Ship without sails, p.52
Ship Without Sails, page 52
part #1 of The Norsunder War Series
“It’s fish. For my cats,” Mel shrieked. “Do you know how much twenty-seven cats eat? I’ll tell you how much they eat—”
As she went on blabbering about cats and fish, she and Nee held out the papers that Vidanric had given them weeks ago.
The Adranis made a motion toward the straw-covered hay, and Mel broke off her tirade, shouting, “Don’t spill my chum! Do you know how long it took to collect it? They actually charge for it, those dockside robbers! You’d think they’d thank me to—”
In front, Sidres, trembling, bent forward, head hanging. He could see nothing, but most of his attention was on Sharly, whose mind was slowly sinking deeper and deeper.
Nee shrilled, “If you didn’t argue so much, they would give it to you for free, but ohhhhhh no, you had to pick, pick, pick, just like your mother—”
The Adrani with the sword poked at the edges of the straw, and encountered one of the buckets, which sloshed with a glutinously disgusting sound, freshening the smell.
The woman with the sword gagged. The man next to her choked. They turned strained faces toward their leader, as Mel and Nee began to squabble about whose blanket was warmer.
A gloved hand dropped the papers in Nee’s lap and waved them on, the other hand pinching the leader’s nose.
They kept up the arguing until they were sure that the Adrani patrol was out of sight, and then Nee heaved a trembling sigh. “It’s hard to think of things to argue about when you don’t actually want to argue.”
Mel kept to herself how very easy it was for her to argue, and called encouragement to Sidres, adding, “That should be all of them.”
The sun had vanished by the time they reached Carad-on-Whitewater. Though they were very nearly under the view of the old military fortress Vesingrui, which the Adranis had taken over, Meliara directed Sidres, who was very tired by now, through narrow winding streets in the town until they reached one of Vidanric’s secret outposts.
From here, things progressed far more rapidly, once their contacts understood the emergency. With faces full of wonder—for no one had ever seen a centaur, much less two—Sharly was carried by numerous gentle, willing hands to a snow sled, and four fast horses were hooked up to haul it up into the mountains.
It was very late when at last Meliara knew by the sense of expansion in her heart, and by a quality to the air that she could not name, that the forest had given way to the Colorwoods. Somewhere the Hill Folk were nearby.
“Stop here,” she said.
No one questioned.
The horses were unhitched, and Sidres and all the humans except Meliara withdrew respectfully. Mel now had to try to get the Hill Folk’s attention. She raised her tired voice to explain her mission—but she didn’t get far when a rustling, whispering sound soughed around her.
Sidres’s drooping head jerked up, and he gave a sob, but it was not one of grief or terror. He looked around, his expression impossible for Mel to discern in the wintry darkness. But she felt his bewilderment, and wonder.
Then he was at her side. “We have to get her into the pool,” he said in Sartoran. “They say, quick.”
Meliara did not question how he knew. Things were always odd with the Hill Folk. She winced. Getting into water in winter was a serious proposition. But she couldn’t let the mama centaur die.
Her belly tightened, as if in resistance, as she and Sidres moved to Sharly’s side. Sidres coaxed Sharly to rise. She tried he best to stand, her legs trembling so much that Mel’s heart squeezed, and she forgot her own worries. She slid her shoulder under Sharly’s good shoulder, and Sidres bent to support Sharly’s front legs as they guided her the few steps to a pool that Meliara hadn’t even known was there.
The three stepped into it, and found the water warm. The strangest sensation shimmered over Mel through her wet clothes, as if a thousand hummingbirds winged over her skin. Then all the aches in her joints, especially her hips after that long ride, eased as they stepped deeper. Sharly let out a long breath, and another, leaning her head back so that her hair floated in the water, her face upturned toward the stars.
Mel stood silently, waiting for she knew not what. She became aware of the babe within her kicking and turning about, as if swimming in its own pond.
Sidres said, “They say she shall be blessed.”
Mel looked over, startled. “Blessed”—what did that mean in non-human terms? When humans blessed a person or place, they called upon family, friends, and any listening spirits of the place to unite in protection and to dwell in harmony. But what did that mean here?
Also, she? Sharly?
Afterward, she could never say for certain how long she stood in that pond at the end of a very strange day. Only that at last the three of them emerged from the pond, and here was the cold again, making her shiver in her sodden clothes.
Sharly turned to her. “I must go to recover,” she said. “I thank you for your aid.”
“You’re part of those privateers, are you not?” Meliara asked. She remembered what Vidanric had seen when he met Dtheldevor. Might not the others come along to fetch them? “Do you want me to pass on a message?”
Sharly looked up, and away, for a long moment, as Mel squished from foot to foot in her ruined shoes. Then Sharly said, low and full of an emotion Mel could not name, “Be at peace.”
Mel wanted to ask, who? Me? Your privateer friends? Is that what I’m to say? But Sharly and Sidres were swallowed in the deep shadows, the Hill Folk rustling around them. And then her own friends swarmed about her, Nee twittering with worry, “You’re wet! That can’t be good for the baby! Here’s a blanket, and some hot pear-cider...”
18
SARTORAN SEA
Once they lost sight of the little boat containing the centaurs, Dtheldevor whirled and stamped into the cabin.
Everyone else stayed on deck, looking at one another, Ellen sighed. “I’ll go talk to her.”
The rest who were not tending sail or helm busied themselves removing the enemy arrows from the hull and the masts, laying them aside to be reused.
The sun had begun to rise when Ellen and Dtheldevor emerged from the cabin, Ellen smiling, and Dtheldevor glaring over the water. “Ellen thinks our sticking to one plan was a mistake. She may be right. Let’s change it up.” One side of her mouth curved up in a terrible smile. “They’ll be expecting us in Mardgar. Our mistake was to hang off the coast, attacking anyone leaving. We got predictable. My mistake. Won’t make that again.”
She grinned fiercely. “Set sail for Al Caba. We are going to torch the harbor.”
Joey let out a whoop of angry joy, and threw the helm over. Peridot shrieked laughter as she ran to the sails, but Gloriel said, “Isn’t that all Adranis?”
Dtheldevor whirled around to glare at her. “D’you think you’re gonna replace Sharly an’ start in with oooh, we don’t kill?” Her voice rose high and mocking.
“They’re Norsundrians,” Peridot drawled. “Allies of Norsunder, you’ll say, but what’s the difference? Those were Adranis shooting at us, or have you forgotten?”
Gloriel wanted to say, But we fired their ship. She struggled to define what it was that she objected to. However the time—late—the shock of loss, the war, made it difficult to separate out those who volunteered to be killers, such as Norsunder Base’s warriors, and Adranis who had joined the navy, and were carrying out orders. Especially as she knew the others saw no difference. All were enemies.
She shrugged, and went to tend the sail with her twin, her throat aching, though she could not define why even to herself.
Dtheldevor called after her, “Gloriel, you’ll just be tossing oil. As usual. Not slitting throats.”
Gloriel let that reassure her, and the matter dropped as the yacht tacked, the ship slanting in the driving wind.
“Are we going to lose our invisibility?” Deon whispered to Gloriel two days later, when the first bumps of land appeared on the horizon. They had to round the peninsula of Valian before cutting up into Al Caba, chief harbor of Sles Adran, but Dtheldevor kept at a prudent distance, no more than the highest mountain tops visible.
“I think it lasts a while,” Gloriel said. “Sidres always laid on extra spells, though I don’t know if that’s like pouring more water into a bucket that just spills over, wasting the magic, or if it’s like painting extra layers, which helps to brighten the colors.”
“As long as they can’t see us,” Deon muttered—to herself.
Everything so far had been exactly what she had wanted. She was a part of Dtheldevor’s crew. They had singlehandedly destroyed a bunch of Norsunder ships.
She had seen death before. Plenty of it, during Sarendan’s revolution, years ago. Derek Diamagan had cheered on the revolutionaries, saying that that was what the noble oppressors deserved. It had been easier to look away, especially when she didn’t know any of the dead.
But laughing, vitally bright Sarmonwilda, and gentle, kindly Sharly, who never hurt anyone—it was so unfair. The Warrens thought so, too. The wardroom talk at meals was all about hitting Norsunder and its allies hard. Make it hurt.
“They’ll pay,” Dtheldevor said, swigging from a bottle. “And pay again. We’ll see to that.”
Deon held onto that thought: they were getting justice, which was never wrong. Derek had said so, all those years ago.
She worked willingly all afternoon as Dtheldevor drilled them, making them repeat their specific job over and over, not just by acting it out on board, but by tracing their fingers along the rudimentary sketch she’d made of Al Caba’s harbor. Taking on a whole harbor at night, especially one they had only once visited years before, would be tough, but they could do it if everyone remembered to orient on the harbormaster’s tower—and carried out their designated job.
On a ship half a day’s sailing away, Imry Llyenthur stood at the prow, eyes closed as he slowly turned and scanned on the mental plane. He had to suppress his impatience. There were far too many demands for his time, but this was the only way he could scan for a specific vessel on an ocean: the mystery ship’s location would be water, which meant lifting visuals from unsuspecting minds would be useless. He needed to be in the same ocean so that he could locate them in reference to him.
He was peripherally aware of human life forms behind him, watching. He had to scan and to sort the distrust and derision of the watchers for intent. There were also life forms far below the ship, unimaginably alien, and some human-like ones closer to the surface—all those he could dismiss as irrelevant.
He ignored the comments of the crew—what does he think he’s doing—he thinks we’re impressed—he has no idea how stupid he looks staring at nothing, just like a soul-bound.
Then one of Bostian’s bruisers could not resist what, he muttered to his cronies, would be a little fun. He took a step toward Llyenthur’s back. Another. Hefted his sword, just to goose him, see him jump, and—
Llyenthur sighed inwardly, and in one fast movement pulled a knife from his wrist sheath, pivoted and nailed the brute in the heart. The thud froze the rest in shock as he turned back to scanning.
So predictable. But predictable was good. Ah!
There: a cluster of minds, completely unshielded, You’ll take the eastmost pier at Al Caba. I’ll deal with the lookouts...Llyenthur braced against the rail as he located them in reference to himself. Impossible to judge distance, but he knew their intent. And he had a vector.
But if he sent a team, that meant taking the time to make transfer tokens.
He stood there debating furiously as the entire crew waited in perfect silence behind him. Efael’s search across Sles Adran was for a boy of twelve, brown hair, hazel eyes: Detlev’s son, no less, according to reports; Llyenthur hadn’t known Detlev had spawned again until a couple of years ago. If Efael nabbed that little shit, he’d be halfway to nabbing Detlev, and then he could name his price as far as the Host was concerned.
Llyenthur had to find out how close he was—but there was this asinine band of fire-happy idiots keeping his badly needed reinforcements from...
Time pressure warred with expedience, and expedience won.
Without a backward glance he transferred, fixed on the last mind he’d skimmed, and appeared on the Tar-Tares. There was only one of them on deck, at the helm. In two fast moves, he killed her, and set fire to the ship, trade for trade.
The singe of burning wood reached the wardroom, right then in the middle of their meal. They smelled it at the same time, and looked question at one another. Why hadn’t Peridot, who was at the wheel on watch, taken care of it?
Dtheldevor stampeded first up through the hatch, yelling, “Peridot, are you aslee—get out of my mind!”
“So you’re Dtheldevor,” Llyenthur said. “I thought you were all bluster and no brains. Seems I was right.”
Gloriel, the night’s cook, took a moment to douse the firestick then followed, startled by the sounds of fighting. She surged to the deck and swayed, stunned by the sight of her twin lying on the deck, unmoved by flames licking the wood near one foot, her eyes staring into infinity.
Gloriel raised her gaze to the man fighting with two knives against Dtheldevor and Joey. Should she help? But he moved so fast, far faster than the others, getting inside their defenses, and Dtheldevor fell.
She couldn’t fall! She was the strongest, the best, the fastest!
As Joey dropped, blood spraying, Deon shrieked, a noise cut off with one fast stroke of a knife. She recoiled, both hands fumbling at her neck, dead before she hit the deck.
Ellen flew to the attack. Gloriel could not bear to watch—she knew what was coming next, and she, the worst fighter of them all, was helpless to stop it. She turned away, tears blurring the sea and the sky as her old, old fears burst forth in gasping sobs.
When she heard her sister fall to the burning deck behind her, she could not bear to look, but gave in to old instinct: she vaulted to the rail, and dove into the sea.
19
ALONG THE RIVER IN SLES ADRAN
Life at Master Orthal’s art school and studio was strictly regulated, particularly for those on the bottom of the hierarchy. It was a small world, complete in itself.
Sveneric loved it. Even having to be Serena/Kyale could not disturb the purity of his happiness. It wasn’t as if having to consider every move, every word, was new. Living at Norsunder Base had been like that. Memory of those days served as a reminder not to relax his vigilance even for a moment, no matter how irksome he found braiding his hair every day, and tying ribbons to it, or moving fussily when everyone else stood and sat and walked without thinking about it.
But once he sat to his easel and sank into the daily assignment, the euphoria of art-making washed away any residue of impatience or irritation.
Two days passed, as he learned names and rules, those spoken and unspoken. He had already decided he must not stand out. As it happened, the other girl in their trio of apprentices was quite talented, so Sveneric had only to make certain his skill never surpassed hers, which he decided to regard as a challenge. Someday he would be able to do his best to make art. At least right now, he was getting training, and he was surrounded by art. He could pretend the war was very far away.
Until the day it wasn’t.
A week had passed when he woke abruptly to the sound of sweetly chiming bells mixed with horse hooves in the square outside, swept of snow every day. Before he opened his eyes, he was aware of a pounding headache, a sign that something had tried to batter at his mind-shield during the night, and his body had not been able to rest, but had had to fight against either magical or mental attack.
From the square rose cursing in Norsundrian. He was up and peering through a crack in the curtains at once, his heart ramming his ribs in time to the hammer of the headache against the backs of his eyes.
A troop of Black Knives had arrived, one slipping on the icy flagstones. They halted, as their leader rode up.
Efael did not wear the Norsunder jacket. Light slithered in an unfamiliar, almost oily pattern over the heel-length coat of black man-leather that fell from his shoulders across the horse’s back and down to the dully gleaming black-weave riding boots. The early morning light threw into relief his sharp features and sneering mouth.
For one sick moment Sveneric thought Master Orthal had betrayed him. No. Efael lifted a gloved finger from the pommel of his saddle, and the Black Knives spread out, and began kicking down doors that did not open immediately. People poured out of houses, some half-dressed, looking bewildered, frightened. Angry.
“Who do you think you are,” an older woman demanded of a Black Knife passing by. “You’re not one of—”
His hand moved almost too fast to see; she fell dead, her head half severed. After that, no one protested. Most returned to their houses. Those who lingered stood in clumps as far from the Black Knives as possible.
Sveneric knew that he was nothing more than bait to lure Detlev, who was of course completely silent. Even before they caught their bait, traps and tracers and lethal wards lay in wait for Detlev. And yet Sveneric sensed Detlev out there somewhere, the way one senses the position of the sun long before dawn. Gratitude welled up in Sveneric: he could have been yanked. Siamis could have shown up at any time. Adam, too. David could have been sent back to watch over him, but instead he was on some other far more urgent task. Adam was also there, a moon to the sun, and Siamis as well. All of them trusting him to use all the skills they had given him since he was small, to stay out of reach of the enemy.
Out in the square, a Black Knife emerged from a house, dragging a terrified boy of ten or eleven. The assassin stopped before the horse Efael still sat on, and jerked the boy’s face up by his hair. Efael waved a careless hand, and the Black Knife flung the boy away. He scrambled barefoot over the icy flagstones, and back to safety, trembling hard.
Boys.
That meant whatever trace Sveneric had left had not been Jhermina’s robe, or the other girl clothes that he had taken care to buy one item at a time, each visit wearing a different face under illusion. That meant this was a systematic search of the region. That was one slim hope. Another, the fact that he and Efael had only met face to face once, when Sveneric was about six. It would be too much to expect that Efael wouldn’t recognize Detlev’s bone structure in his face, and the similar eye color. Sveneric had to make sure that he was not dragged out to that square.
