The Aware (The Isles of Glory Book 1) (2 page)

The woman paused on the bottom step and looked around the room for a place to sit. There wasn’t all that much choice: the seat at my table, several empty chairs at the tall, broad man’s table, another next to the young man with the curling lashes. The bird hopped, agitated, along the chair back. When a sunbeam caught its plumage, it turned iridescent with a shimmer of deep blue on the wings and purple across the breast, like a bolt of shot silk catching the light.

That was when the stench of dunmagic evil hit me, so potent I almost gagged. The whiff I had caught earlier from Janko was nothing compared to this; that had been the traces of a past spell, this was immediate. Someone was operating right then and there, and he—or she—had to be a dunmaster. This was no novice, no small-time operator with a modicum of talent. I’d never sensed such power, and I’d never been so aware of the sheer
badness
of dunmagic before. The place fairly reeked with evil. I put my mug down before I spilled the contents, and made sure my sword hilt was within easy reach.

A red glow skittered across the floor, intangible and rotten, touching us all with its foulness as it ran between the chairs to leave patches of ruddiness behind like bloodied turds. It was an effort not to jerk my feet away as it streamed under my table and over my boots, tainting them with colour. I wanted to shake my feet—as if I could rid myself of the residue it left—but I withstood the temptation. It was safer not to let the dunmaster, whoever he or she was, have an inkling that I could see it. I did risk another downward glance a moment later, to see that the red glow on the leather of my boots was fast fading, but I hid my relief just as I had hidden my revulsion. I almost regretted having Awareness. Without it, I wouldn’t have noticed a thing; I would have been as oblivious to the danger as everyone else.

I took a deep breath, and tried to isolate the power to pinpoint who was using it, and—perhaps even more importantly—who was the victim of it. And, for the first time in my life, I failed miserably. The power was too great; it permeated the whole room and I could not track it down. I’d never seen the red taint of dunmagic spread so widely before. I’d never seen it roil on its evil way so strongly. The only thing I could be reasonably certain of was that it wasn’t directed at me. Still, my mouth dried out; my clenched hands were clammy. I wasn’t used to my Awareness failing me and I was frightened.

God, the things I did for money! I should never have returned to the Spit; too much that was bad could happen there, especially when magic was involved. I felt a momentary doubt about whether it was all worth it: a chilling notion that crept up on me like an unexpected rain-squall, and was quickly thrust away.

Janko lurched across the room to deliver my fish, the bird on the back of the chair near mine flew off and the girl on the stairs made up her mind. She ignored a seaman-trader who had tipped a drunken companion out of his chair and was patting the empty place invitingly. She walked across to the youngster with the eyelashes. I could have sworn he actually blushed when he saw where she was headed. He stood up, came close to knocking over his chair, swallowed in embarrassment, sat down again and gave a good imitation of a man hit over the head with a cudgel. The girl smiled a smile that would have charmed even Janko on a bad day, and sat down.

I turned my attention to my fish. I wanted to get out of the taproom quickly; if there was anything I didn’t need, it was to be mixed up in dunmagic.

I had almost picked the fish bones clean when the empty chair next to me squeaked across the floor and I looked up to find the Quillerman, that lithe length of male beauty from the slavers’ table, slipping into the seat. The charming smile I’d already noted tilted not only his lips but also the corners of his eyes as he said, ‘Niamor. Also known as the Negotiator.’ The name had the same faint familiarity as his face.

I reciprocated with a smile and gave the only name I’d ever considered to be mine, although I’d used a number of others at various times. ‘Blaze Halfbreed.’

He looked a little startled. The last name I used was obviously contrived, and it must have puzzled him that I had chosen to accentuate my status in such a way; he wasn’t to know that perversity always had been a fault of mine. Still, he didn’t remark on it. He said, ‘I’ve seen you before somewhere.’

‘Perhaps. I’ve been in the Docks before.’

He clicked his fingers. ‘I remember! You were here, oh, five years or so ago, looking for work as I recall. You finally shipped out as a deckhand on a slaver.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘I never expected to see you alive again. That ship had a reputation, it did. Some said its captain was a dunmagicker.’

I grimaced at the memory. ‘They were right.’ It had been a hellish voyage and I’d almost ended up as food for a sea-dragon, but I’d been offered a lot of money to wangle myself on board that ship as a crewmember and there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for money in those days. I doubted I would do it now; I was a shade more cautious. And possibly a shade less greedy.

‘You arrived this morning,’ he remarked.

I nodded. We were getting down to business.

‘I believe you’re still interested in the slave trade. I hear you’ve been asking around for a slave. Before you even got a room here.’

I poked into the fish head, extracting the last bit of succulent meat from the triangle above the eye. ‘That’s right.’ Typical of Gorthan Docks: gossip travelled as fast as the smell of rotten prawns, and everybody minded everyone else’s business, or tried to, if they could do it discreetly.

He persevered. ‘And you want a very particular piece of merchandise.’

The sweet morsel of fish melted in my mouth. Not even
The Drunken Plaice
could entirely ruin fresh solfish. I said, offhand, ‘My employer is very particular in his tastes.’

‘ “A Cirkasian woman. Must be young.” They come expensive, they do.’ His eyes slid across to the Cirkasian beauty at the next table, assessing her potential as a slave with callous dispassion.

I pushed my plate aside. ‘Uh-uh. Don’t even
think
it, Niamor. In case you haven’t noticed, that woman has class. I don’t want any trouble. I’ll take one that’s already a slave, not a lady who doubtless has backup somewhere or other.’

He shrugged regretfully. ‘That might be more difficult.’

‘I understand that there was a boat in from Cirkase with a cargo just yesterday.’

‘True. But the merchandise was direct from Cirkasian jails, courtesy of the Castlelord himself. The Castlelord takes a very dim view of the export of Cirkasian lovelies to the slave trade, but he doesn’t mind foisting his male crims on to the unsuspecting public.’

I snorted. From what I’d heard, the Castlelord of the Cirkase Islands would have sold his own mother if the sale had brought him enough money and no trouble. He and the Bastionlord of Breth who ruled another of the Middling Isles were both tyrants of the worst kind, and the world would have been a better place without either of them, but I kept that view to myself. I’d discovered it didn’t pay to make political statements; they had a habit of being repeated just when you wanted to appear neutral.

‘Look about for me, will you?’ I asked. ‘I’ve a feeling you can find me a suitable candidate if you put your mind to it. What’s your fee?’

‘Five percent. Plus expenses.’

I nodded. ‘Just don’t pad the expenses.’ I had no intention of ever paying him anyway, any more than I intended to pay for the slave, if I ever found her.

The business disposed of, he moved on to the personal. (He had his priorities right, Niamor. Doubtless he wasn’t called the Negotiator for nothing.) He nodded at my sword. ‘Your employer a Calmenter?’

‘Perhaps. What does it matter?’

‘It doesn’t. I’m just interested, that’s all. I heard the Calmenters don’t make their swords for just anybody. Very proud of their workmanship, the Calmenters. I did hear they’d only make a sword for an off-islander if there was a blood-debt involved.’

‘You may be right,’ I said, noncommittal. He
was
right, of course; the sword was payment for a debt. I’d once saved the life of the son of the Governor of Calment Minor. I might even have told the story to him if it hadn’t been for that dunmagic in the air. For all I knew, Niamor could have been the source of it, and not even his extraordinary good looks and charm were going to entice me into a non-business relationship until I was sure he wasn’t. Pity really, because just looking at him was enough to have me feeling randy. It had been quite some time since I’d had a man in my bed.

I finished my swillie and stood up. ‘I have a room here if you have any business to offer.’ I nodded affably and started towards the stairs. On my way I glanced across at the Cirkasian, thinking that a beauty like her didn’t belong in a place like this, any more than the youth she was sitting with did. She wouldn’t last twenty-four hours unless she found herself a protector. Always assuming, of course, that
she
hadn’t been the source of the dunmagic. But if she wasn’t, she’d made a bad choice of table; she would have done better to sit at mine. I didn’t give a damn about her safety, naturally, but I would have been prepared to offer her protection in exchange for information, whereas that pretty lad would be as much use to her as a mast without a sail—the fundamentals were fine, but without the right accoutrements, what’s the point?

I gave a mental shrug and started up the stairs.

Just as I reached the first landing I looked back, and my eyes met those of the tall, broad man, the sober Southerman dressed in black. His face had not changed, yet something made me stop. A strong emotion:
recognition.
His…or mine? Strangely, I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t remember ever having seen him before, and his face still seemed without expression—yet the emotion hung there in the air between us.

I felt about as happy as a crab about to be dropped into boiling water; intuitive feelings always meant trouble.

Fearful of what I couldn’t understand, I turned and went on up the stairs.

Once in my room I barred the door and flung open the window shutters to take a deep breath. It was a relief to leave the stench of dunmagic behind, even if the alternative was the strong scent of fish. My room overlooked the drying racks of the fishermen’s wharf, but it wouldn’t have made much difference if I’d had a room on the other side of the building. Fresh fish, salted fish, pickled fish, dried fish, smoked fish, rotting fish—everywhere you turned on Gorthan Spit there were fish. Fish flopping in boat holds, fish roasting inside ovens, fish drying on racks, fish pickling in barrels, fish preserving in smoke-houses, fish being scaled, gutted, filleted, dried, fried, skewered, barbecued, sold, eaten. When you walked the streets anywhere in the Docks, dried fish scales a handspan deep scrunched underfoot. You think I exaggerate? Well then, you’ve never been to Gorthan Spit.

Right then, beyond the drying racks, seven or eight fisher folk were seated on fish boxes grouped around wicker baskets of fresh solfish, some of which gave proof of their freshness by flopping out onto the rough boards of the wharf. The fisher folk, both men and women, were gutting their catch with deft skill. Innards and scales flew, along with laughter and coarse chatter. I wondered what they found to laugh about; it was hot out there, even in the shade of the inn, and I wouldn’t have liked their job.

I raised my eyes. Further away, on the other side of the wharf, I had a view of a row of ramshackle buildings. The predominant method of construction in the Docks was to hammer together whatever materials were to hand and to stop when you ran out of anything you could use. In this land without trees, most building supplies came—in one way or another—from the sea, although on my first visit to the Spit I’d seen a hostelry built entirely out of beer barrels and a shop with walls made of empty bottles. In the row I was looking at, most were obviously fashioned from general flotsam that included tree trunks, hull staves and deck planks. The nearest house had made extensive use of whalebones, another had a roof of shark skin and walls of barnacle-encrusted wood from a shipwreck. The overall effect was bizarre, yet not without a sort of misshapen charm.

(I must have been out of my mind. Did I ever think that? Gorthan Docks?
Charming?)

I couldn’t see much of the rest of the port from my window, but as the coast curved outwards after the town ended, I could just make out, in the far distance, the beach beyond and the steep-sided dunes that rose behind the shore. The white sands there danced in the heat haze and shimmers of dune mirage dissolved into the air.

I closed the shutters, blocking out the light along with a little of the heat. I slipped out of my boots, unfastened my sword and lay down on the bed. I was going to be up most of the night and I needed to sleep first.

I was awoken about an hour later by the sound of someone groaning. The noise was so close I thought they must actually be in my room. They weren’t, of course; it was just that the walls of
The Drunken Plaice
were built of driftwood planks so warped and poorly fitted together that whatever went on next-door could be clearly heard through numerous cracks and chinks. I tried to ignore the sounds, but there was no way I was ever going to be able to get back to sleep while someone did a good imitation of a death rattle in my ear. I sighed, strapped on my sword and padded out in my bare feet.

As it was still afternoon I didn’t take a light—a mistake because the narrow passageway was as dark as it was airless. Away from the outside smells I scented dunmagic again, and my insides tightened. Distracted by the stink, I foolishly took a step into the darkness right into the path of someone passing my door; I had an impression that the room next-door was also his destination.

For some long moments we both stood still, so close that our bodies were actually touching. I couldn’t see him well but I knew exactly who it was: the tall Southerman dressed in black. The serious one. What I couldn’t understand was the effect he had on me. Ordinarily, in a situation like that, I would have stepped back and apologised—hand on sword hilt just in case—but we stood there, nearly nose to nose, and a whole gamut of emotions tumbled about in my mind and my body. The trouble was, I couldn’t decide what they were trying to tell me.

The predominant feeling was again one of recognition, possibly his, and equally possibly mine. Was my Awareness acknowledging the presence of a dunmaster or a sylvtalent, or recognising a kindred Awareness? Or was my memory telling me I should know this man? It might even have been my physical needs recognising a man who could have satisfied them…

When I did step back I was breathless. With fear, certainly, but also with a tension I couldn’t identify. Part of me wanted to turn and run.

Before either of us spoke, the groaning from the other side of the door resumed with sharper pathos.

‘There’s no need for you to involve yourself,’ the man said urbanely.

There was a moment of charged silence while neither of us moved. ‘Arrogant sod,’ I thought without rancour. His colouring had told me he was a Southerman; his accent, as smooth and as rich as thick honey, pinpointed the island group: the Stragglers. I glanced at his left earlobe and, now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I could make out the tattooed sea snake inlaid with turquoise bands that confirmed he was a citizen of those islands.

‘Someone has been taken ill. I shall attend to it,’ he said, with a firmness that suggested he was used to being obeyed.

Unfortunately, there was quite enough authority there to prod my cursed contrariness to the fore. A moment earlier I had been a reluctant investigator looking for an excuse not to get involved; now I was being offered a chance to return to my room with a clear conscience and I refused to take it. As I’ve said, perversity always was a fault of mine. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ I replied politely. ‘I have some medicines in my kit.’ Before he could protest, I had opened the door to the neighbouring room.

The man on the bed was the young innocent with the lovely lashes, and he wasn’t alone. The Cirkasian woman was with him. The man beside me hadn’t expected that; I could feel his surprise. I was surprised myself, but it was the smell in the room that was more arresting: the perfume of sylvmagic, as pure and as sweet as spring flowers, overlaying an unpleasant putrefaction.

The Cirkasian was sitting on the bed, the young man’s leg on her lap. She had pushed back his trouser and we could see from where we stood the cause of his pain: a sore, green and suppurating, on his ankle. Seen through my Awareness, it was indistinct, its edges blurred with dunmagic red. I knew now who had been the victim of the dunmagic spell downstairs.

Untended it would grow, spreading tentacles of rottenness through his flesh like gangrene and he’d be dead in a week, his healthy flesh literally eaten away into one open oozing sore… It was a vile way to go; I’d seen it happen once and I never wanted to see it again.

The man next to me gripped my arm, his eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t think either of us are needed here after all,’ he purred in my ear. He nodded to the woman. ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’

He pulled me out of the room and shut the door.

Then, without another word, or even a glance in my direction, he went off up the passage the way he had come.

The Stragglerman was right about one thing: we weren’t needed. And I’d been wrong about the Cirkasian woman—she didn’t need a protector. She already had all the protection she needed: sylvmagic. No wonder she could stroll so calmly into the taproom of
The Drunken Plaice
looking the way she did, without even bothering to wear a sword.

I felt all the old stirrings of jealousy; dark, murky feelings that always shamed me, but which I could never quite control.
Sylvmagic.
Damn it. Damn her.

As I returned to my room and reopened the shutters, I stopped feeling and concentrated on thinking again. Firstly, I could have sworn she hadn’t known that young man before she’d entered the taproom. Secondly, if she had sylvmagic, she must have known immediately that he was the unfortunate recipient of a dunmagic spell, even before he knew. Practitioners of sylvmagic had no ability to see dunmagic as I had, but they were more skilled at sensing the physical damage done by it. And so my next thought was: if it had been neither a previous acquaintance nor coincidence that had sent her to the seat next to that young man, then it must have been an acknowledgement of his need of her healing magic, his need of her protection. I decided the Cirkasian was as foolhardy as she was beautiful. A dunmaster could not sense from afar the annulment of one of his spells, but if he saw his victim again he could hardly fail to notice that he was alive and well. And a thwarted dunmaster tended to be a vengeful one.

And the Stragglerman? His swift assessment of what he’d seen in the young man’s room and his subsequent remark seemed to indicate that he, like me, had Awareness.

I stood at the window, looking down on the now deserted wharves, only half noticing the sea-mewlers as they squabbled over the fish remains, their normally pristine feathers bloodied with offal, their serrated beaks jabbing and slashing bad-temperedly at one another. I was thinking that the last thing I wanted to do was involve myself in affairs of magic; being Aware gave me protection against the magic itself, but those who practised dunmagic loathed both the Aware and sylvs. A wise possessor of Awareness, or a wise sylvtalent, kept their ability hidden around a dunmaster. There were many non-magical ways to die, after all.

I felt a sick fear. I had a nasty feeling that magic, in the person of the Cirkasian, was mixed up in my affairs already. It seemed too much of a coincidence that, just when I was looking for a Cirkasian slave, this woman should turn up. Cirkasian women were rare enough outside the shores of the Cirkase Islands at the best of times; to find two on Gorthan Spit at any one time, without a connection between them, would have been quite a coincidence. I was after a particular slave girl and I was fairly sure she was on the Spit; I was even more certain that this could not be her—yet I felt there must be
some
connection. But what? It was puzzling. And worrying.

My thoughts were swimming around in fruitless circles like pet fish in a jar, when a furtive movement from below caught my interest. The tapboy had sneaked out of the back door of the kitchen and was scuttling between the drying racks on the wharf. When a fishermen walked by carrying a lobster pot, the lad hid under some nets until he was gone. I watched, fascinated. It was like attending the theatre back in The Hub, the Keeper capital, and looking down on the stage from the balcony at one of those awful melodramas. I always used to laugh in all the wrong places… But this drama was real, especially intriguing since everything that I’d noted about the boy while he was serving in the inn had indicated that he was a halfwit. He didn’t move like a halfwit now. He disappeared behind a stack of rotting fish boxes that had seen better days and emerged a moment later with something in his arms. He sat down on the wharf, surrounded by boxes. At a guess, the only place he would be visible from was my bedroom window.

It was a dog he held, a mangy bundle with an oversized tail and huge feet. He fed it, played with it for a while, then shoved it behind the boxes once more. A few minutes later he was back in the kitchen.

Even tapboys had their secrets on Gorthan Spit.

###

When I woke up from a second short nap, the worst of the heat had gone from the day and a breeze was beginning to rattle the shutters.

Everything was quiet in the room next to mine.

I found the drudge and, by means of a coin, persuaded her to get me some ordinary skin unguent. When she returned with some, I added some dried herbs that were supposed to be good for skin ailments, then went downstairs to the kitchen and persuaded the cook—also for a price—to give me some seaweed bread and fish paste. Finally I strolled out onto the fishermen’s wharf. It was still deserted, although the strong smell of fish offal remained and there were people working on the boats tied up there, rebaiting fishing lines. One of them raised his eyes, grinned and seemed about to say something—until he spotted the hilt of my sword poking out of the sheath on my back and thought better of it.

It didn’t take me a moment to find the dog; it was much more of a problem persuading it to trust me. Gorthan Spit curs learned a thing or two about trust and survival, none of it good, very early in life. Eventually some of the bread spread with fish paste made him decide I couldn’t be all bad and he allowed me to rub him with the salve I had concocted. His initial growls turned to ingratiating whines and then to slobbering licks.

I hadn’t expected to have the good luck to be caught at what I was doing, but that was what happened.

The tapboy found me.

He stood there gaping for a while, not believing what he saw. I guessed him to be about twelve, or perhaps an undersized fourteen. He’d been fair-headed once, if the freckles were anything to go by, but he was so dirty it was hard to tell. He had no ear tattoo that I could see. In the taproom he had looked at me with dulled, unintelligent eyes; there was nothing stupid about the way he looked at me now.

‘No lad,’ I said as he turned to run off. ‘There’s no need to be frightened. I won’t harm you, or your dog.’ I held out the jar of salve. ‘Here, take this. Rub the animal with it once a day and he’ll soon be rid of that mange. You won’t know him once he has a proper coat of hair.’

He stepped forward as gingerly as a cat in snow and took the jar, while the dog thumped its tail in happy acknowledgement of his presence. ‘What do you call it?’ I asked.

I had to ask him to repeat the barely decipherable mumble, and finally grasped that he’d said, ‘Seeker’. An interesting choice of name; perhaps there was much more to the boy than I’d hoped. I fumbled in my purse for some coppers. ‘See these? They are yours if you will try to answer some questions. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know the answers to some of them; you just say so. Understand?’

He backed off a little. He guessed now that the help I’d given his pet wasn’t prompted by just the kindness of my heart, and he was wary.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Tunn,’ he said and then added doubtfully, ‘haply.’ I wasn’t too sure whether he meant his name was Tunn Haply, or that he was, perhaps, called Tunn but he wasn’t sure; however, I didn’t pursue that question any further. Instead I asked him if he knew a man called Niamor the Negotiator.

He nodded.

‘Tell me about him.’

That was when I discovered we had a problem. Tunn evidently spoke so rarely that he had just about forgotten how—if he had ever known. He could understand all right, his speech was about as articulate as the chatter of a retarded parrot. He wanted to be obliging, but the tangle of sounds that came out of his mouth could hardly be called words. His first effort, as far as I could determine, was something like: ‘N’mor gudly tulk. Him sy summat…rightful allus. Bilif itn.’ I managed to translate this as: ‘Niamor talks good. If he says something, it’s always true. You can believe him.’

He wasn’t unintelligent: he knew much more than he could say. I felt a momentary anger at a world in which no one bothered to spend the time to teach a child to speak, but I wasted no time with that fruitless emotion. Instead, with a lot of persistence and many carefully worded questions, I managed to find out that Niamor had been on Gorthan Spit for as long as Tunn could remember. A rumour—which I now vaguely recalled having heard on my last visit—said that the Quillerman had been involved in a daring but disastrously unsuccessful embezzlement back on his home islandom, the uncovering of which had necessitated his exile. Now, from what Tunn said, it seemed he was not an embezzler any more than he was a slaver; he was more a go-between. An entrepreneur, although the lad did not know the word. Because Niamor had a reputation for being absolutely trustworthy in all his dealings, he was trusted. That did not, of course, make him entirely honest. He was as capable of making a self-serving deal in stolen goods as the next Spitter, but if he told you something, you could believe it. And in the dark world of slavers, thieves and pirates, a go-between who would faithfully deliver a message or undertake a negotiation was very much in demand. Niamor never double-crossed, and therefore kept his head on his shoulders even though the game he played was a dangerous one.