‘But—’
Gilmour held up a hand to stop Garec. ‘It was all perfect – but there was one wrinkle, wasn’t there?’
‘Tell us, Gilmour.’ Garec surprised himself when he used his old friend’s name, but he shook his head; the test wasn’t over yet.
‘Capina.’
Garec swallowed hard.
‘Capina was an easy target, Garec. I’m sorry. It’s been almost fifty Twinmoons and I’ve never told you that. I am truly sorry. I cannot think of that day without feeling embarrassment, both for myself and for Versen, Sallax, Brynne, all of us.’
‘My true friends,’ Garec said.
‘No one loves you like we do.’
‘But—’ Garec was looking down at his boots now.
‘But she did, didn’t she?’
Garec didn’t respond.
‘We were drunk, all of us, me included, and I don’t know why, it just happened. We had known you so well, for so long, it felt like we could get away with it, because you knew how much we cared about you, how much we valued your friendship.’ The Malakasian soldier approached slowly, stopping just a few paces in front of them. ‘She broke it off that night, didn’t she?’
Garec nodded.
‘And although you joked about it then, and you still joke about it now, I think you were heartbroken. I know she was. We were merciless. It was embarrassing, and by the time I realised how personally she was taking our jibes, the damage had been done. We left her feeling that she would never be one of us, no matter how much she loved you, and that is tragic, Garec, because she was good for you. You would have been happy with her, instead of…’
‘Instead of what?’
‘Instead of being miserable with us. You could have settled down, moved back to the farm and had four children by now. Instead, you became—’
‘The Bringer of Death.’
‘Sallax never should have started that.’ Gilmour took Garec in his arms. ‘He had no idea what he was saying, and someday, Garec, when this business is through, I’ll tell you why.’
‘You know something I don’t know, Gilmour?’
‘I know a great many things, yes, and one of them is how sorry I am about that night. We don’t get many chances at love, not real chances, anyway. We allow plenty of emotions to masquerade as love, but most are just interlopers, busybody intruders playing with us.’ Gilmour leaned in close to Garec’s ear and whispered, ‘And what hurts most about that night is the fact that you don’t believe you’ve ever been anything but a killer, and you lost your chance at a normal life when Capina disappeared. But I know better. From where I’m standing, Garec, you’ve never been a killer. Someday, you’ll understand.’
‘I hope so,’ Garec whispered.
‘You will.’
‘We have to contact Stalwick.’
Gilmour released him, wiped his sleeve across his face and looked at Brand and Kellin. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let’s find me some clothes. I am a deserter, after all.’
‘You’re dead,’ Kellin clarified.
Gilmour laughed. ‘True, but the Malakasian Army is known for its strict adherence to policy. Even dead, I’ll draw all manner of disagreeable attention if I stay in this uniform. We’ll find me some clothes, meet Steven and contact Stalwick.’
‘Good,’ Brand said, relief evident in his voice. He mentally tallied the days left for Gita and the Resistance forces to escape Traver’s Notch.
‘What about the spell table?’ Garec asked.
‘It left Wellham Ridge this morning, on a barge bound for Orindale.’
‘Why? Where’s he taking it?’
‘From what I can gather, Mark is bound for Pellia; there’s a northern Twinmoon coming, and the tides should be high enough for him to run up the Ravenian Sea and through the archipelago.’
‘Why Pellia?’ Kellin asked.
‘He’s heading for Welstar Palace,’ Garec said.
Gilmour nodded.
THE BRIG-SLOOP
‘I’m not talking about new tits, you great blazing idiot, I’m talking about different tits, temporary tits.’ Marrin Stonnel was drunk – and why not? There was nothing to do, nothing critical, anyway, other than some cleaning and a patch-up job or two, but the others could take care of that. He was better with tar and lumber than the rest of them, even though he was the youngest, next to Pel Wandrell. No one knew what they’d hit on the run up from Strandson, but whatever it was, Marrin planned to have the leaks patched and tarred inside two days.
‘Do we have to call them tits?’ Sera Moslip asked, puffing on her hand-carved wooden pipe. It had taken several Twinmoons to fashion, but it drew almost perfectly. ‘I mean, I’m no fancy woman from the big city or nothing, but even so …’ She grimaced, displaying tobacco-stained, crooked teeth.
Marrin gulped his beer, wiped the foam from his upper lip and explained, ‘We have to call ‘em tits, and I’ll tell you why: because we’re not talking about breasts, or bosoms, or glandular organs. We’re talking about tits: grip ‘em, hold ‘em, suck ‘em tits, playthings designed by the gods to reduce men to babbling prehistoric critters at the mere mention, and worse – gods willing – when we catch sight of one … and it don’t even need to be a pair to get us going; it’s the promise of both of ‘em out in the open air that drives us so rutting mad.’ He took another drink and pointed out, ‘But you’re changing the subject. I was talking to the captain.’
‘Right, sorry,’ Sera said through a mouthful of billowy smoke, her sarcasm as thick in the air. ‘Please, do go on.’
‘Now, Captain,’ Marrin began.
‘Wait,’ Doren Ford interrupted, ‘are we really having this conversation?’
‘Of course. Why?’ Marrin looked surprised.
‘I am not going to have sex with another woman while we’re in Orindale and my wife is in Southport, Marrin; it’s just not going to happen.’
‘But you see, Captain, you’re coming at it from the wrong tack.’
‘Am I?’ The current conversation notwithstanding, Captain Ford liked these two; they were the closest thing he had to a first and second mate on the Morning Star, his weatherbeaten and currently a little leaky old brig-sloop. With nothing to haul back home to South-port, he’d ordered them to oversee the repairs while he met with business contacts in Orindale to find a westbound cargo to see them all through the Twinmoon: firewood, textiles, winter vegetables – anything to bring in a few copper Mareks. They were moored on the mudflats north of Orindale, just south of the salt marsh. It was too expensive to pay for mooring off the southern wharf, even during the winter Twinmoon, especially as he wasn’t unloading anything lucrative. And this far north, the inns were cheaper and less crowded; he preferred it that way.
‘Take your wife,’ Marrin insisted, pressing on with his argument.
‘I don’t like where this is going,’ the captain said warningly. He crossed his arms, trying not to look unsettled when they came to rest on top of his paunch. I need to cut back on the pastries, he thought in passing.
‘Hear me out, hear me out,’ the young sailor protested, motioning for another beer. ‘Your wife is near-on perfect, wouldn’t you say?’
Captain Ford nodded.
‘I mean, her tits have got to have been formed by a randy god, and that backside – rutting whores, but that backside was carved from marble by a Pragan master. She may be the most beautiful woman in the Westlands, sincerely.’
‘And?’ Captain Ford twirled a finger as if to say, So get to the part where I smack the shit out of you.
And… and I would never suggest that you do anything to violate the holy bond that you and your wife consummated when you stood the tides together, but don’t you ever want just a different look, a different taste? I’m not saying you’d have better; you probably wouldn’t – again, that being my own, personal and entirely qualitative opinion – but don’t you ever want a different shape or flavour, just for an aven or two?’
‘No,’ Ford said dismissively.
‘Good for you, Captain!’ Sera frowned at Marrin, one yellowed, chipped tooth peeking out beside the curved stem of her pipe.
‘Well, then you’re a madman, Captain, a gods-rutting madman. I love you, I do, I’ll not deny it, and may I grow old and never serve on a different ship than our own little stewpot out there, but you are a madman, and I just hope you find a healer somewhere to help you overcome this tragic affliction.’
‘Who are you?’ Sera said, taking a swing at Marrin’s head.
‘I’m a man,’ Marrin replied, ‘an honest man who understands what men need.’
‘And get it from you, will they?’
‘No,’ he grinned, ‘that’s not what I meant, you seagoing whore. What I meant was— Well …’ He looked around the room. The captain had taken rooms for himself, Sera and Marrin here, rather than them sleeping aboard the Morning Star. The rest of the crew had politely turned down the captain’s offer and found their own lodgings near the northern wharf, where Tubbs and Kanthil knew a generous barman. Marrin figured young Pel for a goner but wished him good luck as he tagged along with the more experienced sailors.
‘Over there, her,’ Marrin pointed towards the bar, ‘just take a look at her.’
‘Great gods, Marrin, she’s got to be four hundred Twinmoons old!’ Sera was appalled.
‘No, not her, you drunken wench, the other one; look, her!’
Brexan Carderic emerged from the kitchen balancing trenchers of fresh jemma fillets, potatoes, several loaves of bread and a small bowl of gravy.
‘Her?’ the captain asked.
‘Right, her,’ Marrin said. ‘Now, she’s not your wife by a healthy margin, but look at her. Look at that taut body. Look at the way her hair falls about her face when she walks; can’t you just imagine that hair all spread out over the pillows while you looked down at those pert little twins from above?’
The captain sighed. ‘What you don’t understand, Marrin, is that when my wife and I stood the tides together, we agreed not to look at other people in that way, and if you don’t understand that, then you’re not ready to get married.’
‘Thank the gods of the Northern Forest for that,’ Marrin said with a heartfelt sigh. Sera shook her head and shrugged.
Captain Ford watched Brexan move through the tables, almost dancing as she sidestepped, spun and slipped around and between the other patrons. She looked up and caught him watching her. Seemingly amused, she smiled; Ford couldn’t help but grin back. He reached for his beer, meaning to finish it off, but feeling the swell of his stomach beneath his shirt, decided on a sip instead.
When she finally reached their table, Brexan doled out the trenchers and the bread then carefully put the gravy bowl in the centre where everyone could reach it. Laughing to herself, she said, ‘Well, that was tricky. I’m glad you didn’t order the soup.’
‘This looks delicious,’ Captain Ford complimented her. ‘Did you make it?’
Brexan laughed out loud and covered her face with both hands as if embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ she giggled, ‘but, ahem, no – you’d know it was mine if all the locals were lined up outside with buckets while women and children leaped to safety from the upstairs windows.’
He smiled back. ‘Please give my thanks to the cook, in that case.’
‘And bring three more beers,’ Marrin cut in.
‘You must be thirsty,’ Brexan said.
‘I am a lot of things.’ The inebriated sailor tried to guess her age; he figured she couldn’t be over two hundred Twinmoons, close enough to his own age for a sexual foray to be entirely acceptable.
Brexan glanced at Ford, who sighed and said, ‘We let him out of the basement from time to time; it seems like the humane thing to do.’
‘I understand,’ Brexan said. ‘I used to work with— well, a group of men, and—’ Realising her mistake, Brexan tried to back away from discussion of her time in the Malakasian Army, ‘Well, they were … You know—’ She decided to stop digging any further and hoped they’d put it down to shyness.
‘See that?’ Marrin was smug. ‘She’s speechless.’
Sera winced. ‘Please, if you know what’s best for you, run, run fast!’
‘Let me ask you something,’ Marrin said to Brexan, who nodded slowly.
Are you attached to any man right now? Are you married, or into anything serious?’
Brexan thought of Versen, and while she expected to feel sadness – memories of him usually brought on her depression – she surprised herself by smiling. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. Why?’
‘Excellent, truly.’ Marrin finished his beer. ‘Of course, I don’t want this to interfere with you bringing me drinks until my friend here is checking me for a heartbeat.’
‘I understand.’
‘Outstanding.’ Marrin thought for a moment, then asked, ‘When he’s not around, do you ever think about other men, you know, in that way?’
Brexan didn’t hesitate. ‘Of course I do – but not about you.’
‘Aha! See, I told you, Ford, you old— What was that?’ Marrin sat up ramrod-straight, looking as if he had been slapped.
‘I said, yes, but not about you, sorry.’
Sera laughed and clapped, spilling a bit of burning pipe tobacco into her lap. ‘You are without doubt the best scullery-maid in the whole of the Eastlands; I don’t doubt it. Please take the rest of the night off and stay here with us. Ford will pay you; just keep going like you’re going. This is better entertainment than we’d ever find in town.’
‘I’d love to, honestly,’ Brexan replied, ‘but Nedra is on her own tonight, and as you can see, we’re rather busy.’
‘You have truly glorious tits, my dear,’ Marrin said.
Captain Ford finally lost his temper and reached over and cuffed the young sailor hard around the head, but so enamoured was he that the boy didn’t appear to notice.
Brexan didn’t miss a step. ‘They’re all right, I suppose, although they do look much better when you’ve had more to drink. So let me get those beers, before I have to drag you out back and smack the piss out of you.’
Ford and Sera nearly collapsed with hysterical laughter as Marrin watched the fiery young woman move towards the bar.
‘Do you think she’d marry me?’ he asked.
‘Well, now that you’ve made such an impression,’ Sera replied, ‘I don’t see how she could turn you down.’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘I’ll ask her when she comes back. We could stand the tides tomorrow; you two could be witnesses.’
‘Sadly, Marrin, I have other plans tomorrow,’ Ford said, deciding to ignore his paunch for the night and dive into the potatoes.
‘Work, work, work,’ Marrin said, ‘Captain, you ought to think about what I said.’
‘What? All that drivel about tits?’
Marrin raised a finger to make his point. ‘First, yes, of course, and second, you should never use the word drivel when talking about my advice on the opposite sex.’
Sera interrupted, ‘Marrin, you don’t have an opposite sex.’
‘No one likes you,’ he shot back, then to Ford, added, ‘that girl, our own tavern girl, right here in Orindale … think about it, Captain. I saw the way she was looking at you.’
‘Yes,’ Ford agreed, ‘like a fat old uncle here with his two unruly children.’
Marrin mumbled, ‘He has such little faith in my teachings. It’s sad, really.’
‘Eat your dinner, Marrin.’ Sera tapped out her pipe.
‘But he could have her, Sera,’ Marrin insisted. ‘You could, Captain.’
Ford looked at the bar where Brexan was delivering food and drink to Nella Barkson’s extended family. ‘Her?’ he said. ‘Somehow I doubt it, Marrin.’
The following morning, Captain Ford went down to breakfast alone. Not surprisingly, Marrin and Sera had decided to sleep in.
Brexan brought a flagon of hot tecan over to him. ‘Good morning. Bread and cheese?’
‘Please,’ Captain Ford said, th
en thought of his weight. No cheese, just a bit of fruit, if you have it. I’m away from home too much; I get to eating things I shouldn’t.’
‘You look healthy enough to me,’ Brexan said.
‘I’ve the poor lighting in here to thank for that! And good morning too, by the way. I’m sorry about my friend last night. When he drinks, he thinks he’s funny and we usually end up wiping the floor with him; it’s never pretty. He was rude, and I hope he apologises when he comes down.’ Ford kept his eyes locked on the girl’s; he was not about to get caught sneaking a look at her body.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Brexan said. ‘Working in a place like this, I hear it all. Is that your ship out on the flats?’
‘You’re asking because it’s low tide.’ He’d been captain of the Morning Star for almost half his life, and the old boat didn’t merit a second glance when afloat, but when listing dangerously to port on a mudflat, it made quite a conversation piece.
‘Well, I guess so, yes,’ Brexan flushed. ‘Do you always leave it like that?’
‘Nope,’ Ford inhaled the aroma then sipped his tecan, ‘just when I’m watching the Mareks. It doesn’t cost anything to anchor up here.’
Brexan looked out of the front window. The port gunwale was nearly resting on the mud; had the sails not been tightly reefed, they would have been stained the colour of mud by now. ‘I can’t imagine why.’
Ford laughed. ‘I guess you’re right. Who would pay for that? But when the tide comes in, she’ll be back on her feet, ready to go. She doesn’t draft much; she’s small, even for a brig-sloop. So we won’t even need to kedge off; there’s plenty of tide up here.’ He tried not to feel embarrassed at the condition of his ship, keel-naked in the mud. He was her captain; he knew what he was doing.
‘Where are you going next?’
‘Southport, if I can find anything to transport.’
Brexan’s brow furrowed. ‘You’re here without a cargo?’
The Larion Senators Page 17