Authors: Benjamin Tate

Well of Sorrows (46 page)

BOOK: Well of Sorrows

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Colin was about to ask what was wrong when a new ship broke away from the docks, heading toward the Alvritshai’s courier. Even Colin could tell it wasn’t a trader. It was built for speed.

Aeren issued orders tersely, and the crew rushed to raise a set of flags.

“What is it?” Colin asked.

Aeren shook his head, his eyes on the approaching ship.

As soon as they were within hailing distance, someone on the ship bellowed, “You can’t dock in Corsair!”

Eraeth moved up to the railing, hand waving toward the flags that now snapped above. “We’ve come to speak with King Stephan. There are Lords of the Evant on board.”

“I don’t care if the fucking Tamaell is on board,” the man shouted over the water. “You can’t bring that ship into the docks! Drop anchor in the harbor and wait. If you attempt to leave, you will be boarded!”

Eraeth growled, but another ship had joined the first. Farther out, Colin spotted two more covering the mouth of the inlet, on patrol. They’d skimmed through the inlet so fast he hadn’t seen them, too intent on catching sight of the city beyond.

Aeren ordered, “Do it,” in Alvritshai—words Colin actually understood—and Eraeth grunted, then motioned toward the captain of the courier. The ship began to slow, the nervousness on deck doubling as the anchor dropped.

As soon as the ship had settled into place, a boat dropped from the edge of the patrol ship, and six of the Corsair’s crew climbed on board. They rowed toward the Alvritshai ship, members of the Alvritshai crew tossing down a rope ladder so they could climb aboard. All the men were part of the Legion, dressed in light armor, armed with swords. The Alvritshai Phalanx had withdrawn from the end of the rope ladder, leaving the crew to hold it steady as the humans climbed up.

The Legion clustered in a tight knot. Then the same man who’d ordered them to anchor stepped forward with a deep- seated frown. “Who’s in charge of this vessel?”

Colin expected Eraeth to step forward, as he had to answer the hail, but Aeren did.

“I am Aeren Goadri Rhyssal, Lord of House Rhyssal of the Alvritshai Evant.”

The Legionnaire hesitated a moment, eyes narrowing at Aeren, then gathered himself. “You dare to enter Corsair’s harbor and attempt to dock without waiting for an escort?”

Colin saw Eraeth tense, saw Aeren stiffen as well.

“I did not realize that an escort was required at Corsair. We’ve come from Portstown. The last I heard, Alvritshai ships flying the trade colors were welcome in the ports of the Provinces.”

“Not anymore,” the Legionnaire huffed, “by order of the King. ‘All foreign vessels entering the Port of Corsair must be accompanied by an escorting Provincial vessel until it is determined that such vessel is not a threat to the port or city, at which point it will be allowed to dock.’ ”

“When was this new policy put into effect?”

“Three days ago. Now, what is your business here in Corsair?”

“I am here to speak to the King.”

“About what?”

“Matters of state.”

“Ahuh.” The Legionnaire looked over Aeren, Eraeth, and the rest, his gaze pausing briefly on Colin. He frowned. “And who are you?”

Eraeth muttered something in furious indignation, and Aeren’s shoulders stiffened. “That,” he said, “is my adviser from Portstown.”

The man grunted. “We’ll need to search the vessel.”

Murmurs passed through the Phalanx and the crew, the ship’s captain stepping forward to Aeren’s side, but the lord held up his hand. The grumbling settled, although it did not dissipate.

“I do not believe that you have that right,” Aeren said, his voice tight, and the Legionnaire shifted awkwardly. “But very well. You should know that Barak Oriall Nuant, Lord of House Nuant, was wounded while in Portstown and is currently recovering in the captain’s cabin. As long as you do not disturb him unduly, the ship is yours.”

The Legionnaire nodded, then motioned to the rest of his men. Four of them broke away, descending into the hold, while the fifth remained on deck with the commander. The two groups—Alvritshai and human—eyed each other warily, until the four men returned.

They conferred quietly with their commander, then stepped back.

Straightening, the commander said, “Everything appears to be in order. You may dock, and a small group will be allowed up to the palace. Everyone else must remain on the ship. Follow us to your berth.”

“An Alvritshai representative should already be waiting to meet us at the docks, a member of my House.”

The commander nodded. “Very well. Welcome to Corsair.”

He turned and his group descended to the waiting boat. As they rowed back to their own ship, Aeren motioned for the captain to weigh anchor and prepare to dock.

Lines were tossed from the pier, and the two patrol ships broke away as they slid into their berth. Dockhands tied them down and a plank was dropped, Aeren moving down it to join another Alvritshai and a small escort of Phalanx in Aeren’s Rhyssal House colors waiting below. Eraeth nudged Colin to follow, Aeren’s chosen escort from the ship closing in around them. Two carriages were waiting at the far end of the pier, along with a group of the Legion.

Aeren and the Alvritshai Colin didn’t recognize were deep in conversation by the time they arrived. As soon as they paused, Eraeth broke in with a sharp question.

Aeren glanced around the harbor, watching the ships as they wove in and out among each other. From this distance, Colin could see a distinct difference between the Alvritshai ship and those from Corsair. It sat deeper in the water, its lines sleeker and more subtle, appearing elongated next to Corsair’s ships, which were rough and practical, built for a single purpose and nothing more. Aeren’s courier was more refined.

Colin’s attention shifted to the town. Larger than Portstown—larger even than Colin’s memories of Trent back in Andover—Corsair stretched out across both sides of the inlet. Warehouses, taverns, and shops crowded the docks on the northern side, a haphazard mass of roads, alleys, and buildings that sloped upward from the water to the ridge of land stretching across the horizon, leading out to the promontory where the palace and Needle stood. Like Portstown, the buildings were mostly wooden, although nearly all of the churches and what Colin assumed were mercantiles were stone. The architecture was again utilitarian, plain and simple, unlike the varied and more artistic structures he remembered from Trent. The distinction between the rebellious Provinces and their original homeland in Andover was clear. The streets were thronged with people, horses, carts, and wagons, the greatest activity on the docks, the raucous sounds and smells of the wharf reminding him of Trent. The city had spilled over to the southern part of the inlet as well, the buildings newer and only trailing halfway up the rocky shore.

Turning back, Colin heard Aeren say in Andovan, “Tell them, Dharel.”

Dharel sent Aeren a questioning look, looking askance at Colin. He began to speak in Alvritshai, but Aeren cut him off, saying, “Consider him Rhyssal-aein.”

Colin frowned as he felt a sudden shift in all of the Alvritshai present, Eraeth included. Before, on the ship and the dock, they’d treated him as if he were an extra set of baggage, including the guards. Now, he could feel their attention on him. The Phalanx had become
aware
of him, not as something to be stepped over or around but as a physical presence.

Dharel frowned but drew himself upright. “Ten days ago, a group of ships from Andover arrived, four ships in all, only three of them traders. The fourth carried representatives from the Andovan Court. Four days after they arrived, during a meeting with the King, Stephan had them all escorted out of the audience chambers by the Legion. They were confined to their rooms within the Needle under constant watch after that. Word reached the Andovan ships docked at the wharf the next day, and a riot broke out in the shipyards that night, begun by a confrontation between members of the Legion and the Andovan Armory in one of the taverns. Tensions escalated. The Armory warned all the Andovan citizens in the port to be ready to leave the city on short notice. Another riot broke out on the docks as everyone from across the Arduon Ocean tried to find passage on any available ship headed in that direction. The Armory blockaded the docks where the traders were berthed, and the Legion was called in to quell the riot. Somehow, in the confusion, fighting broke out between the Armory and Legion. Thirty people were killed, and each side is blaming the other.”

“I don’t see any ships flying Andovan colors in the harbor,” Eraeth said.

Dharel nodded grimly. “After the second riot, the King went to speak to the Andovan representatives, but he came out of their chambers in a rage and ordered the Legion to escort them down to their ships. He then gave anyone from Andover one day to find passage back to Andover or face arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“Spying. Most of the Andovan ships at port—including the envoy from the Court—left at the next tide, holds packed with passengers. The next day, King Stephan had any remaining Andovan ships at the docks boarded, the crews arrested, and everything in their holds confiscated.” Dharel hesitated, then added, “All the captains of the ships were hung, their ships taken into the middle of the inlet and burned.”

A few of the Alvritshai nodded in respect. Colin remembered Eraeth’s demand that they kill the men he’d caught in the street and the obvious Alvritshai disdain for the human concept of a judge. He didn’t know what all of the factors at play here were, but he shuddered at the image of the gallows that appeared in his head, complete with the gut-wrenching stench of piss and shit.

“What did the Andovans say to the King?” Aeren asked. “What set off all of this . . . rage?”

Dharel grimaced. “They want the Provinces back. They want to reclaim the land they lost while they were fighting their Feud for the last sixty years. The representatives on the ships were here to demand that the King hand those lands back to the Court. Immediately.”

Aeren didn’t move. His expression remained flat and unreadable.

Eraeth frowned. “What does this mean?”

Aeren paced slowly away from them, then turned back, a troubled look flickering through his eyes, there and then gone. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it means for what I intend, and I don’t know what it means for the Alvritshai. I have never been able to predict the human Kings, even after nearly sixty years of careful study.”

He turned to Colin. “What do you think it means? What do you think the King will do?”

Colin almost snorted, then thought about Portstown and Lean-to, about the tensions that existed even then between Andover and the group of conscripts, criminals, and guildsmen that would become the Provinces. “He’ll fight them to keep the coast. And the Legion will back him up. I think the entire coast will back him.”

Eraeth swore in Alvritshai under his breath. “It seems this coast is made for war,” he said to Aeren.

“The plains as well,” the lord answered.

Colin shifted. “What are you here for? Why did you come to Corsair?”

Eraeth stiffened, glaring at him, but Aeren moved back toward the group. “For the last sixty years, there has been nothing but conflict on the plains between the Alvritshai, the dwarren, and the Provinces. That conflict escalated until the confrontation at the Escarpment. It should have ended there. A pact had been made to end it. But a . . . mistake was made, a flawed decision, one that led to a misunderstanding, and the pact was broken. The conflict remained. It has simmered for the past thirty years. Thirty years of stifled trade, of petty bickering and skirmishes across all borders. Thousands have died because of it, including my family—my father, followed by my elder brother. I am the last of my House. Aureon, my brother, died at the battle at the Escarpment. I held his body in my arms. His blood stained my skin for days afterward.” Eraeth’s jaw clenched as his lord spoke, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword, and the surrounding guards stirred.

Aeren looked up into Colin’s eyes, and he saw the Alvritshai’s pain there.“I want this conflict to end. I want to finally be able to wash my brother’s blood clean from my hands.”

Silence stretched, until the tension in Aeren’s shoulders finally eased. “It has to stop. The plains have drunk too much blood. It needs to end.”

Colin almost asked how it could end, after going on for so long, but Aeren turned toward Dharel. “Take us to the palace.”