On the Seas of Destiny (Tale of the Nedao)

by Ru Emerson

  The Fury knifed straight across the swells, right for her. The bells-boy saw the ominous black shape and set up a raucous clangor; Brit Arren shouted orders, the rowers pulled, working to bring the ship in so the grapplers could do their work. The Narran cog turned away with a smooth evasion maneuver that spoke of practice and skill. Brit Arren swore, shouted another order. Half a dozen men sheathed their blades and leaped for oars; the Fury matched the Merman's change of direction and drew close once again.

  Fog stirred with a faint-wind, filling Fury's black sail unexpectedly. The Narran pulled away.

  Not for long: The wide-hulled cargo ship was no match for the trim Fury. A hook clattered to the Narran deck, another and then a handful; ropes went taut and the gap of open water slowly closed. With a howl that froze Narran blood, Mal Brit Arren's crew drew long knives and swords and leaped aboard the Merman. The Narrans, bows and swords at the ready, grimly waited for them.

  The fight was fierce and bloody, quickly over: The Narran seamen were not predominantly fighting men, were unprepared for the change in their enemy's tactics, and many of them stood in stunned horror, staring at their murdered companions before they, too, were killed. Brit Arren strode from one end of the Merman to the other, crying encouragement to his crew, killing any foolhardy enough to come against him. Don't think, do! he urged himself furiously. He'd killed before, often; his own kind, Ragnolers. Narrans such as these, now and again. Killing didn't bother him. But he'd never butchered: Fighting these underskilled and stunned Narrans was more butchery than true fighting among equals. Damn them; damn the Three of them!

  He could defy them. He should have defied them. Perhaps it was not yet too late.

  There had been heavy fighting on the low, broad step that separated main deck from the red-and-gold-canopied cabin: Best goods and coin would be there, where the captain slept. His second was directing three red-scarves to salvage there already. Brit Arren watched, then took a moment to gaze out to sea: The fog was lifting. He beckoned to his second, pointed at the roof of the cabin. “Get one of the reds up there, get him a glass, have him watch. I know a man can't see far but it's lifting, and I'm mindful them may be an escort for this one. Remember our Spectre? Catapults and flaming pitch, they said; lost half the crew and nearly the entire ship.”

  He turned back to oversee the fighting, but suddenly there wasn't any. Except in the point of the bow, just short of the small high-sided platform for the bells-boy. A Narran was trapped there, unreachable save through his blades.

  Mal skirted fallen men and swore furiously as his foot slipped on bloody planks. He shouted at the men who stood three-deep around the bow and they hastily cleared a space for him.

  The Narran raised a long, narrow sword and matching dagger to ready. Brit Arren glanced at the decks: Two of his men lay dead, a third had been dragged back by his mates, and lay bleeding in a companion's grip.

  “You're master of these butchers?” The Narran's voice was steady.

  “Mal Brit Arren, of the Fury.”

  “Tr'Harsen, the Merman. The Shark was with me until an hour ago. When it catches up, you'll be captain of the black deeps, Mal Brit Arren.”

  “You'll beat me there, Tr'Harsen of the Merman," Brit Arren replied mockingly. “Your men are waiting for you.”

  The Narran shook his head in disbelief. “Why?”

  “Why should we share the seas with you?” Mouthing their words, he could even briefly believe them. Scum, these traders!

  “We could say the same of you,” Tr'Harsen replied grimly. “Though we've been willing to leave you alone for like treatment.”

  “A weak man's philosophy. But you Narrans are weak.” Brit Arren laughed. The men behind him laughed and the rocks rang with it.

  “No. Not entirely.” Tr'Harsen lunged; his blade moved in a curious twisting circle, deftly avoided the parry and laid open Brit Arren's cheek from temple to beard.

  He cried out, as much in surprise as pain. Trickery! Any man could take first blood with a trick unknown by his opponent! He'd make no more such scores; Brit Arren assured himself grimly.

  They fought in silence, save for the occasional moan from the wounded man; that faded slowly as the blood drained from him. “Give up,” Mal said finally. “I'll kill you quickly.” Tr'Harsen might not have heard; an upward slash of his dagger nearly caught Brit Arren's sword hand.

  But he was cornered, and that told against him; he'd already fought, more than once: Brit Arren came to the battle fresh. He waited; the moment came, he lunged, catching the Narran's sword arm in a murderous grip. Tr'Harsen brought his dagger up, too slowly: Brit Arren ran his long blade in to the hilts, pulled it back out as he twisted away.

  Tr'Harsen drew his breath in an agonized shudder, staggered and fell. His long body jerked once, the sword rolled free. The men shuffled nervously, began moving quietly away from the bows. Brit Arren's voice stopped them.

  “Are the holds cleared? The cabin?”

  “Mostly.” Jon came to his side. “They're hurrying; the wounded are off already.”

  “All of you, then, move it! Remember what he said? Remember Spectre?” The men scattered in a burst of relieved activity. “Any survivors, Jon?”

  “The bells-boy dove over. He was bleeding though, Mal; I don't think he could have made shore.” Jon touched his forearm. “Mal, are you all right?”

  “Of course I am! Go, finish out! Hurry!”

  “That's the last of it, Mal, that crate.” Jon pointed as two men shoved a black-coated box out of the hold and two others staggered away with it. Brit Arren closed his eyes, momentarily sickened by all of it: Magic, blood, the sheer waste of those men, the ship—the retaliation the Narrans would surely make. The sticky red boards underfoot that had been ship's weathered grey. The unstable movement as the unmastered cog wallowed in a sudden shifting swell. They're using me, using all of us. When they're done using us, they'll discard us like the woman throws away the ashes in her brazier. It made him briefly so furious he didn't dare speak. Jon waited in silence, watching him.

  “Don't waste any time, we can't stay here. Take two of the red-scarves and find some oil, soak down the sails and the decks.”

  “We're going to fire her?” For some reason this unsettled Jon.

  “Fire her,” Brit Arren snapped. “Fire her and send her to the bottom! Go, move!” Jon turned and sped back down the deck, tapping two of the first-voyagers and taking them with him. Brit Arren could hear them down in the holds moving through the sleeping area, heard things falling and breaking in their haste. He walked back over to the mast. Tr'Harsen lay sprawled on his back, eyes closed. “You lost, Captain,” he whispered, “I'm still alive. You're dead.” He walked back across the deck, clambered over the railing and leaped back to the Fury. His men lined the rails. “Fire her!” he ordered curtly.

  Torches were lit, flung high. They flew across the widening gap between the two ships to land among the oil-soaked barrels. Fire ran along the decks and up the mast. The sail burst into flame. Even where he stood, he felt a wave of heat and he shouted urgent orders at the men working the lines. Fury's black mainsail bellied as other men scrambled out the bow to let down the triangular artemon. The Fury leaped forward but a hundred lengths downwind, they brought her around again.

  Silence held; save for the crackle of fire, the creak of wood, rope against tackle, the slap of a man's bare feet as he ran across the deck. A loud crack, a groan of protesting wood; the Merman heeled over and slid beneath the surface. The scent of charred wood and death hit them on a gust of smoke, passed over, was gone. A gull screamed; several men jumped.

  “Brit Ofry, take the tiller!” Brit Arren shouted. “The rest of you, get those sails down!” Men moved. Brit Arren clambered down the stairs to his cabin. Jon Bri Madden followed.

  “Mal?” It was hard to see in the lavish cabin at first. His voice wasn't working right, it wanted to go high and quavery. “I thought perhaps you'd like—”

  “What I'd like,” Brit
Arren snapped, “is wine. Bring me the red from that last little oversea schooner.” Jon found the bottle and a base-weighted cup. “One for yourself, Jon.”

  Jon didn't like drinking with Mal when he was in a dark mood. This time he couldn't read the captain's mood, that could be even more dangerous. He closed his eyes briefly, found another cup. They drank in silence. Brit Arren set his wine aside barely tasted. “May all the horrors there are gnaw Bri H'Larn's bones for what he did to us,” His voice was nearly expressionless, all the more frightening for it. “I would never have countenanced those Three, Jon! I should not have agreed to the killing. Lyiadd says it is to defeat Nar before war ever falls upon her, to show them how little hope they have! Only a fool would think that.” He picked up his cup, looked at it, set it aside untasted again. “Such a stupid thing to die for, Jon. This plan of Lyiadd's will get us all killed!”

  “By the Narrans?” Jon laughed. Brit Arren's mouth twisted in brief, sour humor.

  “Remember catapults and burning pitch, even fools who cannot fight like men can sink a ship with those things, Jon.” He slammed both fists on the table; it shuddered and his cup fell to the floor. “It does not matter, we are all dead men.”

  “Mal, I—” Jon felt the sweat running in little rivulets down his breastbone. The focus stuck to his skin.

  “Well? What use will we be to Lyiadd when the Peopled Lands are his?”

  “To hold the sea against—” Jon's voice trailed away. The black anger in Brit Arren's eyes slammed into him like a blow.

  “Against what?” He took Jon's untouched cup, drained it and shoved it away. “Leave me, Jon. Go.”

  “Mal, if you—”

  “Go!” Brit Arren roared. Jon fled.

  As I get older, I find I take more pleasure in the small things: a narrow ledge warm with sun for most of a long day of late Floods Month. Or that Selverra's voice is so like my sweet Scythia's was at that baby age, or that l could see her semblance in Berd's large, blue eyes.

  7

  The sun had long since dropped behind the mountains. Ylia knew she could see the light still on the snow-capped eastern peaks if she sat up straight, At the moment, she lacked the strength for even that.

  The Main Council would have been enough to wear her down; she was heartily sick of the constant bickerings, the unfortunate tendency of the old men who had been her father's councilors to live in the past. So often their recommendations were simply out of the question. Even after three years in the valley, certain of them could not be made to see the dangers surrounding Nedao, and all of the Peopled Lands. She'd hoped to avoid replacing councilors, knowing it would create hard feeling and difficulties. But the meetings themselves were difficult. Some of the eldest, like Gedersy, might even be relieved to step down.

  At the outset she'd managed somehow to keep control of matters, and of her temper. But then the messages arrived from down-river: The Merman gone, its crew dead save for the bells-boy. Ber'Sordes’ man had left the table immediately; the Council broke up moments later. Galdan was gone, too, offering the Narrans whatever aid and consolation he could—though that was unhappily very little.

  Ylia sat alone at the long council table, stating its smooth length, seeing none of it. “Tr'Harsen. Gods, my friend.” It hurt. She couldn't even weep for him, yet; she couldn't feel it. Nisana leaped into her lap and rubbed against her hand.

  'I'm sorry for his death, I liked that man.’ The cat stiffened suddenly. ‘By the Nasath themselves, she's here.’ And she was gone, a tortoise blur bounding across the chamber and out the open window. Ylia stared after her blankly.

  “She's here?” The inner sense was sluggish, nearly as dead to feeling as the rest of her. It took a moment to understand. “Ah no! Not now! But there was no doubting the AEldra presence. Ysian had come back to Nedao.

  “Not now? What?” Galdan stood in the doorway.

  “Ysian. She came on that boat, she's on her way up from the docks.”

  “That's good; isn't it?” Galdan crossed the room to lean against the back of her chair. His fingers rubbed the tight triangle of muscle at the base of her neck.

  “Now?”

  “Why should she wait? Lyiadd may attack Yls any day now. Ysian's life would be doubly forfeit as part of the Sirdar's Council and as a daughter of the Second House, don't you think?”

  Ylia shook her head. “I—all right, we discussed that before. It's not safe here, either.”

  “Safer, though. We Nedaoans know the danger.” He helped her to her feet. “Come now; bring up a smile for her and warn Malaeth she's coming.”

  Evening-meal was set for one more person, and Ylia managed to put herself in a better mood before Ysian arrived. Her aunt had lost weight during the past three years and gained muscle: In her breeches and plain shirt, sturdy boots and sensible cloak, her hair in a thick plait, she looked younger—more like Ylia than Scythia. Two Narrans came behind with her minimal baggage; she carried only a plain, practical bowcase.

  One thing had not changed at all, however. She and Nisana arrived so intertwined it was difficult to tell where one left off and the other began. The cat was purring madly, and Ysian interspersed her conversation with whispered, cooing, remarks that Ylia was grateful she could not hear.

  “Ah, gods, niece, I thought I would never get here, it took forever.” Ysian hefted a limp Nisana onto her shoulders and hugged Ylia hard.

  “How did you do it, Ysian? They've allowed no women on Narran ships for three years now.” The serving woman Therea led the Narrans up to the hastily prepared guest room; Ysian and Ylia followed.

  Ysian sank gratefully onto the bed, untied her cloak and reached for the copper of warm water and washing cloths next to it. “I rode,” she said. “Ah, that feels wonderful!” Damp tendrils of golden hair clung to her face. “None of the ships in Yslar Harbor would take me. But I suddenly couldn't bear to wait any longer. It took me a full five-day to reach Nalda.” She smiled faintly, plunged her hands into the bowl. “I couldn't have done that a year ago. Even so, it was an exhausting ride. I still ache.”

  “Ye didn't ride alone!" Malaeth had come into the chamber in time to hear her last words.

  Ysian shook her head, dried her hands and hugged her old nurse. “Two of Father's housemen came with me the whole way. He suggested it, amazingly enough. And for the second half of the journey, I also had three of Lord Kyeran's sons for company. Seventh House, you know, and northern border holdings; little Power among them but they're arms-trained. I was well cared for, Malaeth.”

  Malaeth still looked scandalized and both women knew why: one of her babies riding the breadth of Yls in breeches, in the company of five young men and no woman to chaperone! She sniffed, touched Ysian's plait and clucked disapprovingly. “It needs washing, lass.”

  Ysian shook her head. “Tomorrow. Tonight there's enough of me left to eat a hot meal. Maybe to climb out of these clothes before I fall asleep.” Malaeth cast a scorching glance at both of them and left in tight-lipped silence. Ysian's mouth quirked. “I'd laugh if I weren't so tired. She's dying to tell me how awful I look. I can't think why she didn't.”

  “You only just arrived, and you're her Ysian. I wager she screams at you tomorrow for risking your reputation by traveling without a nurse.”

  Ysian rolled her sleeves down, dried her hands. “I daresay.” Her face was grave, and the exhaustion was suddenly visible. “That Narran ship. You knew them, didn't you? I came barely in time; Yls can't have much longer.”

  “It's—Ysian, I don't want to frighten you or upset you. We may not have long here, either. Just—just so you know that.”

  Ysian smiled faintly. “I know. I think I can be truly useful this time, though.”

  “Of course you can. I want you, Galdan wants you. We all do. I just wanted you to know.”

  “I know the dangers. I'm ready for them.”

  Malaeth came back with a heavy comb and sat on the edge of the bed to loosen Ysian's snarled plait. “What's chanced here of l
ate?” Ysian winced as Malaeth's fingers caught. “Your last letter was over a month ago.”

  Ylia talked and Ysian listened in silence while Malaeth mumbled to herself and loosened tangles. The nurse turned at a faint noise from the doorway and a smile lightened her face. Selverra stood there, peering shyly into the room. She came three steps when Malaeth murmured something but moved sideways to slip behind her mother.

  Ysian crooked a finger at her. “Is this young Selverra? I expected a little girl. You're a young lady, Selverra.”

  “Sel,” the child corrected in a whisper.

  “Sel. That's a nice name. I'm your Aunt Ysian.”

  “I know.” Selverra smiled enchantingly, ducked under Ylia's arm and ran.

  “By all the Guardians at once, that's a love of a child,” Ysian said. Malaeth nodded proudly.

  “Shy. You were, at that age, remember?”

  “After so many years? Where's my grandnephew?”

  “Sleeping. Want to see him?”

  “After food. Suddenly, I'm starving.” Ysian shoved her hands through her hair and slipped it behind her ears, ignoring Malaeth's grumblings. The old nurse went back to the nursery; Ysian followed Ylia downstairs.

  Ylia, Ysian and Galdan ate alone, and Ylia was relieved to see the two taking to each other readily. She hadn't expected anything else, really, but such things happened. Ysian and Ylia's father had not liked each other much, but Ysian liked Galdan, and said so emphatically when he left for the Narran Ambassador's quarters. “He suits you.”

  “I think so.”

  “I'm glad,” Ysian said bluntly. “Marriage for a woman of your rank doesn't always allow that.” She yawned. “Take me to see young Berd, so I can consider my duty done for the night and go sleep. Tomorrow you can tell me more about this master focus; perhaps I can find it for you.”