The Larion Senators

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  ‘That’s a little surprise, something I unveil only when necessary.’

  ‘A second sheet?’ Brand held a wrinkled, salt-stained boot against his own sole, checking the size.

  ‘Exactly,’ Sharr said. ‘But it’s more than that, it’s almost a spinnaker. I only use it when the wind is just right, or when I have to hustle my aged bones out of harm’s way – the Malakasian navy and I don’t always see things from the same perspective.’

  Brand scoffed. ‘This old barrel can outrun a naval cutter?’

  ‘Good rutting lords, no!’ Sharr laughed. ‘Look at her – she can barely get out of her own way.’

  ‘So why the giant sheet?’

  ‘When the navy arrives, my goal is never to outrun them—’ He checked that his sons had belayed both outriggers. ‘I just need to be faster than the next trawler on the water.’

  ‘Let the navy busy themselves with the slower deer in the herd.’ He handed Brand a great coil of line.

  ‘Something like that,’ Sharr said. ‘But it won’t matter for much longer.’

  ‘Because we’re going to win?’ Brand asked.

  ‘Because we’re going to die.’ Sharr ignored the outriggers and fell into a comfortable chair he had fixed to the deck.

  ‘But I thought you said this was a fast boat.’ Markus finally summoned enough courage to step on board.

  ‘Left foot first,’ Sharr warned, ‘left foot!’

  ‘Why?’ Markus said.

  ‘Better luck.’

  ‘You just said we were going to die!’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no sense inviting misfortune, is there?’

  ‘Rutting whores!’ Markus stepped on board with his left foot. ‘Any other absurd superstitions I need to know about?’

  ‘Plenty.’ Sharr dug in his pockets for a pipe. ‘I’ll keep you informed as we go.’

  ‘To die.’

  ‘Yes, to die.’

  ‘What makes you so certain we can’t do it?’ Brand asked.

  ‘Have you ever seen a merchant carrack? It’s a four-masted beast with cabins, two and three cabins, stacked on top of one another, giving her a great swollen arse to windward. We could hide my little boat beneath her mainsail. Merchant carracks are like galleons with allergies. Pragan miners use them to transport quarry stones to Orindale, huge piles of rocks, any one of which would send my little boat to the bottom in a blazing hurry. And if that isn’t terrifying enough, she could ram us to splinters without feeling so much as a nudge. Oh, and she’ll be fast; on a northerly wind, she’ll brush past us as if we were swamped.’

  ‘So unless we’re right in her path—’ Brand started.

  ‘An unfortunate place to be—’ Markus was already turning seasick-green, even though the boat was still lashed safely to the pier.

  ‘We can’t catch her?’

  ‘Catch her?’ Sharr laughed. ‘If we’re lucky, she’ll think we’re Malakasian soldiers fleeing Capehill, and heave to.’

  ‘To pick us up?’ Brand considered this new option.

  ‘Yes,’ Sharr said, ‘they’ll reef their sheets and welcome us aboard.’

  ‘Aboard a Malakasian ship, filled with soldiers, possibly Seron warriors, and some kind of evil magical tree bark?’ Markus asked.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I like the run-us-down option better.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sharr said, ‘but – as much as I hate to quote Gita behind her back – you’re not coming, and neither is Brand. But I do appreciate you two helping me load these crates.’ Sharr avoided eye contact with Brand Krug. He liked Markus Fillin; the two of them had come from similar backgrounds: hard-working parents, strong role models, but Brand was different, difficult to read. Sharr guessed there was brutality in his past, some ugly experience that made the enigmatic freedom fighter keep people at arm’s length.

  ‘And why are we not going along?’ Brand muttered.

  ‘Because this is suicide,’ Sharr explained. ‘There’s no point in all of us going out there for no reason. We stand about as much chance of sinking that ship – of even finding that ship – as I do of sailing to Pellia and single-handedly sacking Welstar Palace.’

  ‘Are there shipping lanes off-shore?’ Brand’s voice was barely above a whisper. At Sharr’s nod, he went on, ‘You know where they are?’

  ‘I’ve fished here all my life.’

  ‘Then that’s where we’re going.’ He looked deadly serious, and he still hadn’t moved.

  Sharr looked the quiet warrior in the eyes. ‘Have you been on the open ocean, Brand? Do you know anything about sailing? Anything at all? The swells out there block your view of the horizon; there are rollers so high they blot out the view … nothing you’ve ever seen at the beach or boating in the harbour can give you any idea what we’re going to face out there. And it’s cold, chill-your-bones-to-aching cold. If we don’t get swamped and drown, we’ll try to cut the carrack off. And assuming I can accomplish this nearly impossible navigational feat, we will get rammed and die. Or, even better, they will mistake us for their Malakasian comrades, heave to, take us aboard, and then we will die.’

  Markus interrupted, asking, ‘So any scenario in which we don’t die, Sharr?’

  ‘Just one.’ He grinned.

  ‘Care to elaborate a bit on our role?’

  ‘You don’t have a role.’ He jumped back to the pier and lowered another wooden crate onto the deck.

  ‘You haven’t convinced me you can sail out there and sink that ship by yourself, Sharr,’ Brand said.

  ‘Not by myself, no. He’s coming with me.’ He gestured towards the dockside, where Stalwick Rees, looking more fragile than ever and lugging a massive canvas bag almost as big as he was, moved hesitantly towards the Missing Daughter. They could see his lips moving as he nervously talked to no one.

  Brand’s scepticism was almost palpable, filling the space between them. ‘You can’t be serious! He’ll sink this tub before you even catch the outgoing tide.’

  Sharr wheeled on him. ‘You really want to come along, Brand? Well, I don’t care, come, then – you, too, Markus, if you’re so determined to die. But we’re not going anywhere without him.’

  ‘Why?’ Markus said, waving encouragingly to Stalwick.

  ‘Because he has special gifts.’ Sharr started towards the wharf. He turned to say, ‘Make peace with the gods tonight, boys, because the tide turns just before dawn tomorrow. If you’re coming, I’ll see you here. Right now, I’m off home.’

  The Missing Daughter sailed with the predawn tide. A frigid bank of fog had swallowed Capehill overnight and a ponderous gloom had settled over the trawler. The northerly winds that had been raking the Falkan coast for days died suddenly after middlenight, leaving the wharf blanketed in a foreboding silence.

  Sharr set his main and spanker in a broad reach, but didn’t bother with the bowsprit; there wasn’t enough wind. He leaned at the helm, watching for the channel marker denoting the last lazy tack to port needed to clear the dogleg that was Capehill Harbour; perhaps then they’d get lucky and catch a bit of breeze. Stalwick and Markus huddled together in the middle of the deck; Brand stood in the stern, watching the fog billow past like a ghostly memory.

  ‘Any tecan?’ he asked laconically.

  ‘No,’ Stalwick was quick to reply, ‘but I can make some, Brand. I can. I’m good at tecan, well, not as good as—’

  ‘Stalwick,’ Markus stopped him, ‘it’s over there, in the canvas bag near the top of that chest.’

  ‘Oh, right, thanks. I’ll get it going right away, thanks.’ Fumbling, he managed to dislodge the pot and a tin of leaves, struggled to open one of the hogsheads lashed to the mainmast, then finally disappeared to the tiny galley to get the mixture brewing.

  ‘Thanks, Stalwick,’ Sharr shouted down to him. ‘Goblets in that leather bag on the shelf above your head.’

  ‘All right, Sharr, all right. I’ll tell you, I was worried, scared even, to go out on the ocean with you three, but I tell you what;
this isn’t so bad. I’d rather be able to see something, I would, I’ll tell you, but this isn’t bad sailing at all.’

  Still staring at the wall of white, Brand said mockingly, ‘Swells that block my view of the horizon, huh, Sharr?’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, my friend,’ Sharr warned. ‘We’re not even out of the harbour yet.’ Like the rest of them, Sharr was dressed in a cotton undertunic, a boiled wool tunic, a leather vest and a boiled wool cloak, all topped with an oiled leather poncho to help ward off the frigid winds. Sharr worried that one of the others, as green as they were, might slip and fall overboard, especially if ice formed on the deck later that day. Layered vestments made winter fishing bearable, but they were not good for swimming.

  ‘We’ll never catch them at this rate,’ Markus said, helping Stalwick pour out tecan.

  ‘You’ve got to remember that if we don’t have any wind, they don’t have any either,’ Sharr reminded them. ‘Actually, I’m hoping that carrack passed by last night, with all her sails filled to bursting, so we’ll never catch her – if that’s the case, we’ll make a day of it and I’ll teach you how to haul a net.’

  ‘All right,’ Markus shivered. ‘I’m up for a bit of fishing today.’

  ‘That’s not very patriotic of you,’ Brand said, checking the throwing knives he wore at his belt.

  ‘Call it self-preservation,’ Markus said. ‘Here, tecan’s ready.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, then looked up suddenly and said, ‘Hey, Captain, look at the fog.’ From the south, the sound of crashing waves reached them through the gloom.

  ‘What?’ Stalwick cried as he turned a full circle, ‘what’s it doing?’

  ‘It’s moving north,’ Markus said. ‘We’ve found a bit of wind.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good, right, Sharr? A bit of wind, and we can get going out there, right?’

  Sharr tested the wind. He checked the mainsail, let the beam out slightly, then belayed the line. ‘Be careful what you wish for, my friends,’ he muttered again.

  By the dinner aven, there was a stiff wind blowing north and the Missing Daughter was running before it like a schooner. Markus, Stalwick and Brand were clinging to lines and belaying pins as if they were the last handholds outside the Northern Forest. The deck was wet, and icing over, but none of the intrepid seamen were willing to move from where they stood, so there was no immediate danger of anyone slipping over the side.

  At the helm, Sharr sang off-colour songs, obviously enjoying himself. ‘You don’t get too many days like this!’ he cried above the breeze. ‘Look there, that’s Raven’s Point! Great whoring mothers, but that’s got to be a new record, for a fishing boat, anyway.’ He looked at the others as the Missing Daughter rolled over an enormous swell and buried her bow halfway up the following trough. ‘You boys all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Brand managed without letting go of the ratline he had looped about his wrist. ‘I’m thinking of spending all my winter Twinmoons on the water once this business is finished.’

  ‘Markus,’ Sharr shouted, ‘Brand just made a joke – he must be terrified!’

  The handsome lieutenant, soaked to the undertunic and shivering hard, said, ‘I’m too scared to talk right now. I’d rather my life end in silence.’

  Sharr laughed. ‘You’re not going to die in this, Markus. It’s a beautiful clear day!’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit… um … lumpy?’ Stalwick asked miserably.

  ‘A bit,’ Sharr acknowledged, ‘but the old girl’ll hold together, don’t you worry.’

  ‘What happens if we don’t spot that carrack today?’ Markus was doing his best to scan the horizon for sails.

  ‘We’ll stay off the wind for the night,’ Sharr pointed north, ‘then jibe, close haul and creep south again tomorrow morning. It wouldn’t be wise to do that before first light, though. And if the wind changes with the tide, which it might well do, we’ll come about and enjoy a nice run down the coast.’

  ‘You mean stay out here? All night?’ He sounded completely horrified.

  ‘Of course,’ Sharr said, laughing. ‘We’d not make it home now anyway, not tonight – we’re against the wind and the tide.’

  ‘I see.’ Markus swallowed hard. ‘It’s just— Well, to be honest, I never thought we’d be out here after dark.’

  ‘You afraid of the dark, Markus?’

  ‘Out here?’ He braced himself as the trawler crested another swell. ‘Yes, actually, quite.’

  Brand came forward, moving hand-over-hand along the starboard gunwale. He gripped the block-and-tackle crane like a lover and shouted, ‘Remember this morning, when I teased you about the wind?’

  Sharr grinned. ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Fetch me a beer from that crate below and we’ll call it even.’

  ‘I would,’ Brand’s teeth were chattering, ‘but I’m afraid to let go.’

  ‘Here, then—’ Sharr took Brand’s hand and placed it on the helm, ‘keep us on this course and I’ll fetch them myself. Who’s for a drink, then?’

  No one answered; Brand looked as though he was about to soil his leggings.

  ‘All right, beers all around it is then.’ Sharr disappeared into the galley, singing, ‘I know a girl and her name is Mippa. I bet you five Mareks she’ll give you a gripper!’ He returned a moment later and passed ceramic bottles to everyone.

  Markus looked askance at his, then gripped the cork with his teeth, pulled it out and spat it over the side. He guzzled as much as he could stomach. Brand saw the moribund pallor fade from his friend’s face and decided to follow Markus’ lead, chugging nearly the entire bottle.

  ‘Better?’ Sharr asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Brand nodded enthusiastically, ‘surprisingly so!’

  ‘How about you, Stai—?’ Sharr froze. ‘Oh, rutters.’

  Blanched and trembling, Stalwick stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused. He gripped the beer bottle with one hand, squeezing until it shattered. Ceramic shards sliced into his palm; Stalwick didn’t notice.

  ‘Holy mothers!’ Markus cried, ‘what’s wrong with him?’

  Stalwick collapsed, kicking and scratching in wild spasms, rolling across the deck until he came to rest in a foetal ball beside the miniature dory they’d lashed down that morning.

  ‘I bet it’s—’ Brand’s feet went out from under him and he landed hard on his back, sliding across the icy deck.

  ‘Help me get him into the cabin,’ Sharr ordered. ‘Markus, there’s a cot folded up against the forward bulkhead, inside the storage cubby – go and get it. Brand, drag him in here. Make sure he’s breathing, then unfurl that tarp. It’ll keep him a bit warmer. There are blankets in the third cupboard, the one beside the cooking pots.’

  Brand crawled back to Stalwick, then half-dragged and half-pushed the unconscious man inside the little cabin. He found the oiled canvas tarp and unlashed it so it covered the doorway, shutting out some of the wind. The enclosed space quickly felt warmer.

  ‘He went like this before,’ Sharr said, ‘when Gilmour used him to warn us that the Malakasians knew we were coming.’

  ‘Listen closely, in case he says anything.’

  Stalwick didn’t speak; he just lay on the cot, his mouth hanging open and his eyes askew, staring blindly up at the wooden ceiling.

  The three men went back to the helm to confer.

  ‘We’ve got to go back,’ Markus said. ‘Who knows what this means?’

  ‘I told you: we can’t go back, not yet,’ Sharr said. ‘Just calm down; we’re out here at least until dawn when the tide turns.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. Wind and water are against us and it would take more sailing skills than you two have combined to get us about and hauled close for Capehill. So as long as he’s breathing, we’ll give him a few moments and see if he wakes up. Brand, take the helm. Keep us right on this heading.’ He slid the binnacle open and showed him the compass. It was pointing east-northeast. ‘I’ll n
et us some fish for dinner, and then we’ll have a sailing lesson or two, just in case.’

  ‘But we’ve got dinner,’ Markus said plaintively. ‘We’ve brought plenty to eat.’

  ‘But this’ll give us something to do. Come on, Markus, I’ll bet you’ve always secretly wanted to learn how to sail, haven’t you?’

  An aven later, as darkness fell, the three companions ate their fill of fresh-caught jemma and drank enough beer to numb their uncertainty. They had no idea what had befallen Stalwick; he was an inept soldier, but he was also the only one amongst them with even a copper Marek’s worth of mystical power. They all felt the same foreboding chill as they watched Stalwick breathe in shallow gasps, his hands frozen in ungainly claws and his eyes fixed half a world away.

  Around middlenight, Sharr tossed Markus a blanket and ordered him to get some sleep. ‘Brand and I will take the first watch,’ he said. ‘You and he can trade in an aven.’

  ‘What about you?’ Brand said.

  ‘I’ll stay at the helm. The wind is dying a bit. If it drops more before dawn, you can keep us on course for a while and I’ll try to sleep, but I don’t want you two piloting in the dark. Who knows where we might end up?’ He laughed, wryly, trying to lighten the mood a little.

  ‘Fine with me.’ Markus ducked beneath the tarp curtain and curled up on the floor next to Stalwick’s berth. ‘See you in an aven,’ he called.

  Markus traded places with Brand just before the predawn aven. The wind had fallen off and the Missing Daughter made her way through the diminishing swells like a pleasure boat on a summer sea. It was warm inside the cabin, with the tarp curtain still closed. Marcus had removed his oiled poncho and cloak; Brand did the same, wrapped himself in Markus’ makeshift bed and was asleep in moments, snoring lightly.

  ‘Where are we?’ Markus asked softly.

  ‘Off the northeast coast, moving along the outer banks.’

  ‘No sign of our carrack?’

  ‘Hard to say; the winds are down, the tide’s about to start running against us. That’s bad for sailing, but good for standing the middle watch. If she’s out here and her watchlights are burning, we ought to be able to see her. I haven’t checked aft in a while; I don’t normally keep that tarp unfurled, but with Stalwick and all, I figured I ought to keep it warm in there.’