Tempest (7 page)

Nichol, bless him, seemed more than willing to let the moment pass them by. “Aye, ready to say good-bye to my manhood,” he said with a preemptive shiver. “Give it to me.” Colm poured a stream of water over the other man, and the gasp that escaped from Nichol's lips made Colm's own throat tighten in sympathy. “Gods, that's cold,” he bit out, reaching for the soap and scrubbing himself down with ruthless efficiency. Once Nichol was lathered Colm helped him rinse, and then they repeated the process with Colm. The only thing Nichol said was, “Bend down, you great giant,” and that was just light enough that Colm could deal with it. He got dressed with a sense of profound relief, and then Nichol led the way back up to their room to get ready for the day.

“I'm sorry about the mess,” Nichol said as he surveyed their shared quarters. “We can make more room for you, never fear.”

“It's fine,” Colm assured him, not wanting to be any more bother. “Everything I own is in that pack, and I don't need more than a place to sleep at night.”

“Aye, but you're sleeping on the floor, mate,” Nichol pointed out as he shaved his dark stubble away with the help of a bowl of hot water the cook had left for them. “That's not the sort of thing you should be forced to get used to.”

“There isn't room for another cot in here, and I don't mind,” Colm said. He watched Nichol shave and absently ran a hand over his own face. Silky smooth, as ever. Colm's head of light brown hair was the darkest stuff that grew on him, and even that was so fine it looked like it might float away sometimes. His brows and lashes were nearly nonexistent, making him look unnatural, he thought. Nichol finished and offered Colm the straight blade, and Colm just shook his head.

“Are you ready to face the day, then?” Nichol asked brightly. He wore dark leather trousers, a white linen shirt and had just pulled on a leather vest that laced together up the front. It molded to his form beautifully, setting his slender waist on display and making Colm's blood heat again. He had never felt so affected by another person, not even another man, although he'd long been aware of his body's own peculiar preferences. How could he long so much for a connection with someone he'd just met?

“I'm ready,” Colm said, pushing his secret desires aside with more facility now that they were both fully dressed.

“Good! Let's start with the layout of the docks, so you've got a sense of what's where. Then we'll see about a boat and the things Gran needs for a funeral service.” Nichol led and Colm followed, and they left behind the sanctuary of the Cove for the increasing bustle of people in the streets.

The air smelled cleaner here than it did deeper in the city, the product of being right next to the water, Colm imagined. He could taste the salt of it on his tongue now, roll it around against the back of his mouth and let the flavor soothe him. There were still the interminable odors of sewage and street food, but the brisk easterly wind diminished them.

“The admirals won't be pleased by this cross breeze,” Nichol predicted as he moved easily through the crowd, stopping every now and then to point out useful stores to Colm. “They've been readying for a push to the Inisfadda for months now. They have to get the whole fleet together there before they can sail on to the Garnet Isles. If they don't make it before the autumn storms move in, they'll have to abandon their plans for yet another year.”

The Inisfadda, Colm knew, were the closest islands to the coast of the Muiri Empire, and the only ones currently under the Emperor's control. The Garnet Isles were technically independent, but the Kingdom of Speir across the sea was making its own bid to expand its reach and rule them. The coming battle would rely heavily on skill and swiftness, which was one reason only the best were being accepted to serve in the navy. It was one of the few topics of conversation Colm's fellow travelers had discussed on the road that he'd been at all interested in.

“Hekla's place has the best prices for tackle, and he's one of the few along this way who'll deal in small amounts,” Nichol said, interrupting Colm's reverie as he pointed out a small building nestled tight between two larger ones. “And his wife makes lovely meat pies. They travel well and taste just as good cold as hot. Better than the ones back home, but don't tell Gran I said that or she'll skin me alive and hang my pelt over the bar,” he joked, and Colm smiled and shook his head. “Ah, you think I'm kidding, but Gran's frightfully competitive sometimes. Wait until the summer feastday comes round. You'll see it then.”

They walked on, dodging around people and moving at a fast clip, and Nichol shared bits of information and gossip on every store and every ship: who owned them, what their business was, whether they were looking for help. “I know you're a fisherman, but if these waters give you trouble, there's always demand for a good net mender,” he said, then raised his hand and pointed out past the lines of ships toward the horizon. “Do you see the pillar there? That's the official entrance to Caithmor's harbor. No fishing is allowed within its bounds, there's too much chance for accidents between boats, but it doesn't take long to sail out past it with a good breeze.”

“I hope I'll have cause to know that,” Colm said, and Nichol laughed.

“Of course you will! Don't accept anything that isn't what you want the most.” That, Colm thought as Nichol pulled them away from the waterfront and toward a large, blocky building a few hundred yards in, sounded like his new cousin's entire way of life.

“This is the coast guard's hall,” Nichol continued, walking right up to the wide doors and heading inside. There were thin windows spaced far apart along the walls, the only source of light in the otherwise dark hall except for the lantern hanging above the desk at the far end. “Those of us in the Sea Guard, we report in here once a week, get our schedule and our position, and we make reports here as well if we see anything interesting or suspicious. Which, ahoy the desk!” he proclaimed. “It seems there's an awful spotted beast been sighted on land, infiltrating this very building!”

“So very clever,” the man—the very young man, Colm realized—sitting behind the desk said with a sneer. He was indeed a very spotty man, his forehead and nose a virulent red broken up with pinkish-white pustules. He had hunched shoulders and lank, dull hair that he was clearly trying to vanish behind. “I suppose being a simple volunteer gives you plenty of time to come up with your little quips. Those of us who are
actually
in the navy have more important things to spend our effort on.”

“Aye, like cushions for your arses in those nice, comfy chairs,” Nichol said. “Is the quartermaster in yet?”

“Why?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Because I need to speak to him,” Nichol said, enunciating carefully as though he were speaking to an idiot. “It's about a burial.”

“Go to the Ardeaglais,” the man dismissed. “The priests tend to such matters.”

“This matter concerns a family member. No priest could lay one of our own family to rest better than we could, and I need a boat for it, Alain. Now stop being difficult and let me through to see the quartermaster.”

Colm could see the refusal already shaped in Alain's lips, and he stepped forward. “Please, sir, it would mean a great deal to us,” he said, keeping his tone quiet and respectful. It was a tone that had gotten Colm through a lot of difficult interactions with the villagers back home, and the man seemed disarmed by it.

“Who beneath the Four are you?” he asked, thrown off his stride.

“Just a son trying to lay his father to rest. Please,” Colm repeated.

“Well…at least you show a proper attitude,” Alain said with a sniff. “I suppose you could see the quartermaster. He's rather busy, though, so keep it brief.”

Nichol had kept his silence through this part of the exchange, but as soon as permission was granted, he couldn't hold back any longer. “Lovely, many thanks, don't work so hard that the boils spread. Come on, Colm.” He ignored Alain's offended
humph
and strode off down the hall. Colm caught up with him quickly, his longer legs giving him the advantage.

“Why did you have to go and be polite to that silly bastard?” Nichol asked. “Now he'll expect it!”

“Why shouldn't he expect it?” Colm asked. “He's in a position to help us, and he's a member of the coast guard besides. That does qualify as a part of the navy, doesn't it? I thought that was what you aspired to.”

“Well, not to do
that
!” Nichol exclaimed. “Not to sit on my arse all day and pretend I've a real man's job while all I really do is act as a glorified signpost, telling folks which way to go and when they're allowed to do so. No, I don't want to be stuck indoors, or even on a shore-trawler. I want to sail all the way to Speir and beyond, I want to make the ocean my home. I'll get there too. You'll see,” he said with a wink as he drew to a stop at the end of the hall.

“This is the warehouse, and that's the quartermaster's domain. A fighting force lives and dies on the strength of its supply chain, Gran's always said, and the strength of the supply chain depends upon the wisdom of the quartermaster. He's an important man, Roburt Grainger. He doesn't care overmuch for me, but he's sweet on Gran, so I think he'll give us what we need.” Nichol pushed through the double doors and into the warehouse, and Colm followed him, completely bemused.

Men and women were at work inside the space, an airy, blocky building with very high ceilings that were stacked almost to the top with crates. People sorted and organized the nearest pile, mostly casks and lumber, and beyond them all was a short, bald man with half-moon spectacles who took the tags his people brought him, tags that had been affixed to every piece of new inventory, and then made a mark on a stiff piece of parchment in his hands. “Nichol Searunner,” he said without looking up as they drew close. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?”

Did anyone in this place actually like Nichol? At least Nichol didn't seem perturbed by the fact. “Master Grainger, good morning,” Nichol said pleasantly. “My gran sends you her compliments.”

“Does she, indeed?” The quartermaster gazed over the line of his spectacles at Nichol and Colm. “Hardly a common occurrence. That surely means that you want something, Nichol. What is it this time? And if it's flares, don't bother. I am never letting you or any of the rest of Jaime's crew within a hundred feet of 'em again, not after the last debacle.”

“It's nothing like that,” Nichol assured him. Colm wondered who Jaime was. “We need to borrow a boat. Just a small one, just for tonight. It's for a burial, a family matter. Gran thought it better not to get the priests involved, and the wharf rats charge so dearly for the use of their little wave skippers,” Nichol wheedled. “Just this once.”

“There's never any ‘just this once' with you and the rest of the Sea Guard,” Master Grainger grumbled, but he seemed to be softening to the idea. “I suppose this young man is the newest recruit to buy into your games?”

“Not at all! This is my cousin down from the White Spires, Colm Weathercliff, an entirely respectable young fisherman who only wants to see his dad buried properly,” Nichol said instantly. The description made Colm feel positively dull, but perhaps dull was what was called for here.

“Weathercliff, is it?” Master Grainger squinted at Colm. “Any relation to the Caresfall Weathercliffs?”

“I'm not sure, sir,” Colm replied truthfully. “My father never spoke about his past.”

“Well, I can certainly appreciate leaving such things where they belong. A boat, then?” Master Grainger leveled a firm look at Nichol. “Just for tonight, and to be returned first thing in the morning in perfect condition, d'you hear?”

“Your word is like the sacred gospel of the Four to me,” Nichol said solemnly.

“And your grand proclamations are like buzzing flies to me: irritating and ultimately forgettable,” Master Grainger scoffed as he scratched a few quick words onto one of the abandoned tags, then thrust it at Nichol. “Berth number forty, and if I don't get those oars back, I will make new ones out of your shoulder blades.”

“My day wouldn't be complete without your friendly threats of mutilation,” Nichol said, bowing extravagantly. “We must be off, Colm, and not keep the quartermaster from his sacred duties any longer!” He turned and left the warehouse with a skip in his step. After a moment of awkward silence between him and Master Grainger, Colm followed.

“Well, that was fun,” Nichol said with a grin as they headed back out onto the streets. “What shall we do next? Gran's errands, or would you like to see the view from the lighthouse? I'm sure Reckat's forgotten all about what happened the last time he let me and my mates up there.”

“You seem to have a reputation,” Colm commented, not judging but not really understanding it either. “Wouldn't it be better to just be polite to people?”

“Do you remember everyone who is polite to you?” Nichol asked rhetorically as he maneuvered them closer to a street vendor. “I want to be
memorable
, not polite. They may not overly care for me, but they do know that I'm in the Sea Guard, I take care of the things they give me to use, and I'm determined. That's better than being thought
nice
. Here,” he continued before Colm could get a word in edgewise, “you've got to try this, it's delicious.” Nichol passed the girl running the stall a coin, and she handed over four small, oval-shelled creatures. “Sea roaches,” Nichol said with a grin.

Colm bent and looked closer at them, then jolted back as one of them tried to roll into a ball. “Are they still alive?”

“'Course they are,” the girl running the stall exclaimed. “Been sitting in a lovely bucket of salt water all morning, the very first catch of the day.”