by Brent Weeks
A sharp sailor’s whistle blew in the air, the three-tone call for help. Unmistakable for anything else. “Good luck,” the air said. She could hear Murder Sharp’s wide grin, even if she couldn’t see it.
Teia stood, paralyzed, for one moment more. She saw a watchman two hundred paces down the alley. He saw her, too, bloody blade in hand, standing over a dead man. She ran.
Chapter 18
Gavin hoped that the ship going in to port would give him a chance to escape. If not that, at least a chance to send a message. And if not that, he hoped that the sailors’ natural braggadocio would serve to get word to the Chromeria for him. But though Gunner might have been half crazy, he wasn’t stupid. After he’d taken the Ilytian galley, they’d headed directly to port. The Ilytian sailors who had survived the attack had been chained to their own oars, replacing the dead slaves, given fresh oars from the supplies on the Bitter Cob, and kept strictly away from the Cob’s crew.
Away from Gavin.
The Bitter Cob had dropped anchor a fair distance from whatever the nearest town was. The slaves thought it was Corrath Springs, though more than half the slaves were Angari and therefore strangers to the Cerulean Sea, so Gavin figured everyone was guessing, putting a name on a place to try to give themselves some illusion of control over it. The other galley, Rage of the Seas—a grandiose title, but the Ilytians didn’t have much use for modesty—had been manned by Gunner’s first mate and the third mate, who hated the first mate, and Leonus, who hated everyone.
Gavin thought it was a smart move. Men who hated each other were much less likely to collude. If the officers came back with wildly different stories of how much they got paid for the galley and cargo, you could ask Leonus. Not a foolproof design, but reasonably good, especially if the next time you sent different men.
The crew who’d stayed behind were unhappy about not getting a chance for shore leave, but Gunner silenced that in short order with a few beatings.
The mates and Leonus came back the next morning, having sold the Rage of the Seas and the slaves—and doubtless spent the night being entertained at a brothel, but that was a tax any wise captain was willing to pay. They hoisted anchor and headed out immediately. The only supplies the men had brought back were barrels of hardtack and barrels of brandy. The galley slaves all got a measure, with a double for those in the first six rows. Leonus shorted them all, though, setting aside enough for himself that he got thoroughly sick.
It was also thoroughly stupid. If he’d only shorted a few of them, or those in the back, he could have stolen the same amount of drink. Instead, he was uniting the slaves against him.
Once they’d been under way for a couple of hours, Gavin was chained, released from his oar, and bundled upstairs. He was taken to the poop, where Gunner was waiting.
Gavin was forced to kneel again, and his chains locked to a ring on deck. He didn’t fight, didn’t grimace.
“You’re a problem,” Gunner said. He dismissed Leonus and the other sailor who’d brought Gavin up. He had his curious white gun-sword hoisted over his shoulders, and was hanging his hands off it like it was a yoke.
“My apologies,” Gavin said. In quick glances, he studied the blade again: white and black, seven lambent gems. If he’d been able to see colors, it probably would have been even more impressive.
“How long until they name your replacement?” Gunner asked.
“Men like you and me can’t be replaced, Gunner, only followed.”
A quick flash of a grin. But then, “Answer the question, Six.”
“Prisms and Prisms-elect are traditionally only named on Sun Day. If he or she dies before Sun Day, most of the duties are deferred, and the balancing is accomplished through manual means—that is, drafters around the world being told not to draft as much of one color, but more of another.”
“Good news at last,” Gunner said. Then he spat over the deck. “‘Traditionally’?”
“During wars, four times Prisms have been named early, with the final ceremonies put off until Sun Day.”
“So you could already be replaced?” Gunner said. “Good thing you’re good on an oar, I guess.”
Oh, Gunner was worried that if he didn’t ransom Gavin before another Prism was named, Gavin’s value would go down. Orholam’s sweet saggies, like Gavin was property. The thought clanged, dissonant, the vibrations shaking sand from surfaces that had been smooth, revealing rusty nails beneath the surface. It was one thing to be forced to row. Even to be beaten was hard and infuriating, but nothing more than Gavin had dealt with in training. Sore muscles? He’d had those for five hundred days straight as he’d designed the skimmer. He’d had men and women try to kill him, he’d been hated and feared everywhere he went. But to be a slave?
No, this was an unpleasant land he was visiting. It wasn’t his new home. Good on an oar? He would escape or be rescued, there was no question of it. He wasn’t a rower; he was simply rowing for a time.
Gavin owned slaves. When he saw stray looks on their faces, fear or despair or disgust, he judged whether it was an assassination attempt—and if it wasn’t, he dismissed it. Dismissed them. Because they were beneath his notice.
The only slave he’d treated like she was human was Marissia. He’d been good to her, at least. More than good. He’d been an excellent owner to the slave closest to himself. That had to count for something.
“You’re certain your father doesn’t want you back?” Gunner asked.
“You saw where that sword was, didn’t you?” Gavin asked. He meant when Gunner had fished him out of the water. He didn’t remember it himself, but he’d been told he’d been impaled on the damn thing. “My father put it there.”
That was true, as far as it went. Gavin had taken the dagger into his own chest when he saw it was him or Kip. An odd touch of mad heroics. And now Kip was drowned. Which showed all the good heroics do.
“What do you want?” Gavin asked.
Gunner spread his arms, soaking up the sun. His jacket parted over his sinewy bare chest, and he held the ivory and ebony musket-sword easily. “Gunner wants a legend,” he said.
“You’ve got two. The Sea Demon Slayer? You’ve been a legend since you were six and ten. And you captured me, a legend if there ever was one.”
“If you says so yourself,” Gunner said, grinning.
“I figgered Gunner wouldn’t be one for false modesty,” Gavin shot back.
Gunner paused. “Indeed, no.” He got pensive. Finally, he gestured to his ship, his crew, even his miraculous sword. “It ain’t enough. You understand? Of all of ’em, you understand, don’t you? I was a boy when I did that other. That can’t be the pineapple of my life, can it?”
Gavin didn’t grin at the malapropism. Gunner wouldn’t take even a hint of well-meant mockery, not now.
“It was half luck,” Gunner said. He shook his head. “A man’s more than one act, ain’t he?” But he didn’t wait for Gavin to answer. He pointed to the horizon with grim amusement. “There, you see it?”
Gavin couldn’t see it.
Gunner grunted, looking at Gavin’s chains, but decided to keep him in them. “We’re being followed by a galley. Belongs to one Mongalt Shales. He’s sworn vengeance on me. Two years ago, I was gunner for the famous Captain Giles Tanner. You know him?”
Gavin had to shake his head.
Gunner grunted, like it was a loss, but a digression too far to fill Gavin in. “Pirate, ’course. We found a galley and gave chase, and I made a shot from the long tom. Didn’t just blow the first mate off the wheel—I blew off the wheel. From three hundred paces. Bit of luck to that shot, I admit. Without her bein’ able to turn, fight was over like that. No one else even died.”
“The mate blown off the wheel was Shales’s kin?” Gavin guessed.
“Sister. He’s been following me since. Found me at a bunkhouse in Wiwurgh. Started a fight. I busted out half his teeth. Found me at a whorehouse in Smussato. Challenged me to a duel. I suggested pistols. He said swor
ds. I left him with a dozen cuts and a broken hand. Found me at a tavern in Odess. Challenged me to a duel again. I stickulated that we fire pistols from forty paces. He missed. I shot him in the groin. Winged him, but never heard if I unmanned him or not. He lived, so it can’t have been bad, but I saw blood. Thought that would put him off finally.”
You thought castrating a man would stop his quest for vengeance?
“He follows me now. I keep enough distance to taunt him. To let him think he’ll catch me, if he just gets the wind right, or if I make one mistake. Not sure how he motivates his crew. Imagine they’ll mutiny someday.”
“So you’re letting a lethal problem fester because … why? Because you’re bored?” That Gunner hadn’t killed his pursuer either said Gunner was a better man than Gavin had thought, or a far, far worse one.
“Gunner likes that word. What’s that mean?”
Which … oh, fester. “Get worse. Like a wound that gets gangrene or leaks pus.”
“Knew it was a good one. You’re a smart man, Prism. Festure.”
“Fester,” Gavin said before he could stop himself.
Murder passed across Gunner’s face in half a second, then departed. “Fester,” he said carefully. “What would your father do if I sent him your eyes?”
Gavin suppressed a quick stab of revulsion and fear. “That depends.”
“Pray tell.”
“He would doubtless make some public expression of grief. That would be a mummer’s show I should be sorry to miss. He’ll come after you regardless, but you tell me, are my eyes still prismatic?”
Gunner’s fist came out of nowhere, crushing the side of Gavin’s face. Unable to defend himself in his chains, on his knees, Gavin crashed heavily to the deck. He heard a mechanical sound and looked up, blood filling his mouth, to see Gunner had the musket-sword loaded, cocked, and pointed at Gavin’s head.
“You mock me?” Gunner asked.
What? “My eyes,” Gavin said. “Do they look like prisms? Do they reflect light anymore?”
“No, plain blue,” Gunner said, staring down the barrel. “Ah, prismic. Right. ’Pologies.” He hoisted up the gun. “Prismic?”
“That’s right,” Gavin said.
“Prismic?”
“Prismatic,” Gavin admitted.
“Prismatic. That’s right. Your eyes did used to be all prismatic. If Gunner popped ’em and sent ’em to Papa, he’d think that I don’t have his boy after all. Looks like you keeps your peepers. ’Course, I could pop one out. Just because.”
Karris, could you please come and save my ass? While there’s ass left to save, please? “You know, Gunner, I like you a lot. But you frighten me.”
Gunner smiled big, and the danger passed. He looked out at the sea again.
Gavin thought to speak, then thought better of it. Gunner was pensive. Let him think.
“A great musket and an impossible task,” he said after a long minute.
“Hmm?”
“That’s what I want. That’s all.” He looked at the musket-sword he’d pulled from Gavin’s side, somehow without killing him. “I used to want to make the perfect musket. This destroyed that for me. I can never make one this good. I used to want to shoot the Everdark Gates. This ship has destroyed that for me. It’s all been done.” He stomped on the deck. “Gunner was born too late. The last impossible task in this world, he accomplished in his youth.”
He sank into himself, the bright sun no longer penetrating his darkness.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Gavin said. “There are a dozen challenges worthy—”
The butt of the musket flashed out, slamming into Gavin’s stomach and knocking his wind away.
“Do not think to placard me, Guile. I’m no child to be twisted round your twosies. Take him below!” he roared. “Now! Before Gunner blows off the head of our prize!”
Chapter 19
Even as Teia’s feet beat the paving stones, her mind locked up. She was like an animal. She got to a narrow intersection in the alley, and realized she had the bloody knife still in her hands. She skidded to a stop, turned, and flung the knife down the alley, then turned and went the other direction. The ringing of the steel on the stones felt like another alarum bell. She scrubbed her face with a sleeve. It came away bloody.
She was covered in blood. Dear Orholam save her. Teia sprinted down the block, slowed to a walk at the corner, entered the main street, and moved toward the first shop. It was a wool carders’ and weavers’ store, broad shutters open, some of their wares displayed on the street. Seeing an old, toothless woman at the counter inside, Teia squatted down between a rack of woven goat wool ghotras and the wall outside. If the woman came out, the opening door would shield Teia from her.
There was only long enough to wonder if she’d made a terrible decision; then the whistles started. Teia heard men running, not ten paces away. The watchmen, blowing their whistles, high and angry. Running toward the murder, though, not away from it. Trying to figure out what had happened, right now, not yet trying to catch who’d done it.
It was agony not to be able to see anything, but Teia kept down, and in a few more seconds, the door squeaked open and not just the old woman but another woman as well walked out of the shop past Teia.
“What you figure they’re on about this time?” the younger woman asked.
Teia vaulted through an open window into the shop and with light, quick steps, darted up the heavy stairs. The large room upstairs was packed to the rafters with raw wool, but the door to the roof was bolted and locked.
“Jofez?” a man’s voice called out, apparently having heard her steps. “You up here?”
Oh, blackest hell!
She heard footsteps on the stairs and moved behind one of the stacks of wool. The man hadn’t brought a lantern with him, but neither had she, and her eyes weren’t accustomed to the darkness. She’d frozen up before and let fear stop her from dilating her pupils consciously. What if she always did that? What if she was destined to fail when it really mattered? What if—
Teia closed her eyes, let out one breath, and opened them again. She felt the stretching as her eyes dilated open, wider, wider to good night vision and into sub-red.
The warm blob of a man standing on the landing at the top of the steps came into the soft focus that was the best you could get from sub-red. Hottest at the face, hot everywhere skin was bare, duller everywhere clothes covered skin, except groin and armpits.
She tried to circle opposite the man, but in staring at him rather than paying attention to the darkness around her, she stubbed her foot against the wooden base beneath a stack of raw wool. It made a dull thunk.
“Jofez?” the man repeated, stepping closer.
Sub-red wasn’t good enough here. With speed she didn’t know she had, Teia relaxed her eyes further and drafted a paryl torch, but the paryl light didn’t cut all the way through the heavy wool. Useless.
Come on! Her desperation lent her will, and the paryl light sharpened and stabbed the way through edges of the wool stacks. It illuminated them only dimly, but it was enough for her to make out the figure stepping forward mere feet away from her. She wended her way through the stacks carefully, able to make out every detail of the ground easily, not making a sound now.
“Melina, if that’s your damned cat again, I’m gonna kill it. Scares the hell out me all the time, doesn’t even catch rats.” He continued grumbling and made his way down the stairs. “What the hell is going on out there?” he asked, finally hearing the whistles.
Then he was gone.
Adrasteia breathed. She was almost out of paryl, so she let the light die out.
She didn’t have much time. This was a dead end, so she had to move. She navigated her way through the stacks until she found washed and bleached wool by smell and touch, and then grabbed some and scrubbed her hands. She had no mirror, and no idea of exactly where she had blood on her, but she’d have to do the best she could quickly. She tucked what she’d used de
ep into the pile—maybe they’d blame the cat and think it had killed a rat here. Sorry, folks.
Then she stripped off the boys’ clothing she’d stolen and rubbed her face and chest and arms with the clean back of the tunic, hoping she was cleaning off all the blood. She pulled on her dress in the darkness, fumbled with the laces.
Hurry up, Teia. Get moving.
She debated leaving the bloody clothes here, but it might only be minutes before someone came upstairs with a lantern, and if they put things together, the guardsmen would immediately start asking if anyone unusual had been seen leaving the shop. Someone in the neighborhood would say they’d seen a discipula, and the search would be quickly narrowed.
So she was going to have to carry bloody clothes—damnation!—right under their noses. She folded the clothes as tightly as she could, pulled off her hat, stuffed the clothes inside it, and walked downstairs, trying not to give away the riot inside her chest.
No one was in the shop, but quite a few other shopkeepers and passersby were walking toward the alley to see what had happened. Teia scanned herself for blood. It looked like the dress was clean—she’d worried that blood soaking her shift might have wicked through the dress, but as far as she could tell she’d been lucky. She glanced around for a mirror. There was none in the shop.
With her heart in her throat, she stepped back over the window frame and caught a glimpse of her hand—there was blood under her fingernails, and rimming every cuticle. Both hands.
Oh hell.
She stepped out into the street, slipping behind the old woman. The younger man and woman had already walked into the alley and left her to mind her shop.
Glancing over her shoulder, Teia almost bumped into another store owner who was standing in the street, looking torn between minding his shop and going to see for himself. “They say it’s a murder,” he told Teia.