by Gregory Ashe
Chapter Twenty-one
The beach, if one could call it that, was abandoned when Joaquim and Viane arrived. The stretch of rocky sand, less than ten feet across at its widest point, ran up to a thick line of white oaks, their leaves already beginning to fall and litter the ground. The stiff breeze coming off the sea, whistling as it passed through the narrow outlet that connected this cove to open water, almost masked the slow lap of the waves against the shore. The sun had vanished behind the hills to the west, and to the east, under the darkening sky, Joaquim watched the copper-fire roofs dull and darken, as though he were watching the tarnish of a thousand years accumulate in the span of a single sunset.
Viane loosed his arm, although she remained nearby, examining the stones along the beach and occasionally skipping one out across the smooth water. Dark shapes passed through the strait and turned out to be Juiot and Nenis, both men grinning as they let the remaining wind carry them to shore. The wind would be as much of a hindrance as a help while unloading, but for now Joaquim enjoyed the sight of the two men, their bushy beards streaming in the breeze. Grits, Tip, and Salo arrived one by one, slipping down the hill so quietly that Joaquim did not even notice them until they stood, clustered together, at the far end of the beach.
The way they clustered together made Joaquim nervous. “Do you think they really are planning on doing something?” he said.
Viane glanced up and saw the three men. “I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s hard to say with those three; I think Grits would do something for sure, if only because he hates rich people, but Sipir made it sound like any sort of nonsense could lose us the job, or at least the money, so they’ll probably wait until we’re out of here and done. They might even wait until we get paid; then they’d just take your money and split it three ways, instead of six.”
“Six?” Joaquim said.
“Well, if I were still alive, I’d want some of it too. After all, I did my part.”
“I can’t bloody believe you’d take part of my share if they killed me.”
Viane grinned up at him and skipped another rock. “That’s the life, Joaquim, like I told you. No trust.”
“I trust you,” he said.
She stood up and linked her arm with his. “That’s what I like about you. Why didn’t you ever act this way before?”
Joaquim did not know what to say. He found himself pulling her closer though, and, with a flush, wondering if they might be able to borrow one of the dinghies from the Canian brothers when the work was finished.
“Stay awake, love-birds,” Grits said, his rough voice pitched low. “There’s the ship. Now where’s Sipir? If that oily bastard sold us down the river, I want to have the pleasure of slitting his throat before I go.”
Sipir did not appear to challenge the man, so Joaquim assumed he had not yet reached the cove. Or he’s already hiding, and he’ll take care of Grits later. Joaquim did not know if that made him feel relieved or not. The ship appeared, barely visible against the darkness, running without lanterns or torches. Even Joaquim, with his limited time on ships, knew that the men were risking their lives by sailing that close to the shore without light. So whatever this is, it’s important. And possibly urgent, as well. If it weren’t, wouldn’t they have waited at least until the morning, dropping anchor somewhere out of sight?
A single voice cried out the depth, barely audible over the wind, and with the rattle of chain, the anchor fell into the water. “I guess it’s time to get out there and see what they’ve got,” Nenis said in his thick Canian accent.
“Sipir said not to look,” Juiot said.
Nenis shook his head and pulled his brother toward the dinghies. “Come on,” Grits said to Salo, “we’ll go with them.”
“What about Sipir?” Joaquim asked, glancing back over his shoulder, as though he could pierce the dark line of oaks.
“No bloody sign of him,” Grits said. “Figures, the man’s a sack of oily waste, that’s all. I’ll tell him that, too, right after I get my money from him tonight.”
Salo followed him toward the dinghies, and Joaquim could hear him say to Grits, “Aw, you’re just mad because he stared you down today, that’s all. I’ll bet you a silver aps you don’t say a word to him, not once you get him in sight. I bet he’s just waiting in those trees, giving us some cover, even if these bloody fools don’t want him to.”
Joaquim could not hear Grits’s response, but he could imagine it. Tip stretched and bounced on his toes, and Joaquim wanted to imitate him; the men seemed to take forever to row out to shore, and the silence pressed down on him. Was Sipir hiding in the trees? Joaquim hadn’t thought of it at the time, but there was no good reason for them to obey the smugglers’ strict injunction against guards; after all, if the guards were well-hidden, how would they ever know? So why did Sipir even say anything? To keep us all on our toes, as Viane says? Or because he knew something was going down? Why tip us off like that? The questions had no answers. Joaquim found himself praying to the Day Sister, though, that the dark-haired Jaecan was waiting somewhere back amongst the white-barked oaks, a pair of crossbows ready, in case things did go wrong.
“What’s taking them so bloody long?” Joaquim asked, trying to make out the shape of the dinghies in the darkness. They were lost against the black shape of the ship itself. A good quarter of an hour had passed, though, without any noise or sign, and Joaquim felt a prickle run up his spine. Something felt wrong here, although he could not put his finger on it.
The sound of oars in the water broke the monotony of the wind. Joaquim let out his breath and tried to relax. They’re on their way back with the first load, he thought. Now, Sipir just has to show up with the bloody wagon, and we’ll be on the road to finishing up this awful night.
Four boats reached the shore at almost the exact same time, pulling up into a line against the stony strand. Dark-skinned Jaecan tumbled from the boats, dressed as Apsian sailors, with loose, baggy trousers and linen shirts. Joaquim stared at the clothing, puzzled. He was no tailor, but he knew cloth better than most; that was part of telling who was worth knowing, and who was not. The trousers were fine-cut wool, bleached and dyed, not the rough, unbleached stuff that most sailors could afford. The ragged ends were, if it were possible, too ragged, as though they had been made that way.
“Those aren’t sailors,” he whispered to Viane.
“What?”
“They’re not sailors, the clothes are too nice. And where are Grits and the rest? Those are the dinghies.”
He nodded toward the two small boats, from which more of the Jaecan sailors were emerging. A tall man, tall especially for a Jaecan, was one of them. His hands glistened in the moonlight, as though stained with something. He wore a white silk shirt, the sleeves lightly embroidered with gold thread, a crimson half-cape, and fine wool trousers. He could have walked into any of the finest merchant houses in the city and be received, if not with groveling, than at least with deference. He reeked of wealth.
“Sipir?” he said. He had a thick Jaecan accent, but his voice sounded strange nonetheless. As though he used it very little.
Tip stepped forward, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “Sipir’s not here,” he said. “You deal with us, you hear?”
The dagger took Tip in the throat in the blink of an eye. He fell backward, kicking up sand and stones as he bled out on the ground. The finely dressed Jaecan man held another blade in his left hand. He pointed to them. “I told him to send one,” he said. “Kill—”
Before he could finish, Viane was flying across the sand, knives whipping up into her hands. For a single moment, it reminded Joaquim of the only other time he had seen her fight. She moved so quickly, one blade held out, moving so that she could cut the man’s throat and keep running.
Five feet. Two feet. She was there, knife screaming through the air.
Somehow the man turned. He caught her throat and lifted her, spinning as her momentum transferred into him. He did not let go. Viane d
angled there, kicking his thighs, slashing at his forearm with her knives. He shook her, hard enough that Joaquim thought he heard bones crack as her head flopped back and forth. The knives fell from her hands.
He drew rapier and dagger and sprinted toward her, but by then the Jaecan sailors, or whatever they were, were moving as well. He took the first man in the gut with the rapier, then spun and caught a broadsword—a soldier’s weapon—with his dagger. He twisted the dagger and thrust with his rapier, straight through the man’s heart.
Two more were on him by then. Joaquim set his back to the trees. The two men pressed him.
In the darkness, he saw the finely-dressed man’s hand move. Three quick stabs, one after the other. The knife glistened black.
Viane’s body hit the wet sand. The surf washed over her face, hiding the shock in her eyes.
Joaquim thought, for a moment, that the icy surf had washed over him as well. His legs felt like lead. Everything seemed to move too slowly. He parried and thrust, and the men before him dropped. Dimly, he heard the finely-dressed man shouting, but he sounded miles and miles away. The air crushed Joaquim, so heavy he could not draw breath.
Then he was at her side. Her face was cold from the water, but he could feel the traces of warmth underneath. She was terribly pale, her thick lips dark. Joaquim lifted her from the water, tried to drag her up the shore, but his arms didn’t work right. Sword and dagger lay forgotten in the surf.
“Viane,” he said, turning her head. “Viane, say something.”
Someone grabbed him, and Viane’s face fell away, to be replaced by that of the Jaecan. This close, Joaquim could make out details previously hidden by the night. Everything seemed intensely clear, as though every detail screamed for attention, so that he found himself overwhelmed by the shriek of the wind through the strait, by the cold water trickling down his left side, by the air that burned his lungs with every breath. The Jaecan’s eyes were wide, too-wide, and a mad smile curled on his lips, visible even through the ratty beard that covered his face, at odds with the fine clothes. Gray streaked his long, unruly hair.
“I told him one.” He shook Joaquim, and it was then that Joaquim realized that he was hanging in the air, the Jaecan holding him by the throat. The man’s strength was incredible; the world spun around Joaquim even after the man stopped shaking him. “One, but he sends so many. You will take me into the city, take all of us in there, so that we aren’t seen.”
“I can’t,” Joaquim found himself saying, terrified by the man’s strength, by his own helplessness as he hung in the air, choking for breath. “I can’t, I don’t know anything, I’m not a smuggler, please.” He hated himself as the words left his mouth, but they were true. He was nothing; he could not defend himself, he could not save Viane. Bloody Bel, Joaquim thought, fighting down a giggle that he was sure was madness, I couldn’t even get her to like me; why would she bloody want me to save her?
He was sobbing then, he realized. The Jaecan let him fall, and the jolt drove Joaquim to his hands and knees. The cold spray of the sea washed over him, and he choked in breath and water in equal portions, gasping and coughing as he kneeled in the water. His hand closed over steel, and even through the numbing cold, Joaquim felt blood begin to flow.
Behind him, the Jaecan was giving orders, but Joaquim could barely hear him. He found the handle of the dagger and, with one smooth movement, spun and drove it into the man’s side. Blood, hot, rank, spilled out across Joaquim’s hand and arm.
The fine-dressed man staggered and howled. He scrabbled at Joaquim’s hand, still screaming like an animal, and spun. One hand knocked Joaquim back into the salty water. When he came out of the water, sputtering, Joaquim saw the man hunched over, steel blade still in his side, screaming. His eyes rolled back and forth, and foam speckled the unkempt beard. With one lunge, the man was next to him, one hand pressing Joaquim’s head under the water, the other still gripping the handle of the dagger imbedded in his side.
Joaquim was under water for just a moment before a shock of energy, like being struck with lightning, ran through him. Everything vanished—water, cold, the throb of the cut in his hand. Suddenly he was standing on the beach, Viane struggling as he held her by the throat, shaking her so hard that he could feel her neck break. My hand, he thought with horror, seeing the olive-colored skin of an Apsian, not the Jaecan’s dark, hairy arm. He watched, unable to stop himself, as he felt the blade in his other hand enter her body not once, not twice, but thrice, each time a different place, each time feeling a surge of bliss at the first tear of flesh, that infinitesimal moment of penetration. Then Viane was falling, the shock on her face like a blade in his heart. I killed her.
And then he was sucking in salt water and kicking, struggling to force his head above the surface that was tantalizingly close. He was drowning, helpless. Weak, useless, I couldn’t save her, couldn’t save myself. I killed her. The thought swept over him. No, he wanted to say, but the memory was there, the terrible joy of feeling her heart stutter as the blade entered.
Another flash of energy shook him, blanking out the salty water that was smothering the life from him, emptying him of the terror of drowning, and again he was on the beach. Viane struggled in his hand; he didn’t know how he had the strength to hold her up like that, but it didn’t matter.
“Please,” she gasped. “Please, Joaquim, don’t.” Tears rolled down her face, one of them catching on the tip of her sharp nose.
He liked that look and he shook her. He could feel her neck snap, feel the scream that struggled to emerge from her throat, the scream he stifled with one hand. It felt good, to do that, to feel the scream, but not to hear it. He liked that.
Then the knife was in his hand, again, moving forward, piercing flesh as she cried his name. Gore, warm with life, slid between his palm and the gritty leather-wrapped hilt, slick as ice and hot as fire. The knife plunged in again, keeping time with her voice as his name bled out of her.
Stars sparkled in front of his vision. He was drowning, dying. Joaquim could see nothing but the dark water. He clutched at the man’s hand, nails ripping along his arm, trying to pry the man’s hand free, but he could not think. He needed air so badly.
A shimmer of energy tore through him, so strong that he arched his back and screamed, any thought of escape vanishing. The water faded away again.
It was different this time. He stood above himself, knee deep in the shallow water, drowning himself with a disregard that felt wonderful, breathtaking. The bliss of taking life ran through his body, pumping in his veins with every beat of the dying Apsian’s heart. My heart. The thought made no difference.
Then, anger. Fury poured through Joaquim, and he found his gaze turned to the shore. Men lined the narrow stretch of shore, lanterns and torches lighting up the night. Fire gleamed off of steel, and Joaquim could sense, in a way he did not understand, crossbows trained on his men from behind the line of oaks.
“I told him to send one,” Joaquim said. “One!” The last word was a scream that tore his throat, but it felt good to scream, almost as good as to hear them. He let go of the man he was drowning—me—and sloshed up to the shore. “Which one of you is Sipir? Why does he not understand? I will teach him, like I taught that one.” He means me. I mean me. Sisters bless me, what’s happening?
A crossbow clacked in the night, and then a dozen more, mowing down the Jaecan soldiers—my soldiers. Rage swept away Joaquim’s thoughts. He did something with his hands he did not understand and felt power—raw, terrible, like lightning forced through a funnel—fill him. A loud crack split the air, and fire blossomed on the gray water and rushed forward, up the sand, consuming man and plant alike.
Joaquim’s vision blurred, and suddenly he was floating, everything dark, and his lungs burning so badly that he sobbed, drawing in salty water. Coughing, he threw himself up and felt his head break the surface, and air rushed over him. Cold. His body shook so badly with coughs that it was all he could do to keep his head above t
he water.
He blinked tears and water from his eyes and forced himself to crawl toward land, toward the inferno that blazed. Human torches ran, screaming, for the water, where the fire had died out, and the burning oaks cast everything in bright, ruddy light. Sisters, what happened? His memories of his time in the water were fading; Joaquim struggled to remember how he had fallen underwater, what had kept him there.
Other memories rushed in to take their place. Viane’s face, twisted with shock. The feel of her neck breaking under his hand. Fire racing from his hands to burn water and sand together. Oh gods, I killed her, Joaquim thought. He vomited, then, into the breakers. Oh Bel, kill me now, please. I killed her and I enjoyed it. He crawled forward, through his sick, arms trembling so that he thought he might fall.
Nothing made sense. His only company were the dead men that littered the beach, but he did not recognize them—Jaecan, to judge by their skin color and the finer, Jaecan wool that they wore, but dressed as Apsian sailors. Further up were more men, most burned beyond recognition. In the light of the burning oaks, he could make out a few, true Apsians, but he did not recognize them. Tip lay a few feet away, the area around him undisturbed except for the scuffed sand near his boots and the blood-stained ground near his throat.
He found her, then, her face still warped into that mask of shock and horror that was branded into his mind. Oh Bel burn me, she’s dead. He could not bring himself to examine her, to touch her. At that moment, looking at her corpse, memory raged: first, an image of himself, crouching in Sipir’s hideout, realizing that his life had been spared, and promising to make a better man of himself to win Viane; the second, the feel of the knife sliding through her stomach, the tear of flesh, like velvet. Sisters, what have I done? Who am I?
Part III—Lightning on the Waves