Dangerous Waters (35 page)

And of course, while the galley had wallowed in that inlet, the newly-unchained slaves could see the Caladhrians were ready and willing to cut their throats if they so much as set foot ashore without permission to refill the water barrels or some such innocuous task.

Would they prefer gold or cold steel? When Corrain had got back to the inlet, after riding all night and ruining two more good horses for the rest of the summer, he’d found Kusint had already made that proposal to the rowers, as well as seeing that their worst hurts were tended and their bellies were filled with swamp deer hunted down by Captain Mersed’s men and freshly roasted on buckthorn fires.

‘Solura. That was agreed,’ one of the Archipelagans called out, prompting vigorous nods from the rest.

‘Piss on that.’ The Lescar was on his feet, fists bunched. ‘We want to go home. Row north from here and we’ll be in the Gulf of Peorle. We can head for Peorle itself or cut across to Col. Their merchants will give us good coin for our share of the goods and we’ll be set fair for a new life.’

‘You think they’ll deal with you fairly?’ Corrain challenged him. ‘Filthy and starving, marked for life by whip and chain? If they don’t confiscate your goods outright and hang you for corsair thieves.’

Kusint came to stand beside him. ‘In Solura, all of you, even those of Archipelagan blood, will be judged only by your willingness to work and the skills which you can offer. No one will pay any heed to where you might come from.’

‘Put us ashore with our share here and we’ll take our chances.’ An Ensaimin man spoke up. His bulk spoke of a hard-working life even before he’d been chained to his oar.

‘No shares!’ A tall Archipelagan stood to look across the walkway’s divide. ‘You go ashore, you go empty-handed!’

Voices were rising on both sides of the deck now. Corrain quickly estimated who was in favour of rowing on to Solura and who was finding the lure of the coast too enticing. The balance was in favour of heading west but it was uncomfortably close to tipping.

‘I have sat in your place and rowed for my life and felt the sting of the slaver’s lash.’ He rattled his broken chain at them. ‘Don’t you want to reclaim your manhood? Don’t you want to be avenged on those who’ve stolen your lives and made your every waking moment a misery? That’s what I seek in Solura. We have a plan to bring such grief down on the corsairs’ heads that they will be utterly destroyed!’

He broke off. Desperation had made him careless. But there could be no going back to Halferan. Not after the promises he had made and the lies he had told. Not without making good on everything he had sworn to do.

Then Corrain saw, with rising hope, that plenty of the rowers looked interested in this unexpected prospect of revenge.

‘What is this plan of yours?’ Another mainlander stood up, Ensaimin by his accent.

‘Prove that we can trust you and we’ll tell you,’ Kusint said quickly. ‘First we need to know if you’ll row west.’

‘Into open waters across the neck of the gulf?’ A seated rower of mingled blood was caught between defiance and apprehension. ‘What if we will not?’

Corrain looked the man straight in the eye. ‘Then my friend and I go ashore today with our share of the spoils. No one there will give us a second glance.’

Everyone could see that was true. His clothing and Kusint’s, even grubby and creased, looked like a warlord’s silks compared to the rowers’ rags.

He looked around the galley. ‘If you don’t want to be hanged for corsairs, I recommend you beach this tub as soon as you can and use what’s left of the sticky fire to burn it down to the keel.’

That suggestion prompted more uneasy looks among the rowers. To Corrain’s intense relief, he saw the first nods of agreement, some grudging, more relieved. Even that Ensaimin man ducked his head, albeit with a scowl.

‘Then let’s have no more argument!’ Corrain warned them with a forceful finger. He’d nearly reached for his sword, only realising at the last heartbeat that could hardly help matters.

‘And no more killing! If any of you have a grievance against another man, whatever his blood or birth, we’ll hear testimony from all who wish to speak on the matter. We’ll come to a reasoned judgement like honest men, not savages. Otherwise we’re no better than those cursed raiders!’

Whatever Kusint might think, Corrain felt responsible for these men, however much they might resent or reject his authority. When the galley’s cargo was finally divided up, he would be truly glad to see them depart with the means of starting some new life. Until then he had to keep the whip hand over them, if only as a figure of speech.

They looked at him, sullen, but no one voiced dissent.

‘How long do we row west?’ one of the Archipelagan rowers with fluent Tormalin broke the silence.

‘If we start at first light, we should see land again by dusk,’ Kusint assured him. ‘Then we can follow the Ensaimin coast past Dusgate to the Bay of Teshal. If the weather stays set fair, we can cut across that in four days, maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘If we have to stay close to the shore, it’ll be eleven days to reach the same point. Then we can follow the coast all the way to Solura.’

Corrain wanted to protest. They couldn’t afford the time to round every cove and headland around the Bay of Teshal. They had to get to Solura as quickly as they could. He kept silent nonetheless. The rowers, especially the Archipelagans, disliked being out of sight of land for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘Then all’s well.’ Kusint’s smile won a few grudging nods from the closest oarsmen.

Corrain heard his unspoken words.
‘So far.’

‘Then we rest today and row at first light. Check your oars and wash down the decks before we take to the open seas. Once that’s done we can try for some fresh fish.’ The muck the slaves had been fed had proved unexpectedly good for luring better food. Fashioning hooks and line was no great challenge.

Corrain stood for a moment until he saw the rowers begin to move, to follow his orders. He turned to Kusint.

‘We’ll run short of food if we can’t cut across the Bay of Teshal,’ he warned quietly. There was leathery flatbread, dried meat and pickled fruit in the hold, provisions for the dead galley master, his crew and his swordsmen, but far less than Corrain would have liked.

Kusint shrugged. ‘If we must, we can trade along the western Ensaimin coast. That far away, no one will be bothered about buying goods from a corsair galley.’

‘We’ll lose half these oarsmen,’ Corrain objected. ‘They’ll run away ashore.’

Kusint shrugged again. ‘Then we hire on more rowers once we reach the margin between the Great Forest and the sea. There are always bored boys looking for adventure.’ He looked rueful. ‘I should know. I was one.’

And look where that landed you, Corrain was tempted to say. He didn’t, looking westward instead.

Because that was the way to Solura, his route to finding a wizard to sink every accursed corsair galley and, aye, that old blind bastard’s trireme. Corrain would see him drown for Hosh’s sake. If that arrogant Archmage didn’t like it, that was too bad.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
T
WO

Noak’s Wine Shop, Hadrumal

14th of For-Summer

J
ILSETH SEARCHED THE
tables crowded with pupil and apprentice mages. This idle time between afternoon and evening customarily saw Hadrumal’s wizards washing away the dust of a day’s study in the libraries or easing throats dry from debating with their elders and betters.

Before she found Tornauld and Nolyen, she saw Ely waiting by the counter. The slender mage was drumming her painted nails impatiently on the polished wood.

‘Jilseth!’ In the far corner, Nolyen stood up to make sure she’d seen him.

Avoiding gesticulating hands, Jilseth eased her way between chairs and tables.

‘Tresia blush.’ Nolyen handed her a glass frosted with condensation. Mageborn or mundane, no one in Hadrumal drank tepid wine even in the height of summer. ‘You’ll like it.’

‘Thank you.’ Jilseth didn’t doubt it.

Nolyen’s choices were always excellent, which wasn’t so surprising. No expense had been spared on his education, as befitted a Caladhrian baron’s son, until the inconvenience of his water affinity could no longer be ignored.

He waited for Jilseth to sit before resuming his own chair. While a decade in Hadrumal had taught him the folly of assuming that women were mere ornament or entertainment, such courtesies remained instinctive. Jilseth had no quarrel with that.

‘I think they’ll raid tonight.’ Tornauld looked over to include her in the conversation they were already having.

Ensaimin born, of merchant stock, he was always straight to the point, as if delay would cost him coin. Jilseth knew some found him abrasive but he was always willing to yield to anyone matching his directness, so she and he had always been friends.

‘You’re talking of the corsairs?’ She knew Nolyen was scrying towards the Caladhrian coast morning, noon and night, to keep their nexus and Planir informed. ‘But both moons are nigh on dark tonight.’

‘And tomorrow and the night after, but a dark of both moons brings a high-springing tide.’ Nolyen absently twisted peridot studs linking the cuffs of his linen shirt. While he scorned outward display of his affinity, he had an impressive collection of ornaments set with green gemstones, from the costliest to the merely gaudy. ‘They can make landfall during the day.’

Tornauld leaned forward, elbows on the table, broad shoulders hunched. ‘The heavenly compass takes a decisive turn tomorrow. They’ll want to land with the omens on their side, before the balance shifts in the mainlanders’ favour.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Jilseth looked from Tornauld to Nolyen in hopes of an explanation.

‘I’ve been talking to Velindre Ychane.’ Tornauld took a swallow of the aromatic pink wine. ‘She’s made a particular study of Aldabreshin predictions.’

‘Is she back in Hadrumal?’ Jilseth asked cautiously.

She had heard no end of rumour about the magewoman Velindre. Supposedly she’d been the lover of Cloud Mage Otrick, holder of that office before Rafrid, and no one was entirely sure how that feared and fabled wizard had met his end. Velindre was said to have left Hadrumal in a fury at being passed over by the Council, convinced she should have been Cloud Mistress. According to some, she’d helped drive dragons out of the Archipelago.

Jilseth had never given that tale much credence, reckoning it was speculation spun out of ignorance of Velindre’s true dealings with the southern barbarians. All the same, the magewoman must have enough courage to face down a dragon if she was prepared to travel in the Archipelago, where the penalty for magebirth was death.

‘No, she’s in Relshaz. But this is what she was telling me.’ Tornauld was drawing a circle on the table, his fingertip wetted with the drops beading their carafe. ‘This is the last day when the Vizail Blossom sits on the eastern horizon. The constellation they call the Bowl rises tomorrow evening. That shifts the other crucial stars into the next arc around the heavenly compass as the Archipelagans draw it. Tonight, the Ruby sits in the arc of Death along with the Sea Serpent’s stars. That’s a formidable omen promising them victory in battle.’

Jilseth watched him dot fresh marks around the circle.

‘Tomorrow, the Sea Serpent drifts away from the Ruby. The night after that, the auguries become even worse. The Diamond, for strength, joins the Amethyst which lends resolve, in the heavenly arc governing omens for home and family, with the constellation they call the Hoe, token of labour rewarded.’

Nolyen stroked the small pointed beard he was cultivating, in hopes, Jilseth suspected, of compensating for his prominent nose. ‘The wandering stars can be seen clearly enough but that Hoe constellation is below the horizon.’

‘Exactly.’ Tornauld nodded. ‘Which sets signs in that arc of the sky in opposition to whoever might be reading these portents. In this instance that means luck will favour the corsairs’ opponents. They won’t risk that, not while they’re wondering what’s happened to those two galleys which the Halferans and their allies have ambushed.’