‘Good!’ Jacinth affirmed from the rear.

  Gwynn rubbed his head as he half staggered. ‘We just have to, ah, recover.’

  Blues nodded his hearty agreement then wished he hadn’t. Just moving his head induced jabbing needle stabs in his brain.

  * * *

  ‘Pirates!’ the ragged youths shouted. ‘Pirates!’

  At the path leading down to the shore, Imanaj eyed the pack of youths with affection. Well did he remember similar street games of his childhood, save that the enemies were always invading soldiers from another of the Seven Holies.

  They jumped about him and waved their driftwood swords. ‘Pirates?’ he said, wonderingly. ‘I am a stranger, I admit. But I understand that Falar prides itself upon the absence of pirates.’

  A tall boy, sand-covered, in a torn tunic, peered up at him. ‘Real pirates,’ he said, breathlessly. ‘People from Belid’s seen ’em ’n everything!’

  Imanaj tilted his head. ‘You’ve heard this? How?’

  ‘’Cause they’re here! People fled the pirates. They landed on the east shore.’

  ‘People? With boats?’

  A girl chimed in: ‘Fishin’ boats, rowboats … whatever they could flee with. Them pirates burned all the galleys – strange, hey? Who would do that?’

  ‘Leaving them with the only battle-ready boats?’ Imanaj mused aloud. ‘I’d call that a distinct tactical and strategic advantage.’

  The children gaped at him. ‘Foreigners are weird,’ the girl solemnly announced, then they all ran off in a pack, yelling and screaming.

  Imanaj carried on down the track. He came to a group of locals, mostly fishermen and women, all clustered close together in heated conversation. ‘What is this news I hear of pirates?’ he asked.

  All jumped as if scalded, then hunched, embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ one fisherwoman said. ‘We’re a bit on the hook – you could say.’

  ‘Understandably,’ Imanaj offered. He added, ‘Just who are they, do you think?’

  ‘Probably those damned Seven Cities scum,’ one fisherman growled.

  All eyes turned to him, then to Imanaj. The fellow paled, mouth working – rather like a gaffed fish, Imanaj thought. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘you’re from Aren, yes?’

  Imanaj nodded.

  ‘Then some uncivilized Seven Cities scum from Ehrlitan … or Ubaryd … obviously.’

  ‘Of course,’ Imanaj soothed.

  All the fisherfolk nodded, letting out held breaths. Imanaj gave a bob of the head in farewell and continued on.

  At the shore he headed round the narrowing edge of the strand to where his boat lay on its side, its ribs exposed where repairs remained ongoing. Imanaj was no nautical man, but the vessel lay there rather like a large, dead sea-beast. Hands on hips, he stood for a time searching for the shipwright. Then loud and wet snoring led him round the vessel to the shade where the fellow lay propped up against a pile of timber, an earthenware jug hugged to his chest.

  Imanaj leaned forward and slowly, very gently, eased the jug from the fellow’s grip. He took a delicate sniff of the open spout then pulled his face away, grimacing. He set it aside and returned his attention to the shipwright. He kicked the fellow’s foot; tapped it again.

  The shipwright snorted and smacked his lips. His hands searched for something at his chest, patting and feeling about. Rather like two blind questing crabs? Imanaj thought to himself.

  The eyes, deep in their wells of fat, opened, only to narrow quickly, pained. The fellow shaded his face, peered round, raised puzzled eyes to Imanaj. ‘Yes?’ he croaked.

  ‘How is the work proceeding?’ Imanaj asked, as mildly as he could.

  The shipwright slipped a hand under his soiled shirt to scratch his wide belly. He smacked his lips. ‘Fine. Just fine. Making good progress.’

  ‘I see. Excellent. And this wood here. Timbers for the hull and such, I assume?’

  ‘Un-huh.’

  ‘Again,’ Imanaj said, ‘I am no builder of boats – but I notice the wood is not in fact on the boat.’

  The man’s eyes had found the jug and he was staring at it where it sat just out of reach in the sand, and licking his lips.

  ‘Good craftsperson? Shipwright?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘The timbers?’

  The fellow roused himself. He strained to rise, failed, fell back. ‘Hunh? The timbers? Ah! Each has to be sized and shaped, y’know. Individually.’ He raised a hand that shook; he quickly tucked it down to his side. ‘Delicate exacting work that.’

  ‘I see. Then I should leave you to it I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll get right on it,’ the fellow assured him.

  ‘Good.’ Imanaj turned and walked off a few steps then stopped to turn back. The shipwright had dragged himself to the jug and now froze, one hand on it, his eyes wide on Imanaj. ‘A thought, sir. Perhaps you’d best hurry with your work … what with the pirates and all.’

  The fellow peered round – as if the aforementioned criminals were sneaking up on them now, intent upon stealing his jug – then he snorted a laugh. The laugh grew to belly-shaking jollity. He slapped his side repeatedly. ‘Pirates!’ he guffawed, shaking his head. ‘Everyone knows there ain’t no pirates in Falar!’ He waved Imanaj onwards. ‘Foreigners,’ he chortled to himself, ‘don’t know nothing.’

  Imanaj felt his lips pursing, his jaws tightening ever so slightly, but he dipped his head in farewell instead and made his way back to the inn.

  That evening, after a meal of boiled crab and scallops, he ordered a glass of what passed as the local wine and returned to studying the view over the bay in the sunset, as was his habit. He watched for a time only to frown and turn in his chair to where a group of what could only be described as island elders was standing, behind him. He returned to the view. ‘Yes?’

  The five crowded round to the opposite side of his small table. One, the most bearded of the lot, pulled over a chair and sat.

  ‘May I help you?’ Imanaj asked.

  ‘We hope so,’ this elder answered – though, elder may be too broad a category, Imanaj reflected, as being a young man he tended to regard anyone older than himself as an elder.

  ‘You are the island priest, are you not?’

  The man inclined his head. ‘Rendren. Priest of Mael.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘We were wondering, good sir. If we could hire you.’

  ‘Hire me? Whatever for?’

  Rendren raised a helpless gaze to his companions; they glared at him to continue. He cleared his throat. ‘Well … you are a fighter, sir. Are you not?’

  ‘I was. Now I am a sailor. A traveller.’

  ‘A traveller? Really? Well, sir … if I may … you have not done much travelling of late. You’ve been on our isle for near a month.’

  ‘I’m waiting for my boat to be repaired.’

  Three of the four fisherpersons snorted and raised hands to cover smirks. The priest peered back at them and frowned his disapproval. ‘I see, sir. If I may, then. It would seem you are of two minds over your travelling.’

  Imanaj shifted his gaze from the darkening horizon to the priest. He saw there very keen and penetrating eyes and he realized he’d made a beginner’s mistake – he’d underestimated the person opposite. Luckily, he wasn’t on the duelling sands, else it might have spelled a very deep cut indeed. He waved away the other four folk. ‘Your friends can leave us.’

  Rendren nodded his agreement and urged them off. They went, grumbling and shuffling.

  ‘A glass for my guest,’ Imanaj called to the host.

  ‘I really shouldn’t,’ Rendren protested – weakly.

  The glass arrived and Imanaj poured him a drink of the local red. The priest took a sip and shuddered. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have,’ he said.

  ‘So, I am of two minds regarding my travel?’ Imanaj prompted.

  Rendren nodded again, cleared his throat. ‘I have been watching you. You have what some might call a sensitive spirit. One may even say the spirit of an artist.’ Imanaj half-smiled at that. Indeed, in Aren he was considered an artist. An artist of the sword. ‘Therefore,’ the priest continued, ‘you say you wish to journey to see the wide world, but at the same time you worry that perhaps you shouldn’t depart. Being content to remain here is your resolution to this conflict.’

  Imanaj tilted his head, considering. He returned his gaze to the purpling night. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps this is so …’

  Rendren leaned forward, cleared his throat once more. ‘And since you are here … perhaps you could help defend us?’

  Now Imanaj frowned, his contemplative mood ruined. ‘No.’

  ‘No? Just like that? We are fisherfolk here. How can we defend ourselves against these pirates?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Don’t? Please explain yourself.’

  Imanaj shrugged. ‘Do not fight them. Let them land, search about, take what they will, and go.’

  Rendren shook his head wonderingly. ‘Just like that? Let them do what they will? How can you – a fighting man – advocate such a philosophy?’

  Imanaj shrugged again. ‘I am no longer a fighting man. I have forsaken violence. It is … only destructive. It is no way of life.’

  Rendren nodded his agreement. ‘I understand that. And I approve. However, what if these pirates have come to kill? What then?’

  ‘A good point. What to do in the face of violence? Moot, however, I believe. Pirates are just thieves – thieves with boats. They are rarely killers. No profit in it.’

  Rendren sat back frowning his disappointment. ‘Then what would you suggest we do?’

  Imanaj sipped his wine. ‘I suggest you do not provoke them.’

  The priest pushed himself from the table. ‘The islanders will not like to hear that.’

  ‘It is a pragmatic and practical solution. And these folk strike me as a pragmatic and practical people.’ Imanaj nodded farewell to him. ‘It has been good speaking with you, priest. Perhaps we can talk again.’

  The fellow eyed the night-dark waters of the bay, his expression worried. ‘I hope we shall never have the need.’

  * * *

  Abbess Glinith had always cared nothing for these council meets. They had never been anything more than a pantomime act. And now that Mallick had control of every seat – excluding the Celebrant, of course, as he was oblivious to all manoeuvrings – the theatre of it had, in her eyes, turned to ridiculous parody.

  They sat in silence, she, Nuraj and Mallick, awaiting the arrival of the Celebrant. There was really nothing for them to say; they would merely listen to Mallick.

  The door opened and the Celebrant’s aides helped the frail old man into the chamber and to his seat. He peered round with his red rheumy eyes, his gaze going to Ortheal’s seat, but, finding the squat toad-like shape of Mallick there, he blinked, perhaps confused, and lowered his gaze.

  ‘Brother Ortheal will be missed,’ Mallick began, in a conciliatory note.

  The Celebrant nodded ponderously and slowly. ‘He will indeed! To be shorn of his wisdom in this, such a perilous time, is a great tragedy. If anything, the man was too dedicated to his calling.’

  Mallick was tapping his thumbs together on his stomach, eyes downcast. ‘Quite,’ he murmured. ‘Now, on to the pressing business of these pirates.’

  ‘Pirates!’ the Celebrant snorted. ‘To think of that! In this day and age.’ He shook his head and Glinith had to admit that the man’s great mane of white hair lent the gesture much gravity. ‘Some Seven Cities natives getting ahold of a few boats and managing to figure out how they work, no doubt.’

  ‘I believe the matter far more grave than that,’ Mallick offered.

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘Reports from my – that is, the Faith’s – network of agents suggest these raiders represent far more of a threat.’

  The Celebrant’s thick white brows clenched together as he eyed Mallick. ‘Well? Out with it, man. You know I have little time for such games.’

  ‘These pirates are not behaving as pirates, or raiders,’ Nuraj Senull, Guardian of the Faith, put in. ‘They’re behaving like invaders.’

  ‘Invaders! Invade us? That’s absurd! Impossible. These islands are ours!’

  ‘They were someone else’s once,’ Mallick murmured, eyes downcast.

  The Celebrant waved impatiently. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Send out the fleet! Crush them!’

  Nuraj opened his mouth to answer, but Mallick interjected, ‘Of course, Celebrant. Our next order of business.’

  Rentil nodded again, rising. ‘Very good.’ He waved a blessing over them. ‘I leave you to it, then. Sweep them from our seas!’

  ‘It shall be done,’ Mallick murmured.

  The Celebrant’s aides helped the old man from the chamber and the door closed behind them. Nuraj turned a sceptical eye on Mallick. ‘And just how is this to be done?’ he asked, brow arched.

  ‘One way or another,’ Mallick answered, his murmur now more of a clenched-lip hiss.

  Glinith started at that comment, eyeing the rotund fellow much more sharply. Mallick raised his gaze and met hers – she looked away from his dead flat eyes.

  ‘Plans are afoot to retake the High Priestess, Abbess. I trust that once we have her under our control once again there will be no repeat of her previous escapes, yes?’ Glinith nodded fiercely and Mallick leaned back, his eyes sliding away. ‘Good. Because should she slip from your grasp once more I will have to test the edge of the Blade of Offering on your neck. Am I clear?’

  Glinith swallowed hard, nodding again. She’d made the right choice in following this creature, but now she knew she must sail lashed to him – all the way to Mael’s Deep, if need be.

  * * *

  They kept the Glimmer in place as a platform for their salvage operations through sea-anchors and lines tied to nearby rocks. There was plenty to eat: all the shellfish, octopus and squid one could want. Fuel for cooking and fresh water were the shortages. When necessary, Brevin sent two crew members out in the Glimmer’s tiny rowboat to head to the isle of Lurk for firewood and to collect water from streams.

  Most of the youths were eager to dive, but Gianna only allowed the older, more experienced boys and girls down. Yet to date they had little to show for all their efforts. A few plates and cups, corroded iron and bronze fittings. No great chest brimming with coins as in legends and stories; which didn’t surprise Gianna as she knew those particular items could only be found in such fanciful tales.

  What she hoped to accomplish was to find the debris field – the direction and terrain the wreckage had spilled over as it was tossed about by the currents on its way to finally settling amid the silt and sand. Then she could focus their efforts.

  Nearly two weeks passed in this fashion. Ships went by, but always far off; everyone avoided the dangers of the Cut. It was a surprise then when a shout went up from the watch of a vessel approaching.

  Gianna had just come up from a recent dive and was drying in the sun. She went to captain Brevin’s side where she stood watching, her eyes shaded. ‘A galley,’ Brevin said. ‘Sails luffed. In the grip of the currents.’ She shouted up to the lookout: ‘Any sign of crew?’

  ‘None,’ came the answer.

  ‘She came unmoored, maybe?’ Gianna asked.

  ‘Unlikely,’ Brevin growled. ‘Boats are not something you just lose.’

  ‘Derelict?’

  ‘Unlikely as well. Looks like she’ll be passing our bows.’

  ‘Will you try to salvage it?’

  The captain shook her head. ‘We have our hands full just staying in place. She’s on her way out to sea, Land’s End Ocean.’

  ‘A shame.’

  ‘Is there nothing you could do …?’ Brevin asked her.

  Gianna knew she meant with her Ruse Warren. ‘It’s possible,’ she allowed. ‘But it would take an awful effort to drag that in.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘I wonder—’ Gianna never finished her comment as at that instant an arm closed about her neck and a dagger point pricked her throat.

  ‘Do not move!’ a voice hissed in her ear. ‘No tricks from you, mage of Ruse.’

  Gianna peered about the deck: men and women in the blue robes of Mael now held curved blades to the necks of Brevin and several of the youths. To port, the derelict vessel shimmered, blurring, to reveal a crewed galley, under rudder, and well oared.

  ‘Ruse is not the only Warren practised in Falar,’ the one holding her laughed in her ear.

  ‘Damned Mockra filth,’ she snarled.

  Another low laugh. ‘Try anything and these little ones will pay the price … understood?’

  Gianna gave a fierce, stiff nod. ‘Understood.’

  ‘Good.’ The fellow released her, but kept the knife point pressed to her back. ‘Now we go.’ A gesture and whipping winds rose about Gianna.

  ‘Wait!’ she called, but to no effect as the winds lifted her from her feet. Her surroundings blurred. The air moved so violently about her that her breath seemed pulled from her lungs. Her vision darkened. Serc! Didn’t they realize she wasn’t used to this?

  Then a thumping landing on wood where she lay dazed. The winds relented and she fought for breath. ‘Tie her in chains and weights,’ she heard the fellow order and her hands were taken and manacled at her front. The iron manacles were yanked to pull her to her feet.

  She now stood on the deck of the other vessel, as did six of the youths.

  ‘Full sail!’ the fellow who’d grabbed her ordered. ‘Deese, work the sails.’

  A heavy-set woman in the blue of Mael grunted her answer. Gianna turned to the fellow to see that he was actually quite short and strikingly skinny. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Faith Militant?’

  Mocking laughter from the men and women. Sailors were now locking similar manacles and weights to the youths. Gianna realized that if she tried messing with the boat she and they would likely drown – as was the intent. ‘Bounty hunters?’ she offered. More laughter. The sails boomed and Gianna was nearly pulled from her feet as the bows dug into the water. The woman, then, was the mage of Serc and she was now using that Warren to hurry them on their way – their return trip to Cabil, no doubt. ‘Who are you then?’

 

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