The Larion Senators

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  ‘But what?’ Garec was turning the colour of mould-cheese.

  ‘You’re going to feel every one of those swells; it’ll be like riding on driftwood.’ He hid a smile. Normally he would be angry at losing time with such a following sea, but he had agreed to take on additional passengers and that meant waiting.

  ‘Fine.’ Garec started for the galley. ‘Thank you, Captain. I’ll bring you some of your rosehip concoction.’

  But the captain was already shouting, ‘Into the shrouds! Let’s go, all of you! Reef the main, fore and tops! I want to hit a wall! Let’s get the brakes on!’

  ‘Gilmour?’ Steven was at the tiller, double-checking that the sail was lashed to a wooden cleat near the stern. Gilmour sat in the bow, leaning against the mast with his legs extended, his ankles crossed, utterly comfortable. Steven thought he looked like he was sunning himself in a poolside lounger. ‘Do you remember when we talked about maybe crossing in this little catboat?’ Gilmour opened one eye and Steven went on, ‘I lied. I’m not going out there. It’s insane.’ They were at the mouth of the fjord, having enjoyed a pleasant, if chilly, run through the cleft in the Falkan cliffs. The swirling breezes inside the fjord had been tricky, and more than once Steven had cursed and changed course moments before splintering the sailboat against the sides, but compared with what lay before them, the fjord was a milk-run.

  A narrow channel of deep water appeared to roll west to east with the rising tide, while the shallows on either side of the granite gates looked like they were closing in. Whitecaps were forming well out at sea, breaking, rolling and breaking again before reaching the cliffs in a noisy crash of spume and saltwater.

  Steven was seriously thinking about turning back. ‘This is insane,’ he repeated. ‘We won’t make it beyond the breakwater.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ Gilmour said. He was irritatingly calm. ‘Just keep the boat inside the channel there in the middle and we’ll pass right through.’

  ‘The channel? You mean that tightrope of deep water swelling up and rolling in here, Karl Wallenda?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind,’ Steven said, ‘but look at how the wind’s blowing; it’s a frigging gale. Once we clear this southern cliff, we’re either going to capsize or we’re going to start hauling arse to Gorsk like we’re being chased by the goddamned hound of the Baskervilles.’

  ‘Just think about what has to happen. Use your knowledge; use your determination and make it happen.’

  ‘This is too big, Gilmour. This is too much. I can’t—’

  ‘Yes, you can.’ Gilmour sat up and looked at his apprentice. ‘It’s just wind and water, that’s all.’

  Steven watched the Ravenian Sea hurtle past the mouth of the fjord like traffic on a highway. Beyond the granite gates the scene was a seamless grey background for a dreary Expressionist painting; whitecaps and black storm clouds were the only things distinguishing sea from sky.

  He thought about what he knew of physics and wave motion. The whitecaps crashing against the shore were not striking at right angles, but coming in on a diagonal tack, pushed by the wind and tide, and then they bounced, out of phase, back into the fray for another turn around the dance floor. If he could capture that breeze first, the reflected breeze off the cliffs, he would have a tailwind – granted, on an angle – but a powerful tailwind that would hopefully push Mark’s toy sailboat far enough into the crosswind that they wouldn’t find themselves splashed flat, like Wile E. Coyote, against the northern cliff face. With the fjord ending, there was no time to come up with another option.

  ‘I think I’ve got it,’ Steven said.

  ‘Do you need my help?’

  ‘Just keep your head down; try and stay dry.’

  ‘No, I mean my help. Can I do anything?’

  ‘No magic this time. I don’t want to risk Mark sensing us.’

  Gilmour sat up, genuinely surprised; he’d decided to risk a bit of magic to reach Garec and Kellin, and then belay it entirely until their arrival in Pellia. ‘Really?’ he whispered, shrugging out of his cloak and kicking off his boots. ‘This ought to be interesting.’

  Steven hauled the little sheet in and reached out to take hold of the boom himself. He held it steady, pointing directly east into the fjord.

  The catboat slowed almost to a stop, her sail flapping, empty and ineffective.

  ‘Steven?’

  ‘Just wait for it, Gilmour, one more second …’ The little boat rode up one side of a huge swell, hung on its crest, hesitantly overcoming inertia, and then slid into the trough. Just enough of its snout peeked into the crosswind for the sail to fill with the tendrils of the northerly breeze.

  At first, it was a gentle gust that tugged at the sheet and took up the slack in the rigging; the sail puffed out a bit, and Steven let go of the boom but clasped the rig line, keeping the sheet close and the bow pointed directly through the channel. ‘This isn’t bad,’ he murmured, as much to convince himself as anything, ‘we can do this.’

  As the little skiff cleared the granite gates of the fjord, the full force of the crosswind slammed into them like a broadside cannonade. The sail, surprisingly tough, took the punch and held on. The boom ran out to starboard and the rig line tore through the flesh of Steven’s palm, leaving a red stain on the last few inches of hemp.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Steven shouted, ignoring the blood and clamping his injured hand down on the rope. He hauled it back in as far as he dared and quickly made it fast to the tiller cleat. ‘Mother of Christ, that hurt!’ he yelled as they began to pitch hard to starboard; they were going over.

  ‘Let it go, Steven!’ Gilmour yelled, ‘we’re going to sink!’

  ‘Get to port,’ he called back, ‘throw your weight against it. Get up on the gunwale; sit on the bastard if you have to!’ Steven pressed his back and shoulders against the port rail himself, pushing the tiller as far to starboard as he could with one foot. He watched the rig line strain against the cleat and cursed himself for tying it off too soon. There was no way to reach the line and let the sheet out, even a few inches, to ease their starboard pitch. ‘Come on baby,’ he urged, ‘come back, just an inch or two, you can do it!’

  For a few seconds, the little sailboat balanced on a knife’s edge. With the sheet filled to bursting, the tiller hard to starboard and all the ballast Steven and Gilmour could muster far to port, they waited, holding their breath and praying that they would right themselves.

  ‘Stay over, Gilmour,’ Steven cried, ‘and pray to all the fucking saints in Christendom! Just another breath—’

  They were being blown northwest, the deep fjord slipping away to the south and the rocky shallows off the northern gate closing fast.

  ‘We’re going to hit those rocks!’ Gilmour cried.

  Steven smiled despite his terror; this was exhilarating, and any thought of giving up and using magic to guide the little boat through the channel was lost in the excitement of the moment.

  When the keel finally gave, correcting to port, Steven shouted, ‘Woo hoo! What a ride, Gilmour! Goddamn, that was something!’ He started for the cleat, wanting to let the sheet out, just a little, when they started to pitch back to starboard. ‘Stay over, Gilmour,’ he cried, ‘straddle the rail if you have to!’ He loosened the rig line and let the boom slide a bit further out; with the tiller still pressed to starboard, the keel righted and they slipped through the channel like quicksilver.

  Gilmour stood in freezing ankle-deep water and looked questioningly at Steven. ‘And for your next trick?’ he asked, grinning.

  Steven smiled and wiped his face. ‘Get bailing. We don’t want to swamp.’ He too grinned, and when Gilmour looked quizzical, he added, ‘It’s just that I’m staggered at how often my maths obsession has saved our necks on this little vacation. Be glad I wasn’t a poetry junkie!’

  Gilmour started cupping handfuls of water and shovelling them over the side, but there was twice as much coming in. He growled, then stood up and shouted a quick spell. Th
e bilge-water suddenly turned into a miniature tidal wave, rolled from stern to bow, and then up and over the gunwales into the sea.

  ‘That’s better,’ Gilmour said, retaking his seat beside the mast. ‘Tell me again why we didn’t use magic to get through there.’

  ‘Mark might find us, and anyway, I was too distracted by the physics of the whole thing.’ Steven watched the water bailing itself over the side. ‘Can he detect that?’

  ‘No, it’s a carnival trick. It would be like him finding a burning candle.’ Gilmour pushed his matted hair away from his face and said, ‘Distracted, huh? Weren’t you distracted when the floodtide swallowed us in the river outside Wellham Ridge?’

  ‘That was different; I was afraid of dying and the magic just burst out of me in an explosion of frantic self-preservation.’

  ‘And you weren’t – aren’t – afraid of dying today?’

  Steven smirked. ‘Mathematics can be pretty distracting, Gilmour! Now hold on, we’re about get clobbered again.’

  ‘Do you want me up on the railing? I don’t think I can get any wetter than I am right now.’

  ‘No, this one shouldn’t be that bad. We don’t need the tailwind here; so I’ll let the sheet out, come about, and then haul it in gently. We’ll get kicked, but it won’t be anything like that last one. You start watching for Garec and Kellin. They’ll likely be the only ship out there – any captain would be near-on suicidal to be in this close today—’

  They plunged into a deep trough, burying the bow beneath the waves. ‘Shit and shit and shit,’ Steven said, ‘I didn’t see that one coming. Keep bailing will you, or we’re screwed running.’

  ‘Got it,’ Gilmour muttered, repeating his spell, but adding a lilting phrase to the end of his incantation, something he hadn’t said before. The water, deeper this time, began receding almost immediately. ‘That ought to keep us dry, but watch the bloody road, will you?’

  ‘You sound like my mother,’ Steven said. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, a captain would have to be raving mad—’

  ‘Or exceedingly well paid,’ Gilmour finished.

  ‘Exactly. So we’ll signal the closest ship we see and hope to hell it isn’t the Malakasian navy.’

  ‘Or your roommate.’

  ‘That would be awkward, too.’ Steven checked the sheet, let go the boom and pulled the tiller slowly to port. As they came about, he hauled the sail in and caught the wind before the northerly swells overwhelmed their bailing spell. It was a clumsy tack, and the little boat jolted as Steven held fast, tearing a bit of fresh flesh from his already bloody palm. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to mix up another couple of gin and tonics after that one. I guess I’m rusty.’

  ‘Rusty? At sailing a rickety skiff through a gale? I’m disappointed; I had such high hopes for you.’

  ‘This isn’t a gale; this is just… bumpy.’ They were running north now, canting steeply to starboard but making way with alacrity. Steven let the sheet out a few inches more; he didn’t want to be stuck out here having to make repairs, especially with the fjord fading behind them.

  ‘Just watch for anything hull-up on the horizon,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ve thought up some creative way to signal them.’

  ‘I’ll handle it.’ Gilmour dug in his tunic, withdrew his pipe and a pouch of dry tobacco.

  ‘Does that stuff ever get wet?’

  ‘Once, yes, some fourteen hundred Twinmoons ago. Southern Malakasia. It wasn’t a good day.’

  ‘There,’ Sera said, pointing over the starboard cathead, ‘d’you see it?’

  ‘Pissing demons,’ Marrin said, ‘what is that? Fire?’

  ‘That’s them,’ Garec said. ‘Can we get in that close?’

  Captain Ford watched the fireballs leap over the swells, climb as high as the Falkan cliffs and then explode in colourful pops. He didn’t like it. For a moment he considered turning about, giving back the silver and making the near-impossible run to Orindale, close-hauled on the wind.

  Garec said, ‘It’s just them, maybe a few satchels of extra clothing. Apart from a knife or two, neither of them carries any weapons.’

  ‘So what is that?’ Captain Ford was angry. ‘What haven’t you told me?’ He searched the deck for Brexan. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘We agreed, Captain Ford, that you were not going to ask any questions.’

  ‘I understand that, but these aren’t Resistance leaders, or soldiers. At least one of them has significant magic at his disposal.’

  ‘He does,’ Garec said.

  ‘What are you doing in Averil?’

  ‘None of your whoring business.’ Garec wasn’t about to be bullied. ‘Suffice to say that we have engagements in Malakasia that don’t concern you or your crew.’

  ‘Magical engagements? Or are they transporting some sort of explosive? Because if I get one sniff of anything that might blow a hole in my ship, I’ll cast the lot of you overboard.’ Captain Ford glared at him, but Garec was unimpressed.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ he shouted again.

  Marrin and Sera backed off a few paces, while staying near at hand, ready to assist the captain in any scuffle – not that either of them thought he would need help to subdue the younger, smaller man.

  Garec lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And you’d be dead before you took two paces. Pay attention, because I don’t have time to argue with you. I’ll kill you, your crew, your dog if I have to, and I will take your ship and sail it anywhere I please. Now, I am happy to pay for your services, and I assure you that neither of my friends is carrying anything explosive. Both of them have a bit of magic they can summon from time to time, but nothing that represents a threat to you or your ship. The only threat you need to be concerned with is me.’

  Captain Ford stopped, considering Garec’s threat. He was not one to be bullied either, especially on his own ship and in front of his crew, and he silently cursed himself for agreeing to carry passengers, regardless of how much silver he stood to make. He had promised himself he would never get involved in politics, and apart from the occasional illegal passenger tucked behind a pallet of lumber or vegetables, he had never broken his vow. This was not going to end well. ‘Listen, you snot-nosed little brat—’

  ‘Pay attention!’ Garec shouted again, then lowered his voice. Without averting his eyes, he looked at Captain Ford and said, ‘You have one man working on the forecastle, one in the rigging. Sera and Marrin are flanking us, waiting for any sign from you that they should tackle me or heave me over the side. Tubbs is still below with Kellin and Brexan, and I promise you, Captain Ford—’ his voice rose ‘that I could kill all of them before you cried out a warning.’

  Captain Ford laughed and took a menacing step forward. ‘That’s impossible, you pinch of grettan—’

  ‘Not,’ Garec interrupted, ‘if I start with you.’ Neither Captain Ford, Marrin nor Sera had seen the arrow appear in his hands, but he held it to the captain’s throat, a makeshift skewer. Rotating it gently in his fingers, Garec ground the tip into the leathery flesh until a trickle of blood ran under his collar.

  Captain Ford’s hands were trembling. He tried to see Marrin and Sera, but he couldn’t find them. Finally, he said, ‘Stop.’

  Garec lowered the shaft and said pleasantly, ‘Let’s go and get my friends. That’s a little boat they’re in, and I don’t believe either of them wants to spend all day waiting for it to capsize.’

  ‘Tell me who they are.’ Captain Ford hadn’t moved. ‘Resistance leaders?’

  ‘Yes, powerful ones.’

  ‘Magicians?’

  ‘Yes, powerful ones.’

  Captain Ford felt the Morning Star beneath his feet and vowed to make the run to Averil in record time, even if it meant staying at the helm the entire trip. ‘What do they do for the Resistance?’

  ‘Espionage, mostly, no real military entanglements.’

  ‘Brexan and Kellin?’

  ‘The same, I guess.’ Garec shrugged. ‘Kellin was part of a milit
ary unit until she accompanied us south from Traver’s Notch.’

  Captain Ford nodded, swallowing something bitter. ‘And you?’

  ‘I kill.’

  ‘Very well,’ Captain Ford said. ‘But I don’t take orders on my ship, Garec Who Kills.’

  ‘I have no interest in ordering you to do anything, Captain,’ Garec smiled, ‘and I am happy to take orders, swab decks, fillet fish, haul lines, polish brass, and dig ditches, just as soon as you stick to your end of our agreement and sail over there to collect my friends.’

  Captain Ford turned away. ‘Marrin, Sera.’

  ‘Sir?’ they replied in unison.

  ‘Make your heading zero, six, five, and prepare to take on passengers.’

  ‘Very good, Captain.’ They were already moving away.

  ‘Thank you, Captain, honestly,’ Garec said. ‘If it’s any comfort, I don’t enjoy my role with the Resistance. Not ever.’

  ‘I don’t find that especially comforting.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it is, but I am telling you the truth.’

  Captain Ford dabbed at the wound in his neck. He held up a finger, looked at the blood, then wiped it on his cloak. ‘That’s fine, Garec. Let me just say that I hope it haunts you for a hundred lifetimes.’

  ‘It already does.’ Garec started below. ‘I’m going for some tecan. Would you like some?’

  Captain Ford was taken aback, but after a moment, he said, ‘Some of the rosehip, if you would be so kind.’

  ‘Right away.’ Garec disappeared below.

  Hannah saw Hoyt stumble, but he kept his feet and they continued running through the serpentine coils of Pellia’s northeast district, a largely residential area with roads that looked they’d once been goat paths before being cobbled over when civilisation arrived.

  ‘You all right?’ Hannah wheezed.

  Hoyt was pale and dripping sweat, too winded to answer as he half-ran and half-staggered through the twisting confusion of alleys. He was weak; his shoulder hadn’t healed, despite his efforts with querlis and Alen’s medicinal spells. He ran with his arm tucked against his ribs, making him look ungainly, disfigured. Hannah guessed the Seron who stabbed him had dipped her knife in something deadly, not magical, for Alen could disentangle even the worst magic a Seron could concoct. This must be bacterial. Hoyt’s fever had been raging for days, and though querlis brought his temperature down at night, during the day he could barely stand by himself. He was running now on pure will.