Aldric released the hilt and shuddered. When he looked up Kyrin met his eyes and realised though he might kill without hesitation, it wouldn’t be without reason. And not without remorse. Not yet.
“I said, who were they?” she repeated.
“Your guess is—” Aldric began, picking up the Dragonwand. Then his eyes narrowed. That unreliable sixth sense was working again, like a lantern being unshuttered, but as usual it was a lantern low on oil casting a feeble light. As he backed away from the black oval of the open doorway, the scuff of his soft-soled boots and the faint metallic rustle of his armour seemed too loud.
Much louder than the accented voice which said, “They were fools.”
*
The man who sauntered into view was lean and lanky, with roguish curls and a moustache as neat as a court lady’s brows. His black breeches had gold medallions down the outer seams, gold wire decorated his gloves and boots, and a scarlet sash was wrapped round the waist of his fine blue coat. That sash held the only jarring note, a raven’s-bill fighting pick as brutally functional as his clothes were dashing. He studied the dead men, then shrugged.
“If I warned them once about rushing in unannounced,” he said, “I warned them a thousand times.”
“Skawmour? Luent Skawmour?” Recognition and rage fought for precedence on Dewan ar Korentin’s face. “Madurek’ta peyyak an-tragh!”
“Undignified, uncomfortable and perhaps not physically possible, but good day to you too, ar Korentin. Why so unfriendly?”
Dewan glared. “Because you’ve confirmed my suspicions.”
“Confirmed? How?”
“By being where you’re not supposed to be! I told Rynert you were a captain to rely on—”
“All Vreijeks together, eh? Helping each other, speaking well of each other, honest as the day, wagging our tails when the King of Alba pats us on the head and says Good Dog. I’m sorry to burst your bubble.” He didn’t look sorry at all. “And now Rynert might wonder if you had other reasons for choosing me. If there’s more of the Empire about you than a few bits of retired armour.”
It took Aldric a few seconds to recall where he had heard the name Skawmour before. King Rynert had mentioned it as the name of a reliable captain, and made ar Korentin look like he was already having second thoughts about his countryman.
“He knows me better than that,” said Dewan. Was the denial a little too fast?
“The way you knew me?”
Dewan avoided the question. “What are you doing here, Skawmour?”
“He was following us,” said Kyrin. “There was a sail far off on the horizon almost every day. A green one.” Aldric’s mouth quirked as he remembered the sail he’d seen then ignored in favour of his own unsettled stomach. “I said nothing about it because these are busy waters. Now I understand.”
Skawmour studied Kyrin as if deciding whether she was worth his notice. “This is why the Elherrans don’t like women on board. They see too much and talk too much. Except when they don’t talk enough.”
“It was our cargo,” said Dewan. “You found out before you left Erdhaven, or you guessed.”
“No, ar Korentin, I didn’t guess. I thought, ‘too obvious’. Roofing lead? Really? Then I thought, ‘too obvious is what I’m meant to think’. And finally I thought—”
“That when you overhauled us, what you did would depend on what you found. You conniving bastard.”
“Thank you.”
“The Imperials searched us, Skawmour. Was it your doing?”
“Not this time.” Dewan scowled. “Why would I chance them finding something I want for myself? They searched my ship too.”
“Even though you were carrying—”
“Already delivered, and that’s the last of them. I’m done playing confidential courier, ar Korentin. Those patrols are getting more frequent, as if the Empire has a need for secure sea lanes. Would you know anything about that? Would you tell me if you did? I’m getting out, and Rynert’s gold will help me do it.”
“You’re turning honest by turning thief?”
“I’m ending my association with Alba, with its King, and with fools like you. You held rank in the Imperial Guard, so they’ll treat you as a traitor. They’ll not do the same with me. And if I do some thieving to finance my new life,” Skawmour took in the treasures of the Cavern with a sweep of one arm, “it seems Rynert can well spare it. Do Alba’s clan-lords know about this, or is it another of his secrets?”
“They know, and they know why. To keep it secret, safe and out of reach.” Aldric spoke fast to forestall any accidental mention of Ymareth. Keeping Skawmour unaware of the Cavern’s guardian might prove useful before all this was over. “The Empire’s losing patience with Alba, Captain Skawmour. King Rynert needs extra fighting men, and my Company needs to know what happens if his treasury in Cerdor is seized by a Drusalan garrison.”
He was playing the same role as he had with Hautmarin Doern, with no idea what real mercenaries talked about except that too much willing explanation would ring as false as blatant lies. They fought for a wage, not honour or duty, so money had to be a common topic. There was an old Border saying, ‘Elthan by birth, Alban as required’, so for more confusion he pushed his usual slight accent to near-parody. Skawmour didn’t recognise what it was, but he certainly knew what it wasn’t.
“You’re no Alban. What’s your concern?”
“Concern for my wages. In Jouvann or Drusul the Company can just march away, but Alba’s an island. We’d have nowhere to go. If we have to re-negotiate our contract, it’s best done from a position of strength. That includes full coffers.”
“And you are?”
“Here to confirm Rynert’s claim he could still pay. I have my confirmation.”
“Yes indeed.” Skawmour sounded like a hungry man looking at a banquet. Then he nodded at the Dragonwand. “I don’t recognise that token. What Company did you say you marched with?”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re young for a sellsword.”
“Don’t confuse age with expertise. And I don’t sell this.” Aldric patted Isileth Widowmaker’s hilt. “I hire it, long term or short, at very reasonable rates.”
The way Skawmour trawled for information showed he was partly convinced of its truth, partly distracted by its possible value, and eager for more. It kept him from doing something more dangerous and gave Aldric the chance of talking their way to safety. At least until Dewan butted in.
“What did you mean by ‘not this time’? How often did you betray us, turncoat?”
“Often enough to keep the Empire happy, not often enough to make Alba unhappy. Don’t give me a fine speech about right and wrong, ar Korentin. Not while your king has his own double standard. Ostentatious honour in the daylight, convenient death in the shadows – or should I say death by the Shad—”
“Shut up!” Dewan’s words came out sharp and loud to cut off what clearly touched him on the raw. “Leave Rynert out of this. I did you a favour, one Vreijek to another, and now look at you. For all the fancy words and fancy clothes, Luent Skawmour, you’re just a liar and a pirate. Were you ever anything else?”
“I was a privateer. You gave me the letter of marque, and you explained all the details no-one dared to put in writing. I learned that lesson well. Now I’m a merchant venturer—” Aldric shot a stern look at Kyrin, who paid no heed, “—a dealer in expensive commodities, and a broker of information.” Skawmour stepped clear of the doorway and snapped his fingers. “These are pirates.”
Boots clattered on the paving and seven more men joined him, an intimidating gang in grubby leather, pieces of cast-off armour and even imitations of their captain’s finery. They were armed and spoiling for a fight, but their threats fell silent when they saw the glittering contents of the Cavern of Firedrakes.
“No more insults. Let’s talk like reasonable people before things get unpleasant.” Skawmour began speaking Vreijek and Aldric listened in worse frustration than w
hen Dewan spoke to Hautmarin Doern. Alba’s web of complex alliances meant high-clan wives and husbands could come from Elthan, Prytenon or Cerenau, he had been raised fluent in all three dialects, and what he heard now was almost familiar, like Cernuek overlaid with Old Alban. Just not familiar enough.
“Interesting,” said Dewan. He laughed, and even seemed natural when he did it. “Luent offers me a place in the crew, second only to him. I’m sure he’ll explain why he needs an ex-cavalry officer on board his ship. There’s room for you too, since you created the vacancies.”
Aldric had a feeling they were being played with, mice granted time to run before the claws came out, yet his stiff-backed military bow would have done credit to any Imperial officer.
“Thank you, Captain Skawmour, but no. My partner and I are here to check Alba’s ability to pay us and report our findings, nothing more.” He hoped female mercenaries were common enough to pass unquestioned, and a disinterested shrug proved him right. The privateer paid much more attention to what came next. “However, since I owe reparation for your depleted crew, I can allow—” he counted heads with quick jabs of a fingertip, “—eight gifts of choice items. But only after we’re gone.”
“Why not now?”
“Because Rynert hasn’t completed any bonds of payment and I can’t tell if you’re taking our gold or his. Since ar Korentin is King’s Witness, it’s better if he doesn’t witness anything irregular.” He relied on Skawmour’s own devious mind and the uncanny atmosphere of the Cavern of Firedrakes to make such garbage convincing, and from the look on the man’s face, it worked. “However, I’m curious; you could have helped yourself after we left. Why this confrontation?”
For an instant Skawmour’s urbane mask slipped and his voice took on a rasping edge. “Because some people think they’re so wily, so superior, so clever. Some people need to learn they’re not.” Then the smile and shrug came back. “You understand, I’m sure.”
“Yes, Captain, I do.” Aldric had grown up understanding; it reminded him more than a little of Baiart’s poisonous rivalries. “And it’s not my concern. What matters is whether you can restrain your crew’s…” He paused to show he knew the right word was ‘greed’ and was too polite to say it, “…enthusiasm?”
“By the sea on which we make our living, my Word on it.”
The privateer smirked reassurance and waved one hand vaguely between chest and chin in a meaningless gesture, just as the whole exchange was meaningless. A Word of Honour required belief in the concept and this man had none. He even swore by something which changed with every wind and tide. The only value Skawmour placed on words was what he intended to gain from them, and in the intoxicating, enchanted presence of the hoard, that intent showed clear.
Aldric and his companions would walk out as promised, but the seven crewmen would die, one way or another, before they got back to their ship. Then En Sohra would be overtaken in revenge for those fallen shipmates, all knowledge of the Cavern would be erased with fire and deep water, and Luent Skawmour would have a secret cashbox for the rest of his life, killing as required to keep it that way. As the Albans of the Old Time said: ‘to shut the mouth, cut the throat’.
Aldric’s last spark of reluctance about his own plan guttered like a dying candle and went out. Soon, very soon, one of the other pirates would lay hands on the enticing heaps of treasure, and after that…
There would be no ‘after that’.
What mattered most was to be elsewhere when it happened, so he was willing to play the trusting fool. Luent Skawmour could enjoy all his knowing smirks and double-edged remarks just as long as he let them go, and go they did. The pirates even made way, and though it looked like an invitation to run the gauntlet, no-one was waving weapons.
They were so close, so very close, when someone spoke and it all went wrong.
*
Though the loud, deep voice used neither Alban nor Vreijek, Skawmour half-turned to give the words his full attention and his expression became a curious mixture of annoyance and cynical amusement.
“I regret to say the situation has changed.” There was no trace of regret in voice or face. “My quartermaster Kakhur declines the kind offer of gold. You have a prize he likes better.”
There was a flurry of movement as Kakhur came forward, huge in grubby combat leathers and carrying a long-handled axe wrapped in oilcloth, with no armour except plated half-sleeves over his biceps. He looked like the sort who despised anyone wearing more, and his contemptuous glance at Aldric’s helmet and lamellar body-harness confirmed it.
A youth misspent watching and reading the wrong sort of melodrama meant Aldric could guess what was coming next. That complicated matters. He had also heard Kyrin’s gasp when Kakhur first spoke, and didn’t need to understand Valhollan to recognise the sound of it. If she still wanted to go home, and if Skawmour’s quartermaster was…
Then he saw her face.
“Isn’t he one of your people?”
“Valhollan yes, my people no. He’s cualshtur. An upland rock-rat.”
She spat the words and Aldric understood. Alba had its own derisive labels – ‘saltfoot’, ‘heather-herd’, ‘woodworm’ and the rest – and all meant the same thing. One of them, not one of us.
“Do you accept the proposal?” From the sound of him Skawmour didn’t care one way or the other.
“What if we don’t?” Dewan was keeping his anger in check with an effort. “You promised we could leave. All of us, Luent. Without exception.”
“I promised not to do anything until you were gone, ar Korentin. That can mean, oh, so many things. And promises are like politics, or a pretty woman’s mind, or the sea. They’re all subject to change without warning. Kakhur seldom asks, he usually takes, so this pretty woman must be rather special. So special that I won’t see him disappointed. Either the young lady stays with him, or you all stay with us. Permanently. And the path to permanence will be long and full of discomfort.”
Kyrin stared at him then deliberately turned her back. “Go,” she told Aldric and Dewan. “Both of you, get out. Come back if you can. Don’t worry, I’ve had rougher shipmates, and once Kakhur hears my name he’ll know I’m better left undamaged. The cualshtur is going to regret this.”
“No. You’re coming with us.”
“Aldric, please don’t. This isn’t your fight.”
“It is if I want it to be.” There were too many ears too close for him to tell Kyrin the real reason why she couldn’t stay behind. Once his trap closed, what followed would make no distinction between pirates and prisoner.
“We’ve decided,” he told Skawmour before Dewan could complicate the argument. “Your quartermaster will have to live with disappointment.” He stabbed the Dragonwand into the flagstones like a skewer into cheese, and heard a flurry of disquiet go round Luent Skawmour’s crew as they realised there might be more to this sword-for-hire than met the eye.
“There are three of us and there should have been ten of you. I see eight. How many more won’t live to enjoy what the others win?” He wasn’t talking to Luent Skawmour or Kakhur, but to the other sailors behind them. “Do you want a good bargain or a hard fight? We go, and you get rich.” Widowmaker left her scabbard with a metallic whisper and he heard Kyrin and Dewan draw as well. “We stay, and you get steel.”
Skawmour stared at the Dragonwand spiked into solid stone, and at how the lights in the Cavern glinted on Isileth’s blade. Live flame in the dragon-head torches shone back gold, while the glow reflected from the lofty ceiling was like fresh blood. Then Kakhur said something that made Skawmour laugh out loud.
Aldric risked a glance at Kyrin, who was white with anger. “What?”
“He says – claims – he’s Ersol Kakhur, a Valhollan of good repute.” Her mouth twisted. “When it’s his kind, that means a cattle-thief who hasn’t been caught.”
“And the rest?”
“The filth cualshtursaq use as compliments, and a warning that little black-beetles
will get stepped on.”
“I’ve had better threats from children.” Aldric put his head back and sideways and looked down his nose at Kakhur, a habit of Baiart’s which had always irritated him beyond measure with its suggestion of stink heroically endured. It seemed to work with Valhollan pirates too. “Tell him so, and make it sting. I want him angry.”
Whatever Kyrin said, the big man went red in the face. What he bellowed needed no translation, and the way he tore the oilcloth from his axe was clearer still. Then its cover came off and Aldric wondered if he had overstepped his mark, because the big man carried a sparth.
The Hertan fighting axe was held in the same high regard as Alba’s taiken, and Kakhur must have killed its owner because they weren’t given away to foreigners. Aldric hoped he had acquired just the weapon, not any skill in using it, because axemen who knew their business were dangerous and those who knew the sparth were deadly. It could thrust as easily as cut, its clipped-crescent blade rising above the haft in a point that could burst mail or punch through a helmet. Alban armour was heavy enough to turn chance arrows or glancing blows yet light enough for agility to evade anything more deliberate, and the partial harness Aldric wore now was lighter still. Perhaps too light.
“Captain,” he said, “if your man’s of any value, call him off.”
“Not after your companion was so forthright.”
“What did she say?”
“That little black-beetles have great big stings,” said Kyrin.
“Not quite.” Skawmour grinned the nasty grin of a weasel finding an open henhouse. “If you work with foreigners, learn their language before you let them speak for you. She didn’t say ‘sting’, and her comparison between yours and his was… Unflattering. She talked you into this. You’ll not talk yourself out. Kakhur, attend to it.”
Skawmour was right, the time for talking was over, but Kyrin had done exactly as requested and it was more than speaking out of turn. Kakhur had already been scornful, now he was seething. It would make him careless.
At least Aldric hoped so. He locked his helmet’s demi-visor down over his face and hefted Widowmaker in both hands. If confidence could be felt, it was in the longsword’s wire and leather grip as he moved into Cat’s Guard, hilt low and blade slanted high.
The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1) Page 21