by Cari Z
“Och, I never did such a thing,” Megg protested.
“You did! You did so! Just last season you asked if I couldn’t bring in more fish like my Cousin Colm so that you would have fewer to buy every day, seeing as how we lived next to the bloody ocean,” Nichol recounted. He ate a bite of porridge and looked Colm over. “And I have to say,” he continued after swallowing, “you’re not helping your woe-is-me case any, mate.” Colm must have looked confused, because Nichol went on to elaborate, “You’re tall and strong and more than a bit of a looker, and you seem utterly calm and composed, and did I mention tall? Because you are, mate, ridiculously so. Can you spare me a few inches, then?” Nichol grinned and shook his head. “I’d expected a sorry little country mouse after what Gran said, and instead we get a mountain lion.”
No one had ever spoken to Colm like that in his entire life. His looks had occasionally been commented on, usually by girls whom he’d never taken seriously, and his father had called him strong or clever when Colm had done something exceptional with the boat, but no one had ever said so much with so little concern for propriety. Nichol just sat there and grinned at him, and after a moment Colm found himself grinning back.
“I’m no lion,” he said, shaking his head.
“Ah, but I don’t hear you denying the rest of it!” Nichol exclaimed.
“For the gods’ sakes, lower your voice a bit, you silly thing,” Megg snapped at him. “It’s not yet gone six in the morning, some people are still sleeping, y’know.”
“Then they are layabouts, Gran,” Nichol declared. “Worthless, shiftless layabouts not worth the skin that covers ’em, sleeping the day away when they should be doing the King’s work. That is what you call such slothful, indolent louts, is it not?”
“Och, I’ll show you a lout, lad!” Megg tapped Nichol firmly upside the head with a gnarled hand, but he just laughed. “Tellin’ such tales about me, honestly.”
“All true,” Nichol said with mock seriousness to Colm, and the interplay was so lively that Colm chuckled before he could stop himself. “And you find my jokes funny! I must adopt you, then. You’ll be the only one in my group of friends who laughs with me anymore.”
“I’d hoped ye could show him about the wharfs today,” Megg told her grandson. For all their bickering and gentle teasing, they were obviously enamored with each other. “If the weather cooperates tonight, I want to take a boat to the cove and lay his dad to rest. D’you think you could get us a boat from the coast guard’s fleet, love?”
“I could probably wrangle us something,” Nichol said.
“Is this not the Cove?” Colm asked, wondering what he’d missed.
“This Cove is named after Gran’s cove,” Nichol explained. “It’s where Grandad changed into a seal, and years ago they say a mermaid washed ashore there. It’s a special place, the cove, and not one that many people outside our family know about.” He laid a hand on Colm’s shoulder. “So it’s only right that your dad should go there, since you’re family,” Nichol said comfortingly.
“I appreciate that,” Colm managed, too focused on the feel of Nichol’s hand through the thin layer of cotton that separated their skin to really care if he was comprehensible. Gods, what was wrong with him? It was like he had never been touched before. He felt his face grow warm and looked away. Nichol let go and continued to eat and tease his grandmother, and Colm was grateful for the respite. Just listening to Nichol, just being at the same table as him, made Colm feel more alive than he had for weeks. Months, perhaps, and yet Colm barely knew him.
“Well then, finish your bowls and head on out to the bathing house, then see what you can do about a boat,” Megg said, and Colm realized he’d missed out on a lot of conversation just then. “And buy some smudge sticks for me while you’re out, and a large sugarglass bowl, and a beeswax votive. We’ll need them tonight.”
The votive and the smudge sticks—Colm thought they might be a kind of incense—were familiar parts of burial rituals under the Four, but a sugarglass bowl? His confusion must have shown, because Nichol said, “It’s a bowl actually made from sugar, we put the ashes and the votive into it and float them out into the water. If the bowl heads out to sea against the current, then you know that the spirit is resting easily. Eventually the sugarglass melts and the ashes sink, and that’s when the spirit fully moves on to the next world.”
“I see.” That was a lot more complicated than tilling the ashes into the deceased’s field.
“Will that be all right?” Megg asked with concern, and on impulse, Colm reached out and took her hand.
“I think that will be perfect,” he assured her, because as he considered it, Colm realized that Honored Gherek might have actually had a good point about his father. Ger Weathercliff had been a reluctant farmer, pouring all his love into the loch, and the priest would never have consented to releasing his ashes there.
“Good, love.” Megg smiled, all her wrinkles moving with her and turning up like smiles of their own. “That’s good.”
They left Megg to her tea and people-watching, and Nichol led the way back through the kitchen, only pausing to drop their bowls in the sink and compliment the cook before striding out into the courtyard. Colm followed in his wake like a bit of flotsam. It was funny to be able to look down at Nichol—Colm had nearly half a head of height on him—and yet still feel smaller by comparison, as though the young man’s body was actually as outsized as his personality.
“Calling it the bathing house might be a bit much,” Nichol said as he took the wooden cover off the top of the well in the corner of the courtyard. “A bathing slab is more accurate, since it’s really just a smooth stone laid out back next to the latrines that’s not quite so much in the public eye, but it’s where you and I get to bathe. Gran has a tub, because if she doesn’t use hot water, she gets chilled straight through to her bones, but it’s too much trouble for the rest of us.” Nichol’s arms strained with the weight of the bucket he drew out of the well, filled to the brim with fresh, icy water. He grabbed at a lump of brown soap that rested beneath the eaves and headed into a small corridor between the stable and the family quarters. The corridor led into an alley that was partitioned into sections, with a stone-lined gutter running the length of them. There were three simple latrines set above the gutter, and a slick slab of rock on the other side.
Nichol put down the bucket and soap and began to remove his clothes. “I’ll pour for you if you help pour for me,” he offered as he stripped, clearly expecting Colm to do the same.
Logically Colm knew that there was nothing exceptional about being nude around another person. It was natural, something that family and friends and even perfect strangers did without hesitation when the situation demanded it. But Colm had never been in a situation where this was normal, and while the thought of seeing Nichol in the nude didn’t make him feel uncomfortable, the idea of his own body laid bare to another’s eyes was mortifying. Colm squeezed his eyes shut and tried desperately to push away his awkwardness, but his mind wouldn’t let him.
“Colm?” Nichol sounded a bit uncertain. “Would it be better if I left? I’m sorry, I didn’t think about—”
“No,” Colm said, sounding gratifyingly normal despite his terrible case of nerves. “It’s nothing. I’ve simply become unused to close quarters after so long on the road.” He opened his eyes and managed to keep them on Nichol’s face instead of wandering across that firm, beautifully muscled body as his heart wanted him to. “Give me just a moment.” Colm forcibly put aside his complicated discomfort and took off his clothes, hanging them next to Nichol’s on the wooden hooks lodged in the stone wall. He tried hard not to think about his nudity, about his fishbelly-pale flesh on knobby long limbs, and picked up the bucket. It was heavier than it looked. “Are you ready, then?”
Nichol, bless him, seemed more than willing to let the moment pass them by. “Aye, ready to say good-bye t
o my manhood,” he said with a preemptive shiver. “Give it to me.” Colm poured a stream of water over the other man, and the gasp that escaped from Nichol’s lips made Colm’s own throat tighten in sympathy. “Gods, that’s cold,” he bit out, reaching for the soap and scrubbing himself down with ruthless efficiency. Once Nichol was lathered Colm helped him rinse, and then they repeated the process with Colm. The only thing Nichol said was, “Bend down, you great giant,” and that was just light enough that Colm could deal with it. He got dressed with a sense of profound relief, and then Nichol led the way back up to their room to get ready for the day.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” Nichol said as he surveyed their shared quarters. “We can make more room for you, never fear.”
“It’s fine,” Colm assured him, not wanting to be any more bother. “Everything I own is in that pack, and I don’t need more than a place to sleep at night.”
“Aye, but you’re sleeping on the floor, mate,” Nichol pointed out as he shaved his dark stubble away with the help of a bowl of hot water the cook had left for them. “That’s not the sort of thing you should be forced to get used to.”
“There isn’t room for another cot in here, and I don’t mind,” Colm said. He watched Nichol shave and absently ran a hand over his own face. Silky smooth, as ever. Colm’s head of light brown hair was the darkest stuff that grew on him, and even that was so fine it looked like it might float away sometimes. His brows and lashes were nearly nonexistent, making him look unnatural, he thought. Nichol finished and offered Colm the straight blade, and Colm just shook his head.
“Are you ready to face the day, then?” Nichol asked brightly. He wore dark leather trousers, a white linen shirt and had just pulled on a leather vest that laced together up the front. It molded to his form beautifully, setting his slender waist on display and making Colm’s blood heat again. He had never felt so affected by another person, not even another man, although he’d long been aware of his body’s own peculiar preferences. How could he long so much for a connection with someone he’d just met?
“I’m ready,” Colm said, pushing his secret desires aside with more facility now that they were both fully dressed.
“Good! Let’s start with the layout of the docks, so you’ve got a sense of what’s where. Then we’ll see about a boat and the things Gran needs for a funeral service.” Nichol led and Colm followed, and they left behind the sanctuary of the Cove for the increasing bustle of people in the streets.
The air smelled cleaner here than it did deeper in the city, the product of being right next to the water, Colm imagined. He could taste the salt of it on his tongue now, roll it around against the back of his mouth and let the flavor soothe him. There were still the interminable odors of sewage and street food, but the brisk easterly wind diminished them.
“The admirals won’t be pleased by this cross breeze,” Nichol predicted as he moved easily through the crowd, stopping every now and then to point out useful stores to Colm. “They’ve been readying for a push to the Inisfadda for months now. They have to get the whole fleet together there before they can sail on to the Garnet Isles. If they don’t make it before the autumn storms move in, they’ll have to abandon their plans for yet another year.”
The Inisfadda, Colm knew, were the closest islands to the coast of the Muiri Empire, and the only ones currently under the Emperor’s control. The Garnet Isles were technically independent, but the Kingdom of Speir across the sea was making its own bid to expand its reach and rule them. The coming battle would rely heavily on skill and swiftness, which was one reason only the best were being accepted to serve in the navy. It was one of the few topics of conversation Colm’s fellow travelers had discussed on the road that he’d been at all interested in.
“Hekla’s place has the best prices for tackle, and he’s one of the few along this way who’ll deal in small amounts,” Nichol said, interrupting Colm’s reverie as he pointed out a small building nestled tight between two larger ones. “And his wife makes lovely meat pies. They travel well and taste just as good cold as hot. Better than the ones back home, but don’t tell Gran I said that or she’ll skin me alive and hang my pelt over the bar,” he joked, and Colm smiled and shook his head. “Ah, you think I’m kidding, but Gran’s frightfully competitive sometimes. Wait until the summer feastday comes round. You’ll see it then.”
They walked on, dodging around people and moving at a fast clip, and Nichol shared bits of information and gossip on every store and every ship: who owned them, what their business was, whether they were looking for help. “I know you’re a fisherman, but if these waters give you trouble, there’s always demand for a good net mender,” he said, then raised his hand and pointed out past the lines of ships toward the horizon. “Do you see the pillar there? That’s the official entrance to Caithmor’s harbor. No fishing is allowed within its bounds, there’s too much chance for accidents between boats, but it doesn’t take long to sail out past it with a good breeze.”
“I hope I’ll have cause to know that,” Colm said, and Nichol laughed.
“Of course you will! Don’t accept anything that isn’t what you want the most.” That, Colm thought as Nichol pulled them away from the waterfront and toward a large, blocky building a few hundred yards in, sounded like his new cousin’s entire way of life.
“This is the coast guard’s hall,” Nichol continued, walking right up to the wide doors and heading inside. There were thin windows spaced far apart along the walls, the only source of light in the otherwise dark hall except for the lantern hanging above the desk at the far end. “Those of us in the Sea Guard, we report in here once a week, get our schedule and our position, and we make reports here as well if we see anything interesting or suspicious. Which, ahoy the desk!” he proclaimed. “It seems there’s an awful spotted beast been sighted on land, infiltrating this very building!”
“So very clever,” the man—the very young man, Colm realized—sitting behind the desk said with a sneer. He was indeed a very spotty man, his forehead and nose a virulent red broken up with pinkish-white pustules. He had hunched shoulders and lank, dull hair that he was clearly trying to vanish behind. “I suppose being a simple volunteer gives you plenty of time to come up with your little quips. Those of us who are actually in the navy have more important things to spend our effort on.”
“Aye, like cushions for your arses in those nice, comfy chairs,” Nichol said. “Is the quartermaster in yet?”
“Why?” the man asked suspiciously.
“Because I need to speak to him,” Nichol said, enunciating carefully as though he were speaking to an idiot. “It’s about a burial.”
“Go to the Ardeaglais,” the man dismissed. “The priests tend to such matters.”
“This matter concerns a family member. No priest could lay one of our own family to rest better than we could, and I need a boat for it, Alain. Now stop being difficult and let me through to see the quartermaster.”
Colm could see the refusal already shaped in Alain’s lips, and he stepped forward. “Please, sir, it would mean a great deal to us,” he said, keeping his tone quiet and respectful. It was a tone that had gotten Colm through a lot of difficult interactions with the villagers back home, and the man seemed disarmed by it.
“Who beneath the Four are you?” he asked, thrown off his stride.
“Just a son trying to lay his father to rest. Please,” Colm repeated.
“Well…at least you show a proper attitude,” Alain said with a sniff. “I suppose you could see the quartermaster. He’s rather busy, though, so keep it brief.”
Nichol had kept his silence through this part of the exchange, but as soon as permission was granted, he couldn’t hold back any longer. “Lovely, many thanks, don’t work so hard that the boils spread. Come on, Colm.” He ignored Alain’s offended humph and strode off down the hall. Colm caught up with him quickly, his longer legs giving him the a
dvantage.
“Why did you have to go and be polite to that silly bastard?” Nichol asked. “Now he’ll expect it!”
“Why shouldn’t he expect it?” Colm asked. “He’s in a position to help us, and he’s a member of the coast guard besides. That does qualify as a part of the navy, doesn’t it? I thought that was what you aspired to.”
“Well, not to do that!” Nichol exclaimed. “Not to sit on my arse all day and pretend I’ve a real man’s job while all I really do is act as a glorified signpost, telling folks which way to go and when they’re allowed to do so. No, I don’t want to be stuck indoors, or even on a shore-trawler. I want to sail all the way to Speir and beyond, I want to make the ocean my home. I’ll get there too. You’ll see,” he said with a wink as he drew to a stop at the end of the hall.
“This is the warehouse, and that’s the quartermaster’s domain. A fighting force lives and dies on the strength of its supply chain, Gran’s always said, and the strength of the supply chain depends upon the wisdom of the quartermaster. He’s an important man, Roburt Grainger. He doesn’t care overmuch for me, but he’s sweet on Gran, so I think he’ll give us what we need.” Nichol pushed through the double doors and into the warehouse, and Colm followed him, completely bemused.
Men and women were at work inside the space, an airy, blocky building with very high ceilings that were stacked almost to the top with crates. People sorted and organized the nearest pile, mostly casks and lumber, and beyond them all was a short, bald man with half-moon spectacles who took the tags his people brought him, tags that had been affixed to every piece of new inventory, and then made a mark on a stiff piece of parchment in his hands. “Nichol Searunner,” he said without looking up as they drew close. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?”