This Broken World, page 32
Druadaen was the only one who did not spend a long moment staring at her. “Enemies sighted, Captain?”
She jutted her prominent chin westward beyond the bowsprit. “No reason to expect so, and still too far off to see. Just caught sight of topsails ahead.”
Ahearn seemed surprised. “Is such precaution customary…Captain?”
She looked at him more carefully this time. “Why do you ask, Master Ahearn?”
“Well, it’s just that—well, the short of it is that I had a…a friend who officered ships in the Sea of Kudak. And so, Dunarran pennants were a regular sight, crisscrossing that pond as they do. But sh—my friend never mentioned that your ships take up arms merely upon glimpsing another sail.”
She smiled. “Your ‘friend’ did not mislead you. But the Sea of Kudak is all open water. The Earthrift Channel is less than ten leagues wide here, and ahead, will narrow to three, at parts.”
Elweyr crossed his arms. “Good hunting spot for pirates.”
Firinne nodded. “And what might be worse. Suffice to say, we take no chances in these tight waters. Too easy for smaller ships to come out of the coves on either side of the channel and box us in. So forewarned is forearmed as they say, and if any mean to stand before us, our course of action shall not be to come about, but crowd sail and cut through.” She looked around the group. “Can I count on all of you?”
“You can count on us,” Druadaen answered before anyone else could open their mouths. This was a decision for the company’s “master aboard” rather than “captain,” and he meant to set that precedent quickly and clearly.
Firinne looked at him with a surprised, and pleased, smile. “Very well, then. You’ll want your weapons. And if you don’t have light armor, speak to the purser; he has some in stores.”
* * *
The voice from the maintop crow’s nest was stentorian but also hoarse from the many reports of the past hour: “A dark gray sword on a white escutcheon, framed by midnight blue. Ship out o’ Corrovane, Captain!”
Firinne’s return bellow was not only loud but surprisingly deep-toned. “Is she showing a response to our welcome code?”
Druadaen glanced up at the array of colored pennants on the starboard mainstay.
“No, ma’am,” came the wind-muffled reply. “Probably hasn’t seen ours, yet.”
“Or is not really a Greyblade ship,” muttered Elweyr.
“Possibly,” Druadaen agreed, “but it’s more likely their telescopes are more rudimentary.” He studied the mantic. “You called it a ‘Greyblade’ ship. Do you speak Old Amitryean?”
His eyes conspicuously avoided meeting Druadaen’s. “Some,” he said. “I’m a thaumantic. I spend a lot of time with old scrolls and dead languages.”
“Old Amitryean isn’t entirely dead,” Druadaen pointed out.
“What are you two on about?” Ahearn muttered. “Here we are, possibly ready to cross swords with pirates, and you decide to have a scholarly argument over a few archaic words?”
Firinne had overheard and was smiling shrewdly. “Not just any words, swordsman. And not from a dead language.” She nodded at the ship approaching. “Corrovane: corrov is Old Amitryean for ‘grey’; vaan is ‘sword.’ Your friend translated the name of the nation for us. No mean feat.” She nodded to Elweyr who looked simultaneously annoyed and anxious.
“Captain!” shouted the lookout. “She’s run up a response. One of the correct codes. And she’s run up a counter-challenge.”
“Make reply,” Firinne thundered up along the mainmast.
Umkhira’s gaze roved over the crew, who had reacted with relief. “So, the ship ahead is showing a true flag?”
Firinne raised an eyebrow. “Looks like it. But we’ll stay prepared until we’re sure. It would be quite a coup for pirates to be able to mimic our safety codes…but when you’ve been at sea as long as I have, you don’t put anything beyond the realm of possibility, Mistress Warrior.” She nodded a curt farewell and headed back up to the quarterdeck, shouting orders as she went.
* * *
The captain of the Corrovane ship Atremoënse—or, Ready Narwhal—was like so many of his infamously dour countrymen: taciturn and serious. His first words as he came aboard were, “Greetings. Where are you bound?”
Either Captain Firinne was happy to dispense with formalities and courtesies, or she had ample experience dealing with the Corrovani. “Shadowmere. You?”
“Crynyrcar. Our home port. Your business in Shadowmere: Is it refit or assignment?”
“Some of both.” Firinne gestured for Druadaen to stand forward. “This young fellow has sealed orders and summaries for the station officer.”
The Corrovani captain kept his focus and speech directed toward Firinne. “You are referring to the commander of your Overseas Expeditionary Consulate, there?” Druadaen could hear the capitals in the way he said it.
The moment after Captain Firinne nodded, the Corrovani turned to Druadaen. “Then your journey will not end at Shadowmere. The station officer, Talshane, departed while we were laying over there. He had urgent business in Crimatha. Do you know it?”
“I know of it, sir. I have never been.”
“I’ve ported at Treve a few times,” Firinne interjected. “Is he in the field or the capital?”
“I cannot say. He meant to remain in Treve, I think, but I am uncertain that the circumstances will allow that. He is responding to a sensitive matter that arose on the realm’s frontiers. I believe an attempt to poison several of your Outriders was involved.”
Firinne frowned. “I appreciate the information, but it is unusually…detailed. Were any of your Urnwards operating in concert with our Outriders?”
The Corrovani may have smiled. “It is always a pleasure dealing with another veteran of such matters. No Urnwards were personally committed to the activities, but several of their servitors were. Your forces at the consulate were overextended, so some of ours were tasked to assist, including she who was to be my ship’s sacrist for our return. She is named Padrajisse and was sent by her temple in Shadowmere to assist Talshane in his investigation. She will need the help of our allies to make her return to Ar Navir; we have no other official ship traveling to or from Far Amitryea for the rest of this season. So, if it should be within the scope of your authority and permissions, it would be a great favor and service to the Urn if you would port there before sailing for home.
Firinne smiled thinly. “I would be happy to help our friends of Corrovane, even if we did not need to detour there, now.”
The Corrovani cocked his head in curiosity; it made Druadaen think of a quizzical dog.
Firinne explained. “It just so happens that my next orders were not given to me directly. For reasons unknown, they are in the secure pouch carried by this fellow, and which have been sealed and cyphered so that only the station officer—Talshane—can access them. So it seems that I will by necessity be aiming my bow at the very port to which your sacrist has traveled.”
He inclined his head slightly. “I shall convey what little we know of the present conditions in Treve, as well as our sacrist’s particulars, that you may know how best to seek her when you arrive. Would it be convenient to speak in your cabin, Captain?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Treve was by no means a breathtaking city, but there were still a few towering edifices from earlier epochs. It had been the thriving capital of Steelring for eight centuries, dominating affairs on Far Amitryea for at least half of that time.
But that era had ended seven centuries ago, and the many reconstructions since then reflected both the diminished ambitions and dogged pragmatism of its inhabitants. With the exception of fortifications and watchtowers, buildings rarely rose above three stories, but they were overwhelmingly of whole- or part-stone construction and served by long thoroughfares that ran like spokes away from its modest but well-developed harbor.
Debarking just an hour before dusk, Captain Firinne sent a mate to guide them to the small, solid building that was dedicated to the affairs of Dunarra’s Overseas Expeditionary Couriers. Its shape and conspicuous patrols made it seem more like a blockhouse in a hostile borderland, but Druadaen and the others received a fair, if terse welcome. They received an equally terse explanation that they should return the next day, when Talshane was sure to be available. And when they inquired after the Corrovani sacrist Padrajisse, only one of them had ever heard the name, and she had no idea where that worthy might be found.
At that point, the choice before Druadaen and his companions was either to return to the Swiftsure for another predictable supper and hard bunk, or to part with some billon to spend the night ashore. In the end, they arrived at a unanimous and reasonably economical compromise: to dine on land and then sleep aboard ship.
The mate had no recommendations regarding the city’s public kitchens—it was only his second time in Treve—so they returned to Captain Firinne as Ahearn finished securing Raun in their cabin. Firinne nodded and frowned as she considered their options and finally proclaimed “Shan’s Shanty,” just as Ahearn reemerged.
“That doesn’t sound like an inn,” Elweyr observed hesitantly.
“That’s because it’s not,” she explained. “It’s a tavern. Right near the docks. Only a few minutes’ walk. Even if one has been in their cups.” She shot a fast, appraising glance at Ahearn.
Who was running a broad hand through his thick black hair. “Now, the thing of it is that…well, the last time all of us went to a tavern together—”
“Its food is better than any of the nearby inns, its drinks are fairly priced and not watered, and it’s under the protection of the mariner’s guild.”
“Which means—?” S’ythreni wondered.
“Thieves and brigands know not to show their faces in there. If there’s a crime committed on or near the docks, the guild knows. And it is the guild that metes out the punishment…and they have an ‘eye for an eye’ concept of justice. Literally.”
As one, they all began nodding, but Firinne held up a hand that signaled the addition of an important caveat. They waited.
“The only thing you should bear in mind is that we’re not the only ship from Ar Navir in port. There’s a Kar Krathaun merchantman here, as well. She’s leaving on the morrow, so her crew may go ashore for a last night of liberty.”
Elweyr rolled his eyes and groaned faintly.
“Is that bad?” Umkhira asked.
“It’s not good,” he replied sourly.
Firinne grinned ruefully. “Mind your step around them if you can. Now, I have to settle accounts with the purser, a task I find just slightly less enjoyable than a bout of dysentery.” With a genial nod, she slipped through the weather deck hatchway into the sterncastle.
Once she was gone, Umkhira turned back to Elweyr. “Why must we ‘mind our step’ when in the presence of these, eh, Kar Krathauans?”
He sighed. “Because Kar Krathau has been at war with Corrovane for…well, I guess four centuries now.”
Umkhira frowned. “But we are not sworn to the service of Corrovane.”
“No, but he”—Ahearn broke in, aiming a finger at Druadaen—“is a Dunarran.”
Umkhira nodded cautiously. “So in the case of the Kar Krathauans, it is as the saying has it: ‘My enemy’s friends are my enemies’?”
Elweyr tilted his head slightly. “Well, yes…but it’s more than that. The Kar Krathauans have their own, eh, difficulties with Dunarrans.”
Umkhira nodded. “So they feel wronged by the Dunarrans.”
“Not so much wronged. More like a…an old grudge between families that once feuded. Same with the Crimathans, for that matter.”
She folded her arms. “I do not see why the Kar Krathauans’ dislike of the Corrovani would touch the Crimathans. They—we—are on the other side of a wide ocean.”
Druadaen nodded encouragingly. “It doesn’t make much sense…until you start listening to the local language, and then think back to the speech of the Corrovani captain who came aboard the Swiftsure.”
She frowned. “Yes, the word-sounds are like unto each other. So, are the Crimathans the descendants of the Corrovani, then?”
Druadaen smiled. “More the other way around, if there is any truth in their legends. At any rate, that’s why Corrovane sends ships here to trade, despite the distance; among nations, they are as cousins.”
“And yet the Kar Krathauans cross the same great ocean to this place. Why? To be despised?”
Elweyr’s grin was crooked. “No: to be provocative.”
Ahearn nodded. “I’ll tell you the one thing that I know about ’em: whereas the soldiers and generals of most warlike nations are more bluster than business, that’s not the case with the Kar Krathauans.”
“And they despise cowards,” S’ythreni murmured. “Their own, most of all.”
Umkhira nodded and stood. “Now I understand. I hope we shall see some of these Kar Krathauns. I wish to observe them. Let us heed the captain’s advice and go the tavern with good food and drink.”
* * *
“Well,” drawled S’ythreni, “it appears that the gods of the ur zhog have granted your wish.”
“Bloody hell,” muttered Ahearn, leading them quickly to a table against the same wall as the door through which they’d just entered Shan’s Shanty.
“There are Kar Krathauans in here?” Umkhira asked in a tone that was anything but muted. “Where?”
“Stop craning your neck,” S’ythreni muttered. “They’re already looking at us.”
Umkhira noticed that the entire taproom had grown quiet; indeed, half of the patrons were looking at her. Their faces showed fear, anger, curiosity, sometimes a mix of all three.
“Are my people unknown here?” she murmured as she sat in a chair that had its back to the room.
Druadaen was on the verge of suggesting that was a very vulnerable position, thought the better of it, and answered, “No. But on Far Amitryea, no humans ever make common cause with the Bent.”
An unfamiliar voice asked, “A word, if you please?”
They turned, discovered an elderly man several paces away, as if he were cautiously approaching wild animals. Which, given his frank and horrified stare at Umkhira, might have been exactly what was going through his mind. “Of course,” answered Druadaen, who made to stand.
The other waved him down. “We’re a peaceful place,” he muttered. “The odd bar fight over a spouse or a wager, mind ye, but nothing that results in loss of life or limb.” Now he was trying very hard not to look at Umkhira.
“So we have been told,” Druadaen said calmly, “by Captain Firinne of the Swiftsure. Who recommended your tavern above all others.” He offered a faint smile.
“Aye? Captain Firinne?” It was unclear if he was surprised or puzzled. “Well, if it’s as you say, then you’re right welcome here. All of you. So long as you…well, leave us as you found us, if you take my meaning.”
“I shall not disrupt this place,” Umkhira said frankly, and again, perhaps a bit too loudly.
He stared at her as if she were preparing to devour him at a single gulp.
Umkhira straightened—rather majestically, Druadaen thought—and assured him, “As I am a guest here, it is my duty to defend your tavern, not despoil it. This is the way of my people.”
The owner goggled at her. “Why…why that’s well said.” He glanced at Druadaen. “She’s not from here, I wager? And so well spoke…for a pek.”
S’ythreni put her face in her palm; Ahearn rolled his eyes; Umkhira’s brow came down.
Druadaen stood. “Sir, it may not be known to you, but pe…that word is very offensive to my friend. She is a Lightstrider, an ur zhog, and is not only well spoken and brave but flawlessly polite and honest. More so than most humans.”
The barkeep’s responding gulp was so long and loud that Druadaen momentarily feared he had truly swallowed his tongue. But it finally made a voluble reappearance: “Now, I had no intent to give offense. And she’s a what? A Lightstrider?”
Umkhira had calmed—slightly—but shook her head as she glanced at Druadaen. “I feared this when you said that there is no contact between Bent and human in these lands. If any ur zhog were ever here, we have long since ceased to be.”
Druadaen reached out a hand to the owner’s shoulder. “If we are not welcome here, we will leave. But we would prefer to stay. The choice is yours.”
The look on the old fellow’s face was similar to the one Druadaen had seen on Couriers and Outriders about to plunge into their first combat. The shoulder beneath his palm was trembling: possibly with fear, but more likely, the palsy of age.
The barkeep shook himself and looked up into Druadaen’s face, as if seeing it anew. “Why, you and your friends shall stay right where you are. What shall I bring you?”
* * *
The evening progressed pleasantly enough. Half of the patrons were locals, as was obvious from their easy and boisterous camaraderie. But there were other strangers like themselves, many from the smaller or greater ships that rode at anchor out in Treve’s deep bay or tied to her sturdy wharves.
And then there were the Kar Krathauans. There were four of them, three of whom wore dragon-emblazoned livery of some kind and were in gambesons: near-proof that they had left much more substantial armor behind. They were, however, armed with swords that were broader in the tang but smaller at the tip than those Druadaen was accustomed to.
The fourth of their number did not have their features nor their martial presence, and so, Druadaen speculated, might not be a countryman of theirs. By far the most garrulous, he was also the most expressive. He was also the only one who frequently glanced at Druadaen and his companions, wearing an expression both contemptuous and resentful. But the three Kar Krathauans with him barely reacted to whatever gibes and detractions he was muttering. Druadaen, like the others, affected not to notice him.
But they remained peripherally aware of his muted declamations, and so were unsurprised when, on his way back from the privy, he swerved toward their table.
