by Watson Davis
The warriors of the garrison of Varensinth stood in their rows, their green scale armor sparkling in the magelight, their masks covering their faces, hiding their identities, but she knew Bat-ek stood before her, even if she didn’t know where.
She leaned toward an older man in tattered clothing standing beside her and asked, “What is going on?”
“They go to meet Sissola’s army,” the man said.
Hanno gulped, her angry words forgotten.
“Hey, what the hells?” the man said, hopping aside, knocking into the woman beside him; he looked at his leg, shaking it. Jyif-ek had urinated on him and was giggling.
Gartan's Big Plan
“Out fenders!” Tethan called out, peering out over the side of the massive sailing ship they’d brought up from Gersark, moving the wheel back and forth with his hands, gliding it toward the pier. “So how did you know Mother was the one you should marry?”
“Out fenders!” Makal called out, sending several Onei sailors rushing to the port side of the vessel, throwing blocks of wood over the side of the ship connected by lengths of rope.
“Well, look at her!” Gartan laughed, gesturing to Davina standing at the edge of the rail, throwing up over the side. “She’s a magnificent creature.”
“Dad,” Tethan said, turning the wheel. “I’m serious.”
“You’re coming in too fast.” Gartan rose onto the tips of his toes to peer over the side of the ship.
“You’re an old woman,” Tethan said, his tone calm, distracted. He bent forward and yelled, “Heave to!”
“Don’t destroy my damned pier,” Gartan growled, bracing himself against the mast.
The sailors pulled at the lines, drawing the ship sideways toward the pier.
“Heave to the forward painter!” Tethan called out.
The ship slowed to a stop, easing up against the pier, pushing against the fender boards, leaving the ship unscathed and the pier intact.
“Secure the lines,” Tethan called out, and Makal repeated the order, the Onei sailors tying the lines off and securing the ship.
Gartan turned, raising his hands, and smirked. “That’s my boy! Almost as good as me. Almost.”
“Did you always know you’d get married to her?” Tethan asked, turning and leaning his back against the wheel.
“She was a great friend and she looked good enough to eat.” Gartan shrugged, pursing his lips. “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
“You are not helping,” Tethan said.
Gartan leaned forward, peering into his son’s eyes and patting him on the top of the head. “And you’re too young to worry about it.”
Tethan laughed, following his father down the steps to the main deck.
“Makal?” Gartan slapped the man on his shoulder. “Are you ready to take Tethan’s place at the wheel? Or is it Nohel’s turn?”
Makal shook his head, his white hair stringy and damp with sweat. “I am ready.”
“Ahoy, the big purelander ship,” a voice called up from the pier. Simthil, clan leader of the Greathouse clan, a broad, squat Onei man, stood on the pier, gazing up, his eyes dark slits.
“Clan Leader Simthil.” Tethan raised his hand and waved down at him, glancing back at his father.
Simthil waved back, a grin on his always-cheerful face.
Gartan leaned over the railing of the ship. “Welcome to Windhaven. I thought Greathouse clan was wintering in the Far Wastes this year.”
Simthil gestured to the ship. “What are you doing with a purelander ship, Gartan?”
Gartan stomped to the mainmast, grumbling. He pulled the gangplank out, carried it to the side of the ship, and set it down, swinging one end out onto the pier, the other balanced on the railing of the ship. He jumped onto the gangplank and jogged down it.
Tethan leapt to the rail and rushed down in his father’s wake, leaping down the last few feet to the deck of the pier.
“Well met.” Gartan reached out with his hand, grasping Simthil’s forearm as Simthil grasped his, each man slapping the other’s shoulder. Simthil turned to Tethan and they shook hands.
But when Simthil pulled away, he was glaring at Gartan. “It’s a big, fat whale of a ship, Gartan.”
Gartan smiled. “I captured it on our last raid down to Gersark. I thought it would be a nice toy, just something to teach us how the purelanders sail.”
“The only thing you can learn from a purelander is how to be weak.” Simthil put his meaty fists on his hips. “And how to lie. And cheat.”
Tethan furrowed his brow, counting the points on his fingers.
“Why bother learning about lying and cheating from the purelanders when I can learn it from the Brightfoxes?” Gartan smiled and winked at Tethan, who grinned.
“Yeah.” Simthil lowered his head, chuckling. “There is that. But you don’t have anything special you’re planning with this piece of crap?”
Tethan gulped. He licked his lips and tried to keep his breathing normal while he figured out how to arrange his hands and arms in a way that didn’t look unnatural.
“Special?” Gartan snorted, screwing his face up, crossing his arms over his chest, shaking his head. “Nothing special here. Just a little something to play with when the ocean ices up and there’s nothing else to do. That’s all.”
“Hmm.” Simthil nodded. “Well then, I’ll see you later.”
# # #
“Father, listen to Makal.” Tethan grabbed Gartan’s upper arm, his fingers tightening, hoping to stay Gartan’s temper.
Gartan turned to his son, glaring at him, his eyes burning with a fury bordering on berserker.
Tethan let go of Gartan’s arm and backed away, back to his seat at the banquet table in the Skybear palace, at the end of the table in the spot for those with the least seniority, Tayna to his right and a space to his left. She patted his arm and whispered, “Nice try, though.”
“Thanks.” Tethan held his breath, looking down at her hand, his arm tingling where she touched it. He felt empty when she sat back.
“Yes.” Gartan breathed deep and lifted his hands. “I’m listening, Makal. Give me more of your bad news.”
“We can’t expand the size of the hold any further without the whole ship falling apart,” Makal said from his seat near Gartan’s empty one. He shrugged and shook his head. “We can’t do it. Our mages could keep it afloat for a bit, but not for a voyage of any length. And besides, she already handles like a pregnant sea dragon.”
Tayna leaned back with her boot heels on the edge of the table, her chair pushed onto its back legs, her hands in her lap. “Maybe we could kill a sea dragon and tow it alongside the ship for food.”
Tethan smiled, glancing back at her.
Gartan slammed his fist down, the massive table bouncing from the impact, the wood on top splintering. A grimace of anger on his face, he drew his bleeding hand back. “Now is not a time for jokes.”
Tethan’s smile evaporated and Tayna’s boots slid off the table top. She bowed her head to him. “Of course, Clan Leader. My apologies.”
“We need more purelander boats,” Tethan said, not too loud, afraid of his father’s rage and ridicule.
Gartan turned to his son and stared at him.
“And where, by Inare’s fuzzy tail, are we supposed to get those?” Nohel asked from the far end of the table, from his spot at Gartan’s right hand, across from Davina, the Skybears’ chief shaman and wizardess.
Tethan peered down the table at Nohel’s lined face and cleared his throat, his stomach fluttering as though he were heading into battle. “How about Shria?”
“Shria?” Nohel tilted his head back and guffawed. “Shria? Why in the name of the great Skybear would we go to Shria?”
Tethan looked back at his father, who still stood in the space at the end of the table with his hands on his hips.
“Yes,” Gartan said, his voice low and dangerously calm, his eyes squinting, “tell us why we would want to go to Shria.”
Tethan stood so he could look down the table at the elite warriors of the Skybear clan: the officers, the men and women of power and prestige. He swallowed. “The capital of Shria is the major city on our continent closest to the continent of the Nayens. If we go there first, we can stock up on food and drinking water before making the long voyage across the Flux Sea. We could use a few more purelander boats to hold our plunder, as many as we want. We could have ships devoted only to carrying stores if we wanted to.”
Makal snorted. “And they’re just going to hand them over to us?”
“No,” Tethan said, shaking his head, his eyes challenging the men and women at the table. “We are Onei. We take the ships; we take the food; we take the water. We are Onei.”
“Yes!” Gartan came over and slapped his son’s back, laughing. “I like this plan better than expanding the hold of the piece of reindeer dung we captured in Gersark.”
Tethan lowered his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “The problem is bodies. We need crew. Every one of these purelander ships we take means fewer longboats.”
Nohel leaned his chair back, nodding. “That’s a problem.”
“But who doesn’t love more room for plunder?” Gartan asked.
A door at the end of the hall cracked open and a young man crept in. All of the eyes of the men and women around the table turned to him. He bowed. “Clan Leader. The Brightfoxes are calling a council.”
“Who made that prissy little Brightfox the queen of the Onei?” Gartan asked, shaking his head, rolling his eyes. “She hasn’t been a clan leader for two seasons and she’s calling a council? Where? Where is this council she’s calling?”
“Here, sir.” The boy bowed again. “In Windhaven.”
“Mitta’s calling a council to meet in my town?” Gartan crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing. “When is she calling it for?”
The boy looked fearful. “Well, sir. Two clan leaders are at the palace door asking you to come. Now.”
# # #
Gartan strode into the Brightfox meeting hall, grinding his teeth, with Tethan and Makal at his elbows, the heels of their boots thumping on the polished stone floor. Red hints of blood leaked through the bandage wrapped around his hand. The tall arched windows lining the sides of the basilica stood partway open, the fresh air of autumn whisking in, the afternoon sky a bright blue.
The main meeting table had been positioned at the far end of the basilica, the long side toward Gartan, with two more tables stretching out from either end of the main table, like a three-sided square, open to Gartan like a trap, inviting him in for an ambush. He suppressed a grin at the thought.
Mitta Brightfox, clan leader of the Brightfoxes, sat in a large chair in the middle of the main table, with more clan leaders to her right and left, their shamans and lieutenants arrayed at the other tables. She leaned back, her left elbow on the arm of her chair, her narrow chin resting on her thumb, and a smile on her lips, watching Gartan’s approach like an icefang waiting for a wide-eyed fawn to come sniffing around, or like a child playing with her dolls, positioning them just so.
Gartan spread his hands as he approached, the smile playing on his lips belying the anger bubbling in his heart. “Am I the guest of honor at this party or am I the entertainment?”
Yanira, clan leader of the Ironcutter clan, leaned forward in her seat, resting her forearms on the table. “You have a purelander boat.”
“The entertainment, then,” Gartan mumbled, slowing to a stop. He pursed his lips. “I have many odds and ends I’ve gathered on our raids down the coast: an expandable tube with glass at either end that makes things faraway look very close, a book with pages of metal, some spices that make you think you have flames bursting from your lips and tongue… all manner of incomprehensible objects. Shall we discuss those?”
“Why do you have a purelander boat?” Simthil asked, shaking his head, his brow furrowed. “I know you well, old friend, and you have something in mind. You would not be training your clan how to sail it, otherwise.”
“One day, it may be beneficial for my clan to know how to operate one of the things.” Gartan crossed his arms over his chest, settling his weight on his left foot. “But my question for you is this: Who are you all to question me and my clan on what we do? Have I somehow caused injury or harm to you? I think not.”
Silmon of the Far Waste clan said, “You are planning a raid with this ship?”
Gartan sighed, rolled his eyes, and shook his head. “Do I come to the Wastes and ask you what raids you plan? Do I enter Birgita and ask the Brightfoxes what raids they are considering, and how they plan to execute them? Do I knock on the gates of Delma and ask the Ironcutters whether they plan to attack the Morrin or the Delirans? If I have done this, please remind me, for it has escaped my memory.”
“So, you are planning to use this boat in some sort of raid?” Yanira asked, nodding. “How?”
“Pardon me, for I have been remiss,” Gartan said, strolling forward until his thighs touched the table and he stood across from Mitta. “I am a bad host. Here are all of you, the clan leaders of the largest and most powerful clans of the Onei, in Windhaven, the birthplace of our kind, a city in the heart of the lands of the Skybear, and I have not welcomed you.”
Simthil said, “Gartan, stop.”
Gartan raised his palm toward Simthil, silencing the man. “So, let me welcome you all here to my city, to my town, to my lands. But do not come here and think to question me about what I do here or why I do it. You do not have that privilege or that right. Out of the kindness of my heart, I will allow you all to stay here in the birthplace of our people, but if you think I am a purelander for you to bully and to question, then I suggest you go back to your clan, gather your warriors, and let us arrange a battlefield to settle this wrongheaded idea.”
Mitta Brightfox grinned, batting a stray strand of platinum hair from her eyes. “You are planning a huge raid, and we want in.”
Gartan growled and whirled around, his arms trembling, his hands clenching into fists, and stomped toward the door.
“Gartan, come back, or you will face all of us on that field of battle,” Leedy of the Icefangs said, his voice rising.
Tethan stood at the door, his hands clasped before him. He shook his head and mouthed the words, “We need sailors.”
Gartan took two more steps, his anger dissipating, an understanding of his son’s idea dawning on him. He stopped and turned to face the clan leaders. He smiled, saying, “You want in, do you? I might be able to find work for you.”
# # #
Kalo Autut, captain of the Dancing Kestrel, strode through the open gate of the Fortesku Factor House of Wares and walked up to the desk of the receptionist. A light breeze at her back carried a hint of chill and the scent of the fresh fish in the market beyond. She wore her finest red silk, a golden dragon-embroidered tunic, with her hair covering the left side of her face, and a medallion with her seal of the Autut family crest hung between her breasts. Mian-on and Yaj Yath followed in her wake.
The receptionist stood: a young brown-haired Shrian man with elegant pinkish skin and haunting green eyes, much taller than all but the tallest of Nayen blood. He clasped his hands in a rough imitation of the appropriate form called for by the Nayen rules of courtesy and bowed. In heavily accented Nayen, he asked, “May I assist?”
In Shrian, Kalo said, “I have an appointment with Mr. Fortesku regarding a commission.” She extracted a page from her sleeve, a copy of an order notice, and placed it on the receptionist’s desk, holding it in place with her finger; the breeze tugged at the edges of the page. “I have the order, as you see.”
The receptionist took the order from her and glanced over the page, his brow furrowing, humming under his breath. Going to the bank of cabinets behind him, he pulled out a drawer and flipped through the pages within, his humming growing louder. He glanced back at the original order. His fingers stopped and then moved in the other direction through the do
cuments, back and forth, until he stood again and slid the cabinet shut.
He licked his lips and reached out to Kalo, handing the order back to her. “Many apologies, but this order is no longer valid.”
Kalo accepted the page from him, but her arm remained outstretched, the page dangling from her fingers and waving in the slight gust from behind her. “No longer valid?”
“Yes, exactly,” the man said, nodding and dropping himself back in his chair. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes,” Kalo said, her arm still outstretched. “You can help me understand what you mean by this order no longer being valid.”
“Well,” the receptionist said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, “all I can tell you is that I find no record of such an order in our files. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“The document is stamped with your official seal,” Kalo said, pressing up against the counter, rising up on the tips of her toes and waving the order before the man’s face.
The man shrugged. “Without the original in our files, there is nothing I can do.”
Kalo’s voice rose in volume, her impeccable Shrian picking up a Tesoran accent. “I’ve purchased and brought one thousand silver mirrors across the Flux Sea because Mr. Fortesku assured me he would compensate me for them. I am here. The mirrors are here. And the money is not here? Where is Mr. Fortesku? I would talk to him now.”
The man rose to his feet, looming over Kalo, his expression no longer nice. “Mr. Fortesku cannot be bothered by the likes of you. Now leave or I will call the guard to escort you out.”
Kalo brought her arm back, stepping away from the counter. She looked down at the order paper, folded it, and said, “Yes? Call your guard, then. But have them bring Mr. Fortesku to come speak with me to resolve this matter.”
Yaj Yath stepped forward, shaking his hands. He dropped his oracle bones onto the counter and waved his right hand over them, studying them for several heartbeats before sweeping the bones into his left hand.