“Difficult, sir.”
“Ideas?”
“Hire on for an honest war.”
Marcus chuckled.
His soldiers were camped dark, but the sound of their voices and the smells of their food traveled in the darkeness. He had fifty men of several races—otter-pelted Kurtadae, black-chitined Timzinae, Firstblood. Even half a dozen bronze-scaled Jasuru hired on at the last minute when their contract as house guards fell through. It made for more tension in the camp, but the usual racial slurs were absent. They were Kurtadae and Timzinae and Jasuru, not
clickers
and
roaches
and
pennies.
And no one said a bad word about the Firstblood when one of them would decide who dug the latrines.
And, to the point, the mixture gave Marcus options.
Ahariel Akkabrian had been one of the first guards when the Porte Oliva branch of the Medean bank had been a high-stakes gamble with all odds against. His pelt was half a shade greyer now, especially around his mouth and back, but the beads woven into it were silver instead of glass. He sat up on his cot as Marcus ducked into the tent. His eyes were bleary with sleep, but his voice was crisp.
“Captain Wester, sir. Yardem.”
“Sorry to wake you,” Yardem said.
“Ahariel,” Marcus said. “How long could you swim in the sea?”
“Me, you mean, sir? Or someone like me?”
“Kurtadae.”
“Long as you’d like.”
“No boasting. It’s past summer. The water’s cold. How long?”
Ahariel yawned deeply and shook his head, setting the beads to clicking.
“The dragons built us for water, Captain. The only people who can swim longer and colder than we can are the Drowned, and they can’t fight for shit.”
Marcus closed his eyes, seeing the moonlit cove again. The ships at anchor, the shelters, the hide boats. The coals of the fire glowing. He had eleven Kurtadae, Ahariel included. If he sent them into the water, that left a bit over thirty left. Against twice that number. Marcus bit his lip and looked up at his second in command. In the light of the single candle, Yardem looked placid. Marcus cleared his throat.
“The day you throw me in a ditch and take control of the company?”
“Not today, sir,” Yardem said.
“Afraid you’d say that. Only one thing to do then. Ahariel? You’re going to need some knives.”
Marcus rode to the west, shield slung on his back and sword at his side. The sun rose behind him, pushing his shadow out ahead like a gigantic version of himself. To his left, the sea was bright as beaten gold. The sentry tree was just in sight. The poor bastard on duty would be squinting into the brightness. The danger, of course, being that he wouldn’t look at all. If Marcus managed an actual surprise attack, they were doomed. He had the uncomfortable sense that God’s sense of humor went along lines very much like that.
“Spread out,” he called back down the line. “Broken file. We want to look bigger than we are.”
The call came back, voice after voice repeating the call. Timing was going to matter a great deal. The land looked different in the sunlight. The cove wasn’t as distant as it had seemed in the night. Marcus sat high in his saddle.
“Come on,” he murmured. “See us. Look over here and see us. We’re right
here.
”
A shiver along a wide branch. The leaves bent back light brighter than gold. A horn blared.
“That was it,” Yardem rumbled.
“Was,” Marcus said. He pictured the little shelters, the sailors scuttling for their belongings, for their boats. He counted ten silent breaths then pulled his shield to the front and drew his sword.
“Sound the charge,” he said. “Let’s get this done.”
When they rounded the bend that led into the cove, a ragged volley of arrows met them. Marcus shouted, and his soldiers picked up the call. From the far end of the strip of sand, ten archers stood ground, loosing arrows and preparing to jump into the last hide boat and take to the safety of the water, the ships, and the sea. The other boats were already away, rowing fast toward the ships and loaded with enough men to defeat Marcus’s force.
The first was a dozen yards from shore and already sinking.
In the bright water, hidden by the glare of the sun, nearly a dozen Kurtadae with long knives put new holes in the boats.
Marcus pulled up, waving to his own archers to take the shoreline while the Jasuru charged the enemy and their boat, howling like mad animals. A few figures appeared on the ships, staring out at the spectacle on shore and in the tidepool. The first boat vanished. The second was staying more nearly afloat as the men in it bailed frantically with helmets and hands. They weren’t rowing, though. It wouldn’t get them any farther.
Marcus lifted his hand and his archers raised bows.
“Surrender now and you won’t be harmed!” he shouted over the surf. “Or flee and be killed. Your choice.”
In the surf, one of the sailors started kicking for the ships. Marcus pointed at him with his sword. It took three volleys before he stopped. As if on cue, the black bobbing heads of Ahariel and the other Kurtadae appeared in a rough line between the sinking boats and the ships. As Marcus watched, the swimming Kurtadae lifted their knives above the water, like the ocean growing teeth.
“Leave your weapons in the water,” Marcus called. “Let’s end this gently.”
They emerged from the waves, sullen and bedraggled. Marcus’s soldiers took them one by one, bound them, and left them sitting under guard.
“Fifty-eight,” Yardem said.
“There’s a few still on the ships,” Marcus said. “And there’s the one we poked full of arrows.”
“Fifty-nine, then.”
“Still outnumbered. Badly outnumbered,” Marcus said. And then, “We can exaggerate when we take it to the taphouse.”
A young Firstblood man walked out of the sea. His beard was braided in the style of Carbal. His eyes were bright green, his face thin and sharp. His silk robe clung to his body, making his potbelly impossible to hide. Marcus kicked his horse and trotted up to him. He looked like a kitten that fell in a creek.
“Macero Rinál?”
The pirate captain looked up at Marcus with contempt that was as good as acknowledgment.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Marcus said.
The man said something obscene.
Marcus had his tent set up at the top of the rise. The stretched leather clung to the frames and kept the wind out, if not the flies. Macero Rinál sat on a cushion wrapped in a wool blanket and stinking of brine. Marcus sat at his field desk with a plate of sausage and bread. Below them, as if on a stage, Marcus’s forces were involved with the long process of unloading the surrendered ship, hauling the cargo to land, and loading it onto wagons.
“You picked the wrong ship,” Marcus said.
“You picked the wrong man,” Rinál said. He had a smaller voice than Marcus had expected.
“Five weeks ago, a ship called the
Stormcrow
was coming west from Maccia in the Free Cities heading for Porte Oliva in Birancour. It didn’t make it. Waylaid, the captain said. Is this sounding familiar?”
“I am the cousin of Prince Esteban of Carbal. You and your magistrates have no power over me,” Rinál said, lifting his chin as he spoke. “I invoke the Treaty of Carcedon.”
Marcus took a bite of sausage and chewed slowly. When he spoke, he drew the syllables out.
“Captain Rinál? Look at me. Do I seem like a magistrate’s blade?”
The chin didn’t descend, but a flicker of uncertainty came to the young man’s eyes.
“I work for the Medean bank in Porte Oliva. My employers insured the
Stormcrow.
When you took the crates off that ship, you weren’t stealing from the sailors who were carrying them. You weren’t even stealing from the merchants who owned them. You were stealing from us.”
The pirate’s face went grey. The leather flap opened with a rustle and Yardem came in. His earrings were back in place.
“News?” Marcus said.
“The cargo here matches the manifests,” Yardem said. He was scowling, playing to the dangerous reputation of the Tralgu. Marcus assumed it amused him. “We’re in the right place, sir.”
“Carry on.”
Yardem nodded and left. Marcus took another bite of sausage.
“My cousin,” Rinál said. “King Sephan—”
“My name’s Marcus Wester.”
Rinál’s eyes grew wide and he sank back on the cushion.
“You’ve heard of me,” Marcus said. “So you know that the appeal-to-noble-blood strategy may not be your best choice. Your mother was a minor priestess who got drunk with a monarch’s exiled uncle. That’s your protection. Me? I’ve killed kings.”
“Kings?”
“Well, just the one, but you take the point.”
Rinál tried to speak, swallowed to loosen his throat, and then tried again.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to reclaim our property, or as much of it as you have left. I don’t expect it’ll make up the losses, but it’s a beginning.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“You mean if I don’t take you to justice? I’m going to come to an understanding with you.”
A cry rose up from the beach below them. Dozens of voices raised in alarm. Marcus nodded to the captive, and together they walked out into the light. On the bright water below them, the ship farthest from the shore was afire. A plume of white smoke rose from it, and thin red snake-tongues licked at the mast, visible even from here. Rinál cried out, and as if in answer a roll of sudden black smoke bellied out from the flame.
“Don’t worry,” Marcus said. “We’re only burning one of them.”
“I’ll see you dead,” Rinál said, but there was no power in his voice. Marcus put a hand on the man’s shoulder and steered him back into the shade of the tent.
“If I kill you or if I burn all your ships,” Marcus said, “then by this time next year, there’s just going to be another bunch like yours in the cove. The bank’s investments are just as much at risk. Nothing changes, and I have to come back here and have this same talk with someone else.”
“You’ve burned her. You burned my ship.”
“Try to stay with me,” Marcus said, lowering Rinál back to the ground. The pirate put his head in his hands. Marcus took the two steps to his field desk and took out the paper Cithrin had prepared for him. He’d meant to drop it haughtily at the pirate’s feet, but the man seemed so shaken he tucked it into his lap instead.
“That’s a list of the ships we insure out of Porte Oliva. If I have to find you again, offering yourself to the magistrate is the best thing that could happen.”
The breeze shifted and the smell of burning pitch filled the tent and spoiled the taste of the sausages. The leather walls chuffed like tiny sails. Rinál opened the papers.
“If the ship’s not listed here…”
“Then it’s no business of mine.”
“I’m not the only ships on these waters,” he said. “If someone else…”
“You should discourage them.”
The color was starting to come back to Rinál’s cheeks. The shock had begun to fade and the old righteousness return, but it was tempered
now. The voices coming up from the water were brighter now, laughing. Those would be Marcus’s soldiers. A wagon creaked. It was time to move on.
“You’ll travel with us as far as Cemmis township,” Marcus said. “That’s not too far to walk back from before your people get sick from thirst.”
“You think you’re such a big man, no one can take you down,” the pirate said. “You think you’re better than me. You’re no different.”
Marcus leaned against the field desk, looking down at the pirate. In truth, Rinál was a young man. For all his bluster and taking on airs, he was the same sort who tripped drunk men in taprooms and groped women in the street. He was a badly behaved child who, instead of growing to manhood, found a few ships and took his bullying out in the world where it could turn him a profit.
A dozen replies came to Marcus.
When you’ve watched your family die, say that again
and
Grow up, boy, while you still have the chance
and
Yes, I’m better than you; my ship isn’t burning.
“We’ll leave soon,” he said. “I have guards posted. Don’t try to go without us.”
Outside, the little two-masted ship roared in flame. Black smoke billowed from her, carrying sparks and embers up to wheeling birds. Marcus walked down the rise to where the carts were lining up, prepared to head back home. One of his younger Kurtadae was in the medical wagon, his arm being shaved and bound. Beneath the pelt, his skin looked just like a Firstblood’s.
Three of the enemy sailors were laid out under tarps. The rest, bound in ranks with arms bent back, were sullen and angry. Marcus’s men were grinning and trading jokes. It was like the aftermath of a battle, only this time there’d hardly been any bloodshed. The wet sand was smooth and even where the waves washed their footprints away. The mules, ignoring the smell of flames and the banter of soldiers, pulled wagons filled with silks and worked brass back toward the road. The smells of salt and smoke mixed.
Marcus felt the first tug of darkness at the back of his mind. The aftermath of any fight—great battle or taproom dance—always had that touch of bleakness. The brightness and immediacy of the fight gave way, and the world and all its history poured back in. It was worse when he lost, but even in victory, the darkness was there. He put it aside. There was real work to be done.