Path of Revenge (3 page)

But Halieutes, despising the honour offered by the Hegeoman, never lived in the cliff-house set aside for him.

The cobbled road beneath Noetos’s feet bent momentarily to the right, then around to the left as the spur joined the cliffs proper. Here sat the cliff-house allocated to the Fisher of Fossa, positioned directly above Old Fossa as though the cliff-men wanted him to remember his elevation from the despised huts and shanties—and to think on how swift might be the fall
back down. Living in the cliff-house had been such heady pleasure in those first few weeks, the title of Fisher giving as much satisfaction as the house itself and the glorious views over the harbour. But the excitement had faded in the two years since, and he had begun to doubt that the price he had paid was worth it.

Up the narrow path he went and, with a sigh, opened the front door.

Anomer stood in the centre of the gathering room, hands clasped behind his back, answering rapid-fire questions from his mother. She concentrated on the history of the Fisher Coast, with emphasis on the time since it had been drawn into the Bhrudwan ambit. The Recruiters asked those questions when working in these parts, knowing as they did the legacy of resistance to Bhrudwan rule along the coast. Few Fossans were accepted for service, partly because such history was usually suppressed, but Noetos and Opuntia believed in a wide education and taught their children far more than what was offered in the school. Eyes bright, the tall, thin youth answered with confidence, the words forcing their way past his Adam’s apple even before his mother had finished asking the question.

‘We’re so proud of you!’ she said in the breathless voice Noetos hated so much. The boy was nearly a man, not a six-year-old child. ‘Surely you will be chosen to join your sister!’

The fisherman half-turned to his wife, then thought better of it. She simply would not hear his criticism. Time and again he had told her that the odds were stacked against their son’s selection, but she had convinced herself otherwise. Instead he looked his son in the eye.

‘Have you practised the sword today?’ This was Anomer’s weakest skill. He would understand the point of the question.
Don’t hope for too much, son.

‘I have,’ he said confidently, though he did offer a small nod to his father in acknowledgment of the unspoken caution.

Noetos quirked a shaggy eyebrow:
do you really understand your chances?

‘Don’t worry,’ the boy said solemnly. ‘I will endeavour to do my best to please you both.’ So proper.

Noetos smiled at his son. ‘You already have, Anomer. Now I suggest you soon seek out your bed and wrestle from it what sleep you can. Tiredness will take the edge off your skills.’

Anomer nodded and strode off towards his room, his willowy limbs impossibly graceful, just like his sister, just like his mother.
Unlike his father.
Turning to his wife, Noetos marvelled again at her beauty: her high cheekbones, her clear, bronzed skin, her dark eyes.
Hollow, all hollow,
the fisherman reflected. He held his admiration largely at arm’s length these days. It seemed Opuntia had everything she wanted, an everything that no longer included him.

Of late a question had been growing in the fisherman’s mind. How could his wife’s desires not have included watching her girl grow into womanhood? Noetos had not realised just how much he would miss his sparkly-eyed daughter, and he cast a glance over to the far corner of the room where stood a small bust of his daughter’s head, carved from a pale green sea-stone he’d found a few years ago, a pretty thing shot through with white swirls.

Five gold pieces it had cost him to have it carved, a full twentieth part of what he had sold her for; a foolish extravagance that had bought him far less peace of mind than he’d hoped at the time. He’d never told Opuntia about the expense, inflating the price of the boat to hide the cost. He’d dismissed his crew on the afternoon his daughter had been accepted by the Recruiters, then
taken the boat himself around Dog Head to Hupallage, where a master carver plied his trade. There the carving had been swiftly completed, the old man working from charcoal drawings Noetos made from memory.

That night Noetos showed his daughter the sculpture he’d paid so much for. She had been flattered but puzzled, and asked him why he had done something so sentimental when it was so unnecessary. ‘Do not fear, I will return to you,’ she’d said, her voice filled with excitement. ‘Then you can put the carving aside.’ He’d smiled at her, and in the weeks following her departure his eyes had returned often to the smiling face sitting atop its plain whitestone plinth.

Now all he had left of the money paid him by the Recruiters were memories in charcoal and stone. Why, then, was he allowing his only remaining child to try for recruitment?

‘Now that Anomer has retired, I’m thinking of taking a walk down to the beach,’ Noetos said casually, an eye on Opuntia as he spoke. She stiffened, and he could read everything she was about to say from the set of her shoulders.

‘I’ll convey your apologies to your friends,’ he said before she could respond. The remark was calculated to hurt her. ‘Saphis and Hudora are certain to be there, and Sautea is going to drag Nellas along. Not that she’ll take much dragging.’ He kept his voice light, carefully goading her. ‘Must be ages since you last saw Nellas. You did hear that her husband died? What was his name again?’

She turned and drew herself up, her mouth the thinnest of lines. ‘Very well, Fisher,’ she said icily, her eyes boring into his own. ‘Go down to the beach and play with your friends. I will make up a pallet in the hallway for you, so that when you return, stumbling and stinking, you do not disturb those of us who wish to keep civilised hours.’

‘Are you sure you will not come with me?’ he asked her, putting all of himself in the question. Her eyes widened momentarily, but then narrowed again.

‘One of us must remain responsible, Noetos. Go ahead, creep down the lane to another night of coarse talk and drunkenness, but do not expect me to be party to your childishness.’

‘I’m not creeping, I’m letting you know—’

‘I have been invited to the house of our Hegeoman for drinks and conversation,’ she said, a slight smile at one corner of her mouth the only betrayal of her excitement. ‘There we will meet the Recruiters. I may be able to speak on Anomer’s behalf.’

‘So be it. You go and fawn all over your betters. Do whatever you can to sell our son off like a slave, just as you did our daughter. See if you can earn us another boat! Shall we call this one the
Anomer
?’ He took a deep, steadying breath, but it did nothing to curb his anger. ‘How many fish is our son worth? How far up The Circle do we have to climb, Opuntia? Go on, go and see if you can win further favours from the Hegeoman and all his cursed cliff-born friends. Just don’t go giving them any favours of your own!’

He stood there, breathing heavily, in a kind of shock, having with that last sally broken yet another vow. He had intended never voicing his suspicions, but it was too late now, far too late.

The blood drained from her face, leaving a pasty mask limned with hatred. ‘You stupid, thick-headed man,’ she hissed, reaching him in a stride and striking him across the face. ‘You know nothing. You are the anchor that would drag us back down to our old hut. The fools of Old Fossa call you a hero just because you are too idiotic to stay inside the harbour. But when I go fishing for far more important things, I get nothing but anger in return.’

‘That’s the first time you’ve touched me in months,’ Noetos said quietly. ‘The last time was almost as abrupt, as I recall.’

She stepped away from him, contempt on her face and in the way she held herself. ‘You had promise once,’ she whispered, and to his surprise she wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I remember loving you so much. I loved your daring, your spark, your intelligence. I loved the way you gave up everything for me. But somewhere along the way you took it all back. Now you love only your friends and your fish. Is it any wonder our love died? Is it any wonder I—’ She clamped her mouth shut, but could not prevent the flush spreading across her neck.

‘You what, Opuntia? No, don’t tell me; I don’t want to hear it.’ Noetos felt suddenly tired. ‘Keep your sordid life to yourself, and I’ll keep my selfish life to mine.’ He turned away from her, and only then noticed the white face of his son staring at them both from the half-opened hallway door.

Slamming the door had been an unnecessary gesture, Noetos acknowledged to himself as he hurried down the Zig Zag. He knew he had precipitated the argument, and was prepared to admit that he’d used his words like barbs, callously setting them in Opuntia’s ready mouth. He shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when she’d struggled on his hook. What had hurt him far more than her words, her near-admission, was the look on Anomer’s face. It was the face of his son that hung accusingly in his mind, and from which he sought to flee by rushing to the beachside celebrations.

A four-fifths moon, more yellow than white, hung just above the water as he found the sand at the end of Beach Lane. The tide was on the wane, an hour past full. At the touch of the wet sand on his feet Noetos ceased being a father and a husband. His shoulders
loosened, his pace slowed and the heavy weight disappeared from the pit of his stomach.

A few hundred paces to his left the celebrations had already spilled out onto the beach. A bonfire flickered fitfully, having not long been lit, and fire-blurred silhouettes ran back and forth across the dark sand. Good-natured shrieks drifted along the beach towards the fisherman and in response a great hunger rose within him for the earnest discussion of friends, dancing, good food and laughter. Above all, laughter. Ah, how his weary soul needed laughter.

Not yet. He slowed himself still further, searching within for the control he had so spectacularly lost back at his house. Hitching up his robe, he walked out into the gentle surf as though he traversed a bridge of light towards the moon. Sand and water hissed around his feet, his ankles and then his knees. Fifty paces from the shore he stopped, allowing the push and pull of the sea to wash away what it could.

By the time he turned back towards the beach the moon had risen well above the distant reefs, shrinking and whitening as it always did on spring nights like this. He’d tried night fishing but it held no enjoyment and little profit for him. The Rhoos could not be navigated at night, and in the darkness it felt to Noetos as though the cliffs surrounded him on all sides. Only beyond the reefs, out past the huge breakers in the deep Neherian fishing grounds, could he feel free of them.

Now he allowed himself to walk more quickly along the beach, drawn with longing towards the lights and sounds of friendship. He splashed in the shallows like the child he once had been. By the time he reached the celebrations his robe was wet all the way to his waist, and tears glistened on his cheeks.

His fragile mood did not last. Noetos had never been a sociable drunk: alcohol made him argumentative and
poor company. He had a couple of dances, sang along with the fiddlers and sampled the seared fish from the braziers near the beach, but tonight nothing could keep him from noticing what he had always tried to deny. His Old Fossan friends wanted little to do with him. The bitter knowledge sent him back to the beer-barrels, where he handed over a few coppers for two mugs of ale.

Just how pathetic am I?
He drew down the beer and waited for someone to join him.

Mustar had already lost his shirt. Just as Sautea had anticipated, a group of cliff-girls had gathered around him, dressed in their finery and with far too much flesh showing. The fool had begun boasting, exaggerating his deeds on the fishing grounds, not realising that none of them would take him seriously, that every word he spoke emphasised what a poor catch he’d make for a cliff-girl, no matter how his muscles glowed in the firelight. They’d play him on their line, one after the other, but eventually they’d throw him back. When Noetos wandered over towards the group, a mug in each hand, Mustar was talking about the new boat he was going to purchase. Fool boy.

‘Took me twenty years to get my own boat,’ Noetos interrupted in a thick voice. ‘That’s because I wanted one that could navigate The Rhoos. I couldn’t have afforded
Arathé
without the money the Recruiters paid. Not just the boat. The equipment costs near as much as the boat itself, and you have to lay plenty aside to pay your men’s wages in the lean times.’ He gestured as he spoke, spilling ale on the sand. ‘Have to earn enough to buy pretty things for your wife.’

Mustar had clearly not listened. ‘My own boat!’ he said fiercely, the smiles of the cliff-girls egging him on. ‘Then maybe I could fish outside the reef, and drive those cursed Neherians away from our beds!’

Noetos turned on the youth. ‘Forget about the
Neherians. They own the Fisher Coast, have done for generations. They tolerate me for now; I’m no real threat to them. Halieutes was another matter.’

Another voice intruded into his argument. ‘Noetos, friend, not tonight.’ Sautea put a warning hand on his captain’s shoulder, but the red-haired man shook it off.

‘If not tonight, then when? Mustar announces he’s leaving us, if not this year then the next, for his own boat. Going out beyond the reef, he says. Wants to chase the Neherians away. Does anyone think this has nothing to do with Halieutes?’

‘No, Noetos—’

‘Yes, Noetos! Here’s a question for you! Why does the child always have to be sacrificed for the dreams of the parent? Halieutes lay for months in his cot before he died. His own stupidity put him there, not the tortures of the Neherians, barbarians though they are. Even on his back he learned no wisdom. He should have kept his mouth shut rather than encouraging his son to emulate his legendary feats. What will satisfy the shade of your father, Mustar? When you become Fisher of Fossa in my place, go out beyond The Rhoos once too often in your new boat and watch as they carve away the skin of your crew with their knives? When they are staked out on the rocks for the tide, screaming for release, will it be praise you hear your father’s voice speak? Will you look kindly on his advice as you sink, net-wrapped, to the bottom of the sea, waiting for your breath to give out or for the sharks to find you?’