Traitor's Knot (48 page)

‘But yon barrels at wharf-side are going to be full!' objected the brig captain with pigheaded logic. ‘No longshoreman's going to miss that sore fact! Not as he rolls your suspect replacements under the eyes of the clerks at the docks.'

That glaring concern left the swindler unruffled. ‘This will be handled. Leave the details to me. You need do nothing but dally tonight. Stay hove-to with your lamps dark, at sea. Arrange to reach anchorage at Southshire by the dawn tide. Present your papers to the port authorities as usual. Then take my advice
and slip your cable again before the full ebb at noon. Now, if I could be so bold as to charter your pinnace? For what fee? Not too dearly, mind! You're free to collect her again in three days. I plan to leave her legally trim. You'll find her tied up and waiting in a paid berth on your next upcoast run through Shaddorn.'

‘You know how to sail?' the captain asked, doubtful. His mesmerized gaze watched the sum in bright gold, just now being stacked by his rum flask.

‘As well as I write,' the odd guest insisted. He lifted the sconce off the candle, then dripped off the wax to affix the seal of the Light's priesthood over his falsified documents. ‘Are you asking for surety?'

The brig captain selected a coin and tried the edge with his teeth. His blunt smile returned. ‘Since you didn't foist off your payment in tin, naturally, your bonded signature will suffice.' More gold chinked and glinted. His expansive mood brightened. ‘In fact, a simple handshake will do, and I frankly won't care if you wreck her.'

The pinnace was unlashed and swung out, forthwith. Her mast was stepped, and her gear smartly rigged. She launched inside of an hour. By the handy way the departing visitor threaded the mainsheet blocks, he well knew his handling of boats. His torpid comrade was kicked awake, and stowed, complaining, amidships. The lines were cast clear. As the craft clawed away on the stiff, off-shore breeze, breasting the indigo swell, the captain regarded the stacked tuns left behind, contents cooking to noisome sludge under the scouring sunlight.

The mate paused at his side, a sharp-witted man as mean as old rope who still tracked the tender's expert retreat towards the landward horizon. ‘Who was that man, and why do I sense in my bones that he's up to no good?'

The brig's master shrugged. ‘He's left us a round fifty royals and no name. Yet Fiark's instructions on that score were plain. If a whisper of scandal sticks on us at Southshire, we're to claim our pinnace was stolen at sword's point by sea-roving clansmen. Then we're to leave an accurate description on record that fingers yon shady brigand as the thief.'

By afternoon, the brig's pinnace nosed across turquoise shallows, parallel to the white thrash of spray on the coastal reefs. Sweating and red, Dakar nursed the tiller. Arithon stood in the wind on the foredeck, singing a passionate ballad that wrung the flux currents into high turmoil. To mage-sighted eyes, the rampant emotion unleashed a tempest of charge: prime target for the
iyats
that soaked up the energy churned up by the breaking surf.

As the sprites arrowed in to make sport with the pinnace, Arithon wove shadow and locked them captive. He had gained in finesse. His reaped salvage of drake spawn was soon wound, bright as jewellery, onto his little finger. When his gleanings flashed silver, indigo, and deep purple up to his knuckle, he footed his way aft and reclaimed the rudder from Dakar's white-fisted grasp.

‘We are owed a night's drinking in Southshire, I think. Your boots aren't dry yet?' Seated, his white shirt riffled in the afternoon breeze, and his hair like flicked ink in his eyes, the Prince of Rathain propped a bare foot on the thwart. ‘Well, cheer up. Come the morning, there won't be another hike through a swamp.'

‘We'll be sailing,' groused Dakar, not one whit appeased as he shifted in vain effort to ease his back against the stay that anchored the mast. ‘My tender stomach will scarcely pause to sort out the unpleasant difference.'

‘Then don't be hung-over,' Arithon said, altogether too vibrant when any natural creature should languish in the perishing afternoon heat. ‘I'm not going to task very much of your resource.'

‘It's the worry,' the Mad Prophet admitted, eyes shut. Pink hands laced on his belly, he settled to doze in the shade of the thrumming mainsail. ‘Don't wake me until we're at rest in the harbour. That way I might slip the burden of fate, and reach shore without getting sea-sick.'

On schedule, the pinnace hove into Southshire. There, the prankish gusts lifted the wings of the gulls and sent them flocking over the roof-tops. The dock-side hung thick with the pitch tang of oakum, and the dust devils danced, whirling sawdust. The shipworks were winding down for the day. Banging mallets dwindled and died, and the doused coals smoked under the steam-boxes. Sundown painted a pastel sky when Arithon flagged a lighterman to row him ashore.

Now red-haired and brown-eyed, he looked comfortably plump in the stuffed cloth of Dakar's spare tunic. He carried his lyranthe for care-free entertainment, to be back, he assured, before daybreak.

As good as his word, he amused the off-duty watchmen, and the packs of dice-throwing sailhands crowding the water-front taverns. He ate dinner, listening to idle talk, then tuned up and composed a bright satire. Swept off with a rowdy smith and a chandler, he went to taste the free wine doled out by the sunwheel recruiters. For an hour, he sat on a bench with laced hands in the shadowy dusk of the tent. Since he never moved, no one blamed him for the fact that, thereafter, every cask the priest broached appeared to have soured to vinegar. He took polite leave of his casual acquaintances and returned to the dives along Harbor Street.

There, the snake venom sellers were just hitting stride. A juggler with torches was swallowing fire. Skin flasks of rum could be bought for a copper, and a cocker was setting his boards in the street, contenders and bettors crowding his crates to size up the hackled combatants. The bard skirted the crowd, whistling, and chose a snug berth between wine-shops, where he played ditties for coin and sweet serenades for the young lovers. Dakar saw him, still there, when he reached shore at midnight, parched for a drink at the Fishnet. When the Mad Prophet emerged from the tavern, replete, the bard was down by the
water-front sheds, cracking jokes with the sunwheel guardsmen. Two of the customs office watchmen were with them, bent over in howling stitches.

Dakar parked against the sign-post of a trinket shop and wheedled for favours from three painted doxies. Their simpering drew whistles from a muscular galley-man, who flashed coin, and left the deserted spellbinder brooding. The sunwheel guards on the dock poked fun at his stiff state of misery as they moved off to pick up their beat. The carrot head bard was nowhere in evidence when the three of them paused by the customs' shack, and unaccountably, snoozed at their posts.

Only Dakar noticed the
iyats
steal in. He watched through slit eyes as they pried all the bungs from the wine tuns stacked under their cover of tarps on the wharf. The excisemen's seals gleamed under the rise of the moon, undisturbed by a pilfering hand as twenty-eight barrels of Orvandir's best spirits gurgled until they were emptied. Their contents trickled through the cracked boards and into the black slosh of the tide with no official at Southshire the wiser.

Crimson dawn saw the pinnace away. The change of the tide brought the inbound brig, complete with her forged bills of lading. Just past the morning change of the guard, the drained barrels on the wharf were replaced by a paid crew of sweating longshoremen. They onloaded the dry barrels, then unladed the brig with their equal number of filled replacements.

The wagoner who served the recruiting tents arrived later. He collected his load and delivered his haulage for pay, all unaware he had replenished last night's soured stores with twenty-eight tuns of rank fish bait.

By then, bard and prophet were well gone, sails spread to catch the spanking breeze that chivvied them on towards Shaddorn. They made port in two days, left the pinnace sedately tied, and sought a performer's lodging in one of the tile-roofed, dock-side taverns.

The landlord wiped wet hands on his apron and surveyed the odd pair on his door-step, lukewarm. ‘A free singer, eh? You'll pay for your bed. If the company appreciates your balladry, they'll leave a coin or two in your cap. If they don't, you'll not hear your own notes for the noise. If you want yesterday's bread and the fish-stew on the hob, you'll have dinner at the sailhands' cost of two pence.'

‘That's fair,' said the minstrel, his blithe nature unruffled. Now sporting a tangle of pallid blond hair, he entered the salt-musty common-room, while the stout companion who tagged at his heels grumbled that the inns on the Tip were unfit for the manners of stable flies. ‘It's pinching indecent not to give a free singer bed and board, never mind an allotment of beer.'

The minstrel took a room. Notwithstanding, he paid, and slept undisturbed until dusk. Returned to the tap-room, clad in garish motley, he straddled a bench and tuned up his lyranthe. The tables were bustling when the fast courier rode in, bearing word of the riots at Southshire.

‘Fair tore those sunwheel tents into shreds, will you know! The fracas started when the priests ran out of wine and tried to serve up the Light's supplicants with rotten mullet.' Paused for a drink, the parched messenger slapped settled dust from his leathers and broke into braying laughter. ‘When the daisies in their sunwheels accosted the stevedores for restitution, let me tell you, the fisticuffs started in earnest. They say you'll know the Light's minions by their black eyes, and the longshoremen's guild, by the over-ripe stink o' thrown fish!'

To no one's surprise, the resident bard composed a satire in commemoration. The packed crowd stamped and clapped, begging for the same ballad again, and crying themselves prostrate with mirth.

The delighted landlord refunded the minstrel's lodging and generously forgave the stout companion for his mean-spirited comments. ‘Stay the week,' the inn's red-cheeked matron entreated. ‘A month, even.'

The fair-haired bard smiled, and firmly declined. ‘I'm bound north, for Etarra.' Since his performance had captured the bystanders' interest, his explanation cut through conversation. ‘Folk say that the troops who are billeted there have so many gold buttons they're wont to stake their spare clothing at cards.'

A startled guffaw cracked the ambient quiet.

The minstrel winked, snapped a rollicking arpeggio, and gushed on, ‘And I've heard! The white avatar who pays them to die cannot sleep without candles alight at his bedside. If that's the truth, then he's no god at all. Any wretch who hates darkness needs no divine Light! Give me a sweet lay and a halfpenny wick for my prayer to bring in a safe morning!'

The Southshire courier roared with delight. Half of the inn's replete patrons joined in. Badgered by threats of shadow and war, and pinched by taxes to fund sunwheel troops, they met the free singer's bold, shafting comments with stamping appreciation. Before their mood shifted, he flipped back pale hair and launched into a medley of reels. Each break between tunes, he added a new verse to the infamous saga that described the demise of the righteous to barrels of fish bait at Southshire.

Midnight drew nigh. The tap-room was crammed beyond bursting. The pot-washer ran to a neighboring tavern to roll in a fresh hogshead of beer. The landlord scarcely had cause to complain that the price asked for the brew was extortionate. Both of his cash chests were jammed at the hinges. The customers who were too tipsy to stand overflowed and fell down in the street. The door banged, admitting a stream of new-comers, drawn in to hear the uproarious comedy. Their shouted choruses threatened to raise the wooden pegs from the floor-boards.

The raucous celebration ran unabated until the last keg in Shaddorn was sucked dry.

‘Man, we've not had a night to match this!' the landlord enthused.

He surveyed his tap-room and addressed the need for fresh sawdust to sweeten the privy. The teeming moil of bodies thinned, finally, until only the
prostrate remained, draped over trestles and benches. Others lay snoring in heaps like dropped rags, under the guttering prickets.

Grey dawn seeped through the seaside casements when the bard finally laid down his instrument. A shuffling barmaid brought him juice and a sweet-cake, then sat down to ease her sore feet.

‘You scarcely seem tired,' she observed, peering sidelong and smiling with invitation.

‘Oh, I'll sleep,' the singer assured her, ‘and alone, once the fiends in your hops quit their hammering on the tender insides of my noggin.'

Slumped over the trestle nearby, the fat tinker opened one eye. ‘Swilled the lion's share, did you? A sore head's your just penance. Unless you wish to engage a rough passage round the Scimlade on some fisherman's reeking lugger, we've a hot, weary tramp through the hills. Or have you in fact decided to stay and try your luck reaping the whirlwind?'

‘Our playbill's too volatile?' the minstrel quipped back. ‘You don't think the free singer's code will stay the wrath of the priesthood we've slandered at Southshire?' He laughed, his sly features veiled in the gloom as the innkeeper's wife snuffed the tallow-dips. ‘By all means, then, the safe route is by sea. If I opt for the lugger, you'll knife me instead?'

Whatever the tinker meant to reply, the inn door slammed open. Stabbing daylight speared in, chased by a young woman's vituperative scolding.

‘Husband's in his cups and didn't come home.' The barmaid shoved erect with a sigh, scanned the heaped floor-boards, and pointed. ‘That's him, there, madam. He won't hear a word. You might spare us some peace, and pipe down.'

The skirted silhouette left the doorway. Not in concern for her errant wastrel, but vengeance bent for the bard eating breakfast at the inn's table. ‘You!' Her contemptuous glance raked him, from his tousled blond curls to his unlaced shirt front, and his dishevelled jacket of motley. ‘You are a breed of dog that rends families. What have I to show for your night's ill work? At home, I have six children to feed, and here's a week's silver drunk down by my man in another night's foolish bingeing!'