinia. They want payment for the services of the Palestrian fleet in protecting our merchants from attack by Southland corsairs. Services indeed! The insolence of it makes me sick! They are now stopping and boarding our ships to confiscate cargo as payment.”

  “The Torinians won’t have the services of Palestro for much longer,” said Danamis. “I promise you that. But I have a request to make of you, my lord. Business with the Temple priesthood. Is it within your power to direct the High Prelate of Maresto to deliver a message for me? A message to the Prelate of Palestro.”

  “He damned well will do so if I tell him to. Give my councillor the message and I will see that it is done immediately.”

  GIACOMO TETCH LOOKED down from the quarterdeck of Firedrake, his lower lip protruding in displeasure. Assembled on the main deck were most of his crew with one sailor in particular looking clearly unhappy with his situation. His arms were pinioned behind, a capstan bar shoved behind his back and he had been paraded to a position just aft of the mainmast. Tetch blinked away a bead of sweat that trickled into his eye and then tugged at the tuft of his newly dyed flame-orange goatee. On the Palestro quay, another hundred sailors and soldiers jostled for a view. His voice boomed out across the ship and reverberated along the dockside where it was moored.

  “I have given you dogs the world! The Sea of Valdur is
yours for the taking! And I have been repaid with bellyaching and babbling. Vile discontent and vague whispers.”

  A low roar of outrage swept across the deck and quayside as the pirates growled their support, all outdoing each other in their vocal backing for the new admiral of the fleet. And although many more missed Captain Danamis, few were brave enough to mumble under their breath or tell a comrade. The few including the unfortunate soul who was now facing Tetch’s wrath.

  “Well, my lads. This miserable shit of a sandworm you see standing before me is undeserving of the leniency I am about to deliver to him.”

  Tetch gave a slow dramatic nod of his head and a soldier moved towards the prisoner, a set of tongs in one hand and an iron rod in the other. The poor man tried to back away but a lift of the capstan bar stopped him. His eyes bulged in terror as the iron rod, cherry red at one end, came down on his bare chest. As he screamed, the soldier reached forward and clamped his tongue with the tongs. The next instant he had brought the round iron down on the man’s extended tongue, piercing it with a hiss that was drowned out by another (but more muffled) scream of agony.

  Tetch put both his hands on the rail before him and leaned out. “Next time it’s heads that will decorate my bowsprit!”

  Ramus appeared from the dock, jumping up onto the gangway and onto Firedrake. He mounted the stern stairs and approached Tetch with a salute to his rusty sallet.

  “This has come from the priests, sir. By way of Maresto.” He handed Tetch a folded bit of parchment. Tetch wiped his shining pate and then swiped his palm across his doublet before seizing the note. He opened it to find that a smaller strip of paper had been glued onto it, the actual message. A miserly scrawl, the letters closed up tight, he had trouble reading it. But this was a tiny message delivered by pigeon and his one good eye devoured it. First he gave a frown, and then a slow shake of his head. Finally a chuckle erupted which rapidly grew into a hacking fit of laughter.