“You see?” said Kyrin after a few moments. “There are better things to do than look from a distance.” She kissed him again. “Far better. Let’s try some of them…”
*
Afterwards they lay silent for a long time, limbs entwined, content to be together. Then Aldric raised his head to look at her, fingertips caressing the curve of one breast. Despite their mingled sweat she smelt bright and sweet, felt as warm and firm and curved as apples in sunlight. He closed his arms to draw her closer and Kyrin lay there for a few seconds before she wriggled free and rolled over.
“Enough!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” She patted the kourgath on the silver crest-collar at his throat. “Wearing a tom-cat round your neck doesn’t mean you need to act like one!”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, you didn’t. I don’t think you could ever hurt me. Why?”
“Because… Well, because you—”
Kyrin interrupted with a chuckle halfway to full-blown laughter, and stroked his chest. “Oh Aldric-ain, those were sounds of pure pleasure. Didn’t you know?”
“Of course I knew, I’m just not—”
“Not telling the truth. There’s a first time for everything, Aldric Talvalin. I’m glad your first time was with me.” She grinned. “And the ones after it, tom-cat. Enthusiastic vigour carefully instructed really does make up for lack of experience.”
“Thank you.” There was no answering grin as he kissed her palm, and Kyrin glimpsed the tag-end of an expression she didn’t want to see. It was gone an instant later and she rapped his nose with one finger.
“Aldric, this was, is, for companionship. To answer a need. Anything more complicated won’t work.” She cupped his face in both hands and kissed him on the forehead. “You can stop pretending to sleep.”
His head turned on the pillow, his eyes opened and he stared up at her from beneath his brows. “What won’t work?”
“What you’re thinking about. There’s a romantic hiding behind that cynical mask, Aldric-ain. I’m a realist. And a foreigner.” A spasm of annoyance, or awareness of what she meant, tensed his muscles. “You can’t fight tradition with a sword.”
“No?”
“No. Because you’re not just a romantic, you’re an Alban kailin-eir, a clan lord, ilauem-arluth Talvalin, heir to lands and ranks and titles.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Enough.”
“You said your father Harek is urlim. That means ‘lord’. Doesn’t it?”
“It means ‘Head of House.’ A merchant clan-lord, if that helps you understand. He has power, the respect of lesser families and,” she gave Aldric a crooked smile, “far more money than most of them. Which is also power of a sort.”
“What are you trying to say?” He knew perfectly well, though pride wouldn’t let him admit it.
“He can name his fathers through six generations, and he’s very proud of that. How far does your clan go back, Aldric?” Kyrin’s question seemed artless.
His mouth opened, then closed again as he realised what she was telling him, and a half-formed mist of future plans blew away on a storm of Alban high-clan protocol. Six generations was perhaps two centuries, but according to the clan’s Book of Years, the brothers Shar and Hachen Taelvallyn were at The Landing with the Horse Lords almost two thousand years ago. His Elthanek forebears went beyond into an age impossible to comprehend, where written records mingled with stories and legends until they were no longer told apart. Aldric turned his head away as if shaking free the leaden weight of years.
“It goes back far too long.”
“You see. How much does a line of six ancestors count against that?”
“It counts. I’d make sure it counts.”
“Hush now.” She lay back and their fingers slid apart. “We’ve said enough. Go to sleep.”
Kyrin slept almost at once, but Aldric stayed wide awake and propped on one elbow for a long time. The frown eventually smoothed from his face and a wistful smile took its place as he reached out and let silken strands of her fair hair drift across his honourably scarred left hand.
“Perhaps you’re right. But perhaps I am. Later for that.” He drew the quilt up across them both and put one arm around Kyrin’s waist, then curled up close, closed his eyes and slept like a child.
*
En Sohra turned out to be a big, black, broad-beamed ship with complicated rigging. She and her master were well matched, since Hervits Barrankal was also big, black and broad-beamed, powerful in voice and body, with the upper part of his barrel chest covered by a spade-shaped beard. What would have been silver tushes at his temples and a badger-streak of grey running straight down from his bottom lip were dyed the same bright blue as his ship’s sails.
The effect made Master Barrankal most striking. He gave Dewan ar Korentin a brusque nod as he came on board, and Kyrin received a deep bow performed with all the grace of an Imperial courtier. Aldric, however, got a disapproving stare that made clear how much Barrankal resented the detour foisted on him.
Elherra was another trading nation and though the crew looked askance at Kyrin, disapproving of her male clothing or approving of how well it fitted, they made no open protest as Alban sailors might have done. Anyone with business on the sea knew all about Valhollan ventures led by women. If it was good enough for such experienced mariners, it was good enough for all the rest, no matter what they might think in private.
The ship was well under way by mid-morning, bowling down the Narrow Sea before a stiff north-easter and alone except for the distant sail of another ship far off in the distance. Sometimes there and sometimes not, at first it seemed to be following them, but even with his minimal knowledge of seafaring Aldric realised it was probably a different ship each time. These waters were a highway, and seldom empty for long.
Unlike his stomach, which at first was seldom full. En Sohra, ballasted by an unexciting cargo of wool, timber and roofing-lead, rolled slow and steady but enough to make a first-time sailor always aware of the nearest railing. The queasiness lasted no more than a day and night before he learned to cope with the rolling deck, and afterward he and Kyrin spent much of their time together screened from prying eyes behind their cabin door.
Dewan ar Korentin found it amusing in an innocently romantic way, though innocence was seldom so noisy after dark. It was his profession to notice things but, as long as their relationship had no adverse effect on the task in hand, ar Korentin remained discreet.
*
On the third morning out, Aldric’s newly settled stomach was disturbed yet again. Breakfast was usually served in the great cabin, but there was nothing on the table this particular morning except bowls of chopped-up stuff that looked nasty and smelt foul. The Elherrans were already eating small pieces, several with evident pleasure, others with a reluctant sense of duty done. One sniff sent Aldric back to the fresh air, only to meet the same reek from a platter held by Kyrin.
Daylight made the pungent lumps look no better, indeed rather worse now details masked by the gloomy cabin were more visible. Perhaps too visible. Fishy cheese or cheesy fish, they were yellowish and glistening, with rind or skin like wrinkled leather, and even with the wind against it the stink still reached him. He watched amazed as Kyrin sprinkled a piece with chopped raw onions, dusted it with cracked pepper and ate it with every sign of enjoyment.
“Do you want—?” She saw his expression. “No, I suppose not.” The offered portion went into her own mouth instead.
“How do you do it?” he asked finally, after three more strips of the fish, cheese, thing had gone the way of the first.
“Do what?”
“Eat that. It’s disgusting.”
“Says the man who likes fried pig-blood sausage.” Kyrin picked up another morsel and repeated the onion, the pepper and the eating. “And that’s how. It goes in the mouth, the breath comes out the nose. So you don’t smell it.�
�
“And the raw onions?” He already suspected why.
“So you don’t taste it either.”
Aldric rolled his eyes, sure this was a joke on the landsman. “Then why bother?”
“Tradition. Don’t you have traditions in Alba?” She threw his own words back at him with a grin to take the sting away. “One we and the Elherrans share, though I don’t know who started first. This,” she poked at the chunks on her plate, “is erets-akket, matured fish pickle. Wicked sour, but not too bad. Not like our Valhollan habsilaq. Fermented, half-dried, and packed in salt? Now that’s bad.”
Aldric’s mouth quirked as he put the words matured, fish and fermented side by side, and Kyrin laughed.
“I mentioned my family’s connection with the sea during our last night in Erdhaven You probably missed it. We were both a little…preoccupied with each other. This is an emergency ration. When it’s all you have, you get less picky. So on the third day beyond sight of land we eat this meagre fare to convince the sea-sprites we’re already in trouble. Then they don’t torment us later.”
“Does it work?”
Kyrin might have said more but she was interrupted by a lookout’s yell, then by Dewan ar Korentin running across the deck from wherever he’d been eavesdropping.
“Not today!” he shouted, gesturing with one outstretched arm as he went up to the quarterdeck four steps at a time. En Sohra was making excellent speed, sails filled taut by the wind whistling in over her stern rail, but breaking the eastern horizon on the port quarter was another sail. Master Barrankal passed Dewan a long-glass and he stared through it long and hard as if hoping the image would change.
“Well?” called Aldric. “Is it green?” The sail he had seen two days ago was green.
“Red.” Ar Korentin snapped the long-glass shut. “Imperial Fleet.”
“I’ve seen other ships since we put out from Erdhaven,” said Kyrin, “so maybe it’s just a merchant captain who likes the colour. The way Master Barrankal likes blue…” Her forced optimism fooled nobody and Dewan looked down at her with a withering expression.
“With the price of scarlet dye, I doubt it.”
Within half an hour the other vessel was running astern, close enough for an occasional flash from her deck as someone turned their own long-glass on En Sohra. She was definitely a warship. Her sides were armoured almost to the waterline, and even unaided eyes could see the dome-topped turrets on main deck and bow. The mainsail, vivid red, displayed the Emperor’s silver star-with-streamers, but the black sprit-sail bore the white diamond outline of the Grand Warlord’s badge. Both remained square-set and full no matter what manoeuvres she executed, with only her masthead pennants marking the direction of the wind.
The Elherran merchantman retained her lead for half a sea-mile more and then, under full sail, with no more room on her yards for even a silken kerchief, the warship increased speed. A white bone of foam surged up between the teeth of her ramming gear and in a matter of minutes she scythed alongside in a hiss of broken water. Everyone aboard En Sohra heard the clang of command gongs, then a voice amplified and distorted by a speaking-trumpet.
“This is Imperial Battleram Aalkhorst! Heave to for boarding and inspection!”
Aldric glanced up at the quarterdeck where Dewan and Hervits Barrankal were at odds about what to do. The shipmaster won the argument by simply turning his back on ar Korentin and bawling orders to his helmsman. En Sohra heeled over, away from the battleram and out onto a course where her clumsy-looking lugsails let her sail closer to the wind than almost any other rig. Any attempt to follow would reduce the Imperial ship to no more than sluggish tacking.
At least that was the theory.
Their abrupt change of course caught Aalkhorst’s steersman by surprise and the battleram ran straight on for almost three ship-lengths. Then she leaned over in a skidding, gunwale-submerged turn to bring her head straight into the wind, where her sails should have gone slack and useless. Instead they gave a momentary flap and bellied out fuller than before.
Aalkhorst came boring in even faster than the first dash that brought her level, and for a terrifying instant the white-framed black diamond reared high above En Sohra’s stern lanterns. Cold brine slopped across the main deck as the battleram slid into place on the starboard beam. As her armoured bulk masked the smaller ship’s own sails En Sohra’s pace faltered, and ar Korentin scrambled back down to the main deck.
“Bloody fool!” he snarled. “They’re sure we’ve got something to hide!” Two of the domed cupolas on the battleram’s portside revolved until their shuttered slots faced the merchantman and a crackle of commands drifted across the narrow strip of salt water. “Now listen, you two, when the Imp—”
The shutters swung open and, with a sound like a score of hatchets in timber, the deck between the masts sprouted catapult bolts and shards of broken pottery from the containers behind their barbs. They usually carried oil or liquid fire. These had been empty. The next ones…
Hervits Barrankal struck his colours.
*
Part of the battleram’s armour opened, a small boat lowered into the sea, and soon afterwards four soldiers in the red-and-green of Imperial marines clambered up En Sohra’s boarding ladder. Their officer followed at a more dignified pace, tall, lean, with a face tanned by wind and sun. He took off his rank-barred helmet and cradled it under one arm, passing a hand over his close-cropped scalp as he studied the accuracy of his salvo. Then he glared at Master Barrankal as if trial and verdict had already been settled.
“You ignored my direct command,” he said in accented Alban. “Why?”
“I, that is, we…” Barrankal was floundering between hazardous honesty and useless excuses.
“I ordered it,” said Aldric.
The officer’s arrogant stare switched to him. “Did you indeed? I am Hautmarin Doern. Who—” he didn’t add the Hell, though it was there, “—are you?”
“A mercenary, between employers.”
Doern laughed and swept a pointed gaze over En Sohra’s grimy finery. “Not a very successful one, if you sail on a tub like this. And aren’t you Alban?”
“Elthanek, if you please.” Aldric knew how to simulate affronted dignity well enough, because his father’s North-born retainers had been just as prickly about names and places, and he hoped a memory of something similar from Gemmel’s political lessons was accurate. It was: Doern’s expression shifted from military severity to embarrassment and didn’t come all the way back. Not every province of the Drusalan Empire had joined it willingly, not every provincial citizen like being called Drusalan, and this hautmarin seemed to be one of them. But he knew what uniform he wore.
“Why did you run?” Doern barked the question to reassert his authority and maybe startle a confession from someone.
“The clan-lords aren’t hiring and I made enemies,” said Aldric, unstartled. “Powerful enemies. Using an Imperial warship isn’t beyond them, so I took no chances.” He turned his back and kicked at a hatch-cover. “Since you’re real, you’ll want to search the bloody ship. Get on with it and let us get on our way.”
Kyrin was the only person who saw the glance Dewan exchanged with Hervits Barrankal, and realised there was more to En Sohra than either she or Aldric had been told. Much more. Doern missed their byplay, studying Aldric as if trying to read what went on behind the younger man’s indifference.
“You seem honest enough, but I warn you, seeming won’t be enough if this ship is carrying contraband.” He gestured at the hold, issued orders and all four marines went below. From the sound of it they made a thorough search, though a sudden clatter and Lyard’s enraged neighing made Aldric grin at the burst of Drusalan swearwords drifting through the open hatch. Then one marine half-emerged and what he said brought Doern over in three noisy strides. When the hautmarin turned, a helmet like his own dangled by its chinstrap from one outstretched hand. “Whose is this?” he demanded in a low, dangerous voice. “Whose?”
<
br /> “Mine,” said Dewan.
“It’s part of a full Imperial cavalry armour. Where did you get it?”
«As standard issue when I served with the Bodyguard in Drakkesborg.» Ar Korentin’s sudden use of Drusalan was fluent and caught Doern off-guard. «My rank was eldheisart of horse.»
The pine deck boomed as all five Imperial soldiers crashed to attention.
«My apologies, lord-commander.» Doern was suddenly deferential. «You should have made yourself known at once.»
Ar Korentin said nothing, letting him sweat by taking a short walk around the deck while the hautmarin and his marines stayed with heels together and eyes front. That way they missed the small wink directed at Aldric. Then the conversation began again.
If that wink was a hint to eavesdrop, it didn’t help. Thanks to Gemmel’s lessons Aldric understood regular Drusalan well enough, but Dewan’s lavish use of regional slang and military jargon slang was a different dialect, almost a different language. He could only watch and try to read something from expressions, while Kyrin peered through a long-glass at whatever caught her interest, whether clouds, gulls, sea-foam - anything except the two men exchanging secrets right where she could hear them.
*
«Hautmarin… Doern, wasn’t it?» Dewan said, «I didn’t make myself known to you at all. There was nothing out of the ordinary aboard this neutral merchant vessel. And especially nothing Imperial.» Ar Korentin strode up to the officer and glared at him from parade-inspection distance. «Do I make myself clear?»
«Sir!» Doern slammed once through the sequence of a full salute and looked through ar Korentin as if he wasn’t there. “Re-embark!” he ordered. “There’s nothing illegal here. Good day to you, shipmaster.”
«One question, hautmarin.» Ar Korentin leaned even closer and lowered his voice. «Doing what I do, I get little news from home. Your ship sails against the wind. How?»
Doern glanced sideways. «I shouldn’t tell even you, sir. The undertaking is so new that—»
The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1) Page 17