HALEWYCK - Chapter 26
The Deep Tower
Over the city’s carcass, vultures swarmed in their dozens. Through the burning streets and the derelict homes, the sailors went about as their shadows.
The officers had been the first off the ship, gone ashore to secure the remains of the villa. Ban Halewyck had been left behind, bleeding on the floor of the great cabin. When at last he came to, he stood, made his way to the deck, and surveyed the slaughter around him. When at last a launch-boat was lowered over the side to carry the sailors ashore, Lewyn climbed in. It was his duty, so far as he could tell.
They rowed across a deserted harbor.
When the Eridan had opened fire, all of the commercial traffic had fled instantly – from the Eridan’s deck, one could still see the fishers flying across the lagoon. Some of the soldiers had taken to the decks of the galley in an attempt to board the Eridan; a bold, dashing effort, but abortive. Once the battery at the villa had been silenced, the Eridan had levelled its great guns onto the galleys. Even as they rowed out of their moorings they had been smashed, and now only their main topgallant yards breached the surface of the black, bloody water, the highest, driest point of a broken wreck.
Soldiers and sailors had fled the sinking warships, swimming to their neighbors or to the shore. When the ships went under the waves, the vacuous force of their sinking had pulled some with them. Some of them – the mad, the heroic – had swum to the Eridan. Whether they sought clemency or vengeance wasn’t clear. As they came up the sides, sailors struck them with marlin-spikes, and they toppled over the side and crashed into the water.
Those who swam to shore fared no better. The marines, posted in the crows’ nests with their rifles, shot them as they swam, laughing like jackals all the while.
As the launch crossed the harbor, it passed scores of floating, battered corpses.
When the launch reached the quay, every hand began dishing out cutlasses, boarding axes, cruel daggers, and gaping linen sacks. As Lewyn watched, the sailors went racing off down the streets to pillage and terrorize. He could not stop them; he could barely speak. They ran off into the ash-choked streets of Vishello, the latest practitioners of war’s oldest tradition.
The streets were empty. The great twisted towers of Vishello had been knocked down, and where they fell, they lay in dusty heaps across the streets and alleys. Some had been crushed by their falling, their broken bodies trapped in agony beneath the stones. Children went about the streets sobbing, the dust on their faces streaked with tears. Dogs, their tails tucked, ran rampant among the alleys, red tongues wagging in the smoky air. Bells were tolling somewhere in the city.
“Thus did they then flee, in broken glory; high made low, safety made sorrow,” someone said. Lewyn watched an, grey-bearded sailor, a bulging sack over one shoulder, walk down a thoroughfare. At every doorway he paused and blessed it. All the while that he walked, he spoke in a loud, clear voice. “The Bela’s unmade hopes, in ash were laying. Grief from joy, dead from the living.”
The poetry was from the Belannoc – ancient lines written after the Fall of Nir Belannos. They were first written in Lairisk, centuries after the city’s fall. Now, they had been taken from Lairisk and brought back to the shore of that land whose devastation they lamented. The verses were accompanied now by gunpowder and steel, fire and sword; they were accompanied now by death.
Lewyn climbed the high hill towards the villa. It had been the first target of the Eridan’s broadside, and it had been levelled before the battery on the wall had had the chance to respond. That ancient, time-worn place was broken now. The columns lay scattered across the floor of the courtyard, the storied walls thrown down. Lairisken officers and marines picked across the ruins, inspecting corpses, taking up valuables. All who remained besides were dead. The living had fled, borne elsewhere by fear or by Angels.
He went through the ruin unnoticed until he came to the stairs to the cellar. The stairs now were open to the air; all the villa around them had been destroyed. Three steps descended down from the hall. Beyond that, the stairs were choked with rubble.
When the officer of the marines found him, Lewyn was lifting stones from out of the pile – clearing them away. He had been working for a quarter of an hour. Before him stood more than two tons of stone.
“That’s him, there,” the officer of marines said.
“What the Hell’s he doing?”
“Doesn’t matter,” the officer said. “Just bring him down.”
The marine, with a hand on his sword, approached Lewyn warily.
“Are you Lieutenant ban Halewyck?” he asked.
“Help me with these stones,” Lewyn said, paying the stranger little attention. “My friend is down there, I need to get him out.”
“Are you ban Halewyck, sir?”
“Yes, damn you!” he said. “Now help me with these stones. They haven’t got very long.”
“I’ve orders to place you under arrest, sir,” the marine said. He was not altogether comfortable. The lieutenant seemed mad. “Please, come with me.”
“Once I’ve cleared the stones,” Lewyn insisted. The marine looked between the officer and the rubble. He gathered that it might take me some time.
“I must insist, sir,” the marine said.
Lewyn turned at him then with fury in his eyes – but it was not an unmixed fury. There was also pity in it, and deep, shocking grief. It was in combination a look of outrage, of profound objection. The marine suddenly felt very much ashamed of himself; but he wore the colors of the Service, and he was armed, whereas this startling stranger was not. He steeled himself and drew his weapon.
“Sir, you must come with me!” he said. The lieutenant stood. He was a young man and, the marine observed, shockingly wounded; the right side of his face was black with blood. He wondered that the man could stand.
“What are the charges, sir?” His voice was quiet and breathless; the marine levelled the point of his sword.
“Treason, sir,” the marine said. He found himself shaking slightly. “Conspiracy and insubordination. You will receive a court martial in Mardioc.”
“Is that right?” the lieutenant said. He took a step forward towards the marine. The outrage in his eyes had shifted towards defiance. He was unarmed, the marine reminded himself – but all the same, he seemed dangerous. The lieutenant stepped forward once more, until now, the point of the marine’s short-sword rested on his collar. The marine did not know what to do; he would have taken the lieutenant up physically, but he seemed so fragile just then that any shock might snap him in half.
The marine, alas, was not forced to choose.
Lieutenant ban Halewyck looked long at the marine and seemed on the verge of speech – but then his eyes fluttered, his mouth fell slack, and he collapsed altogether to the floor.
-
When Prince Lubosz ordered the messenger consigned to the Deep Tower, I had wondered about the nature of such a dungeon; as Fortune would have it, my curiosity would not go unsatisfied.
Beneath the great hill which rose behind the Palace of Mardioc was a deep, winding cavern. Centuries ago, a sprawling prison had been installed in the place. Along the sloping, spiraling walls of the cave, a hive of cells had been cut into the rock, accessible only by a narrow path of perilous stone. Iron bars held the prisoners within, and any who found themselves at liberty to escape these confines were met with a sheer, apparently endless drop. The lamentations of its inmates reverberated sorrowfully against the ribs of the pit, and what light dripped down from above served only to illuminate the hideous, trailing spires of stone which hung from the cavern’s ceiling. In the last year, I had found myself confined in no fewer than three jails; this I found to be the worst.
Captain Horan had been interned elsewhere in the prison, but I had not seen him since I was deposited by the Prince’s soldiers in my cell. We had both of us been arrested for our refusal of Averness’s orders at Vishello, and at present, all that stood between us and our execution was the scheduling of a court martial. There being only a handful of navy officers in the city at present, it fell, I gathered, to Lord Averness to convene the assembly. In short, our deaths would come whenever most convenient to her lordship.
I had long ago begun to hate Lord Averness, and now, the chief cause of this hatred was her senseless delay. Oh, I was certain that she had much to attend to in Mardioc: Draho’s death meant that Lubosz held the throne uncontested. She would have her hands full, either trying to groom him to her purposes or trying to select another candidate to replace him. It was entirely possible that Lubosz was dead already, and that once the fanfare of his replacement’s coronation was concluded, the executioner would come collect the captain and myself, and all would be at an end.
In those dawnless hours, I found myself much given over to prayer. I had never been a particular scrupulous worshipper, but neither had I ever sought faithlessness out on principle. I was an indifferent Soul, content to acknowledge the sovereignty of the God so long as it did not interfere with my drinking. But now, in the squalor of my captivity, drink was out of the question. So I prayed.
I did not pray for myself. I did not see the use of it. The God knew the content of my Soul, and whether I was worthy of reward or damnation, the whole affair was out of my hands. So I prayed for everyone else. I prayed for Captain Horan, and for Lem and Madzia. I prayed for Domwe, Donnick, and Jack – if ever they would reach Fiddler’s Green, they would have arrived by now. I prayed for Sarja, whose kindness towards me had been far more than I had deserved. I prayed for Marten and Enrick and Dougan, and I prayed for Enry most of all.
I prayed for each of them daily, which is to say that I did it when I woke and before I slept. I prayed that the Fivefold God, whose wisdom by rights did not need my advising, would perceive their great virtues and their great worth, and hold them ever in peace and good health. They had been kind to me, each in their own ways, and I had taken their kindness and squandered it.
In the echoing blackness of my cell, I starved, and I ached, and I wept. In the end I was silent, and for a time, I thought that I understood Signo’s final silence. When Death is at hand, what use are words? There are no questions, no curses, and no answers left to be spoken – Death is the final answer, come at last to settle the question posed by birth. Signo was silent, as he burned and charred, because he understood. He knew that all was at an end.
Perhaps, I thought, laying stretched across the sloping floor of my cell, perhaps I had no squandered their kindness. In the hours of my final captivity, I addressed all my thoughts to the God. Perhaps that had been the purpose of their kindness. Every good deed which fell into my hands, every gentle word and helpful shove, had brought me nearer to the Divine. Now here I was. I stood upon Death’s doorstep, and it was the God who held the key. Now I understood. Now I was silent. I resolved that, when the black-robed priests arrived to lead me to the pyre, I would kissed their hands before ever I stirred a foot.
As I whispered this promise to the silent stones, they began to tremble beneath my breath. Then, the iron bars of my cell began to creak.
High above, from the mouth of the Deep Tower, stones began to crack and tumble away. They crashed down the height of the cavern, bursting upon the floor, and their shattering was as thunder. The other prisoners began to moan and pray – faith, I observed, was born more often of prisons than of temples. The walls of the Deep Tower themselves began to stir, shifting and shivering.
Draho had promised three earthquakes – here at last was the second. The God had heard my promise, then. Very well. Send the priests, I thought, I am ready.
But it was not the priests that came.
Some time after the earthquake – perhaps it was a day, perhaps it was two – a jailor began the descent from the mouth of the Tower. The ringing of their keys tinkled down the cavern, and every Soul in the prison gripped their bars and called out their pleas. The jailor bore a dim, hooded lantern before them, and from its hazy orange glow their progress was evident down the winding stair of the cavern. It was not the black-robed priests, however – it was one person, coming alone.
They came to my cell.
“You are Halewyck?” he said, the keys chiming in his blessed hand. He set the lantern beside his feet; other than his sandals, I could see nothing of him.
“I am,” I said. “Pray carry a message for me: tell Averness that there is no need for a trial. It is alright, I understand. I will go.”
The jailor paused.
“What do you say?”
“The court martial – there is no need. They may take me to the pyre, if they wish.”
The jailor lifted the lantern, and I perceived that it was no jailor at all. It was a slave – more than that, it was Lord Averness’s chamber-slave.
“You,” I said.
“I indeed,” he said. “I am Parszia. I am a friend of the Duke of Szalba.”
He took away the hood of the lantern, and in the spreading light he returned to searching through the keys.
“You must not go to the pyre so willingly,” he said. “Now is no time to die.”
I felt numb, as though I might collapse. It must be some trick, I though – some cruel deceit. I had resolved myself to death; this was the blow I could not bear. This was all that was left to undo me.
Hope was all that I could not stomach.
“Well, my friend, I said, “if you insist.”
In the light of the lantern, Parszia smiled.
-
We climbed the spiraling stair of the Deep Tower, hounded in our progress by the wails of the other inmates.
“Captain Horan is here somewhere,” I said. “We must free him as well.”
“We cannot, my friend,” Parszia said. “I know only which key opens your cell, and we have not the time. We must make haste.”
“Why have you come for me?”
We reached the top of the stair, where a great pair of doors barred the tunnel to the Palace. Parszia knocked thrice on the door, then paused, then knocked twice more.
“The Duke of Szalba has many friends, even now,” he said. The heavy door strained open; behind, a helmeted soldier peered out, then waved us forward.
“Go in peace, friend,” he said as we passed through. Parszia handed over the keys, and the guard sealed and locked the door.
“This way,” Parszia said. “We must make haste!”
Following his lead, we ran down the tunnel. I had not had my wits entirely about me when first I had been brought to the Deep Tower, so the way back was strange.
“Much has happened since you were imprisoned,” he said. “Lubosz is dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes; by the order of the Lord-Ambassador,” he said. We rounded a corner and, withdrawing another key from within his tunic, Parszia opened a small door in the wall, and ducking, he bid me followed.
“Who rules now?”
“Lord Biga is Prince,” he said. “She was chief among Lubosz’s court; she loved the Prince, but it seemed she loves the crown better.”
The passage we had entered into was a narrow, crooked way. The bricks were old and the mortar turned much to dust.
“The slaves’ passage,” Parszia explained, “built in the days of the Bela. The crown has come to many Princes in time, but ever have the slaves ruled the Palace of Martiosz.”
“Where are we going?”
“This will take us to the cistern,” he said. “From there, there is a passage beyond the walls. Quickly!”
We raced down the passage until we came to another door; this, Parszia opened without a key. On the far side of it was a vast, open chamber, full of stale, dank air. The chamber held a wellspring, and in time had filled nearly to the ceiling with cold, dark water. A narrow path skirted the edges.
“Carefully, my friend,” Parszia said. He handed the lantern to me as he shuffled around the edge of the pool, and when he had reached the far side, he beckoned me to follow.
Beyond the cistern was a staircase leading down to a wide, open kitchen. As Parszia and I burst into the room, I caught my breath; a dozen slaves and servants milled about the room, rolling dough and stoking fires. Parszia moved among them as though they were not there.
Reluctantly, I followed behind him. As we passed through the room, each of the slaves turned their gaze away from us.
“Why don’t they cry out?” I asked, catching up to Parszia on the far side of the room.
“Some of them loved Draho,” he said. “Others loved Lubosz. But all of them hate Biga.”
He ducked down another passageway, trailing lanternlight behind him. Then it was a series of halls and corridors, all winding, shadowed, decrepit, until at last we came to a small doorway, cut into the wall of the corridor.
“Here is where I leave you,” Parszia said, retrieving yet another key from his belt. But as he spoke, we heard a voice from down the corridor; we both turned. A guard, bearing with him a burning torch, came walking down the passage.
“What do you there?” he called.
“A friend of yours?” I asked.
Parszia shook his head.
He handed me the keyring and I knelt to the lock. While I fumbled with the keys, Parszia, his arms wide, approached the soldier.
“We are sent, sir, to open this door and to clear away a blockage,” he said humbly.
“You, there, stand fast,” he said, pointing a finger at me. I pretended as though I did not hear him. I had found the proper key, but the lock was old and rusted, and needed some force in turning.
“He is rather deaf,” said Parszia. I almost had it.
The soldier pushed forward, clapped a mailed hand down on my shoulder, and raised me to my feet.
“What is your name?”
“Sirfa,” I said.
“And you?”
“Parsza, sir.”
“I will make note of this,” he said. “You should not be wandering down in the basements like this. One cannot know who is lurking at this hour.”
His torch cast long, garish shadows across his face as he spoke. I tried to keep my eyes fixed on the floor. It was not as though he would recognize me – but then I did not precisely have the look of an Yraf, slave or otherwise.
“You are entirely right, sir, of course,” Parszia said. “When we have cleared this blockage away, we shall return at once.”
“Yes,” said the soldier, considering. “Well, here is this: I am told that the Lord-Ambassador has all sorts wandering around just now. I would not wish that you were caught afoul of them; until you have finished, I will wait here, and see to it myself that you are returned to your quarters safely.”
“As for that, there is no need! This shall surely be a rank business, and it is not great distance back to our quarters,” Parszia said. His eyes caught mine, and seemed to say, be ready. “Though perhaps you could assist us in opening this lock?”
“Certainly,” the man said, kneeling before it. He handed me his torch and set to work twisting the key; if the old thing broke in the lock, we would be ruined – but then, with a creaking groan, the thing turned. “How is—”
Parszia had drawn a knife from his tunic and, as the soldier turned to face us, he stepped forward and drew it across the man’s throat. There was a sudden wash of crimson blood that poured down beneath his mail, and he began to gasp and convulse against the wall, reaching forward with desperate hands. I stepped backwards.
“What have you done?” I asked.
“There is not time,” Parszia said. He opened the door, took the soldier by the shoulders, and forced him bodily into it. I heard a deep splash on the other side.
“Where are we going?”
“I go nowhere; my place is here, to whatever end,” he said. He held open the door for me and gestured me in. “You, my friend, must return to Eszfelano. This ban Karsten has been given control of the ship; for all that I have done for you, my friend, you must remove it from our waters.”
“But why? Draho is dead, Lubosz is dead, and Biga has the throne. The war is over.”
In the garish light of the torch, Parszia smiled.
“Not so, my friend,” he said. “The rebels have taken Korabela Azhui. Gorasz the Hawk will avenge Draho Son-of-God. The nation rises up; even now, Gorasz marches to Martiosz. He has thirty thousands behind him. Biga cannot resist him; but the Lairisker ship must be taken away. You must do this.”
I glanced between Parszia and the corpse which laid so near in the darkness.
“And so I shall,” I said. Parszia clapped me on the shoulder and helped me down through the door. Beyond it was a long, straight, black passage; water ran along the slanted floor. It was a sewer, or something much like one. I set the torch down on the floor and knelt before the soldier, who gasped and sputtered still. “Sorry, friend.”
I unfastened his belt and pulled it off his waist. In the torchlight, I drew his sword halfway and inspected it. Hardly my preference – but it would do.
Above, Parszia slammed the door shut and locked it. Darkness returned to the passage. I raised the torch, said a quick prayer for the dying soldier, and raced down the tunnel. It sloped down, down, and down, before at last, the grey light of early morning broke in at the end.
The black-robed priests of death may come for me, I thought, but they would not do so today.
-
When I reached Estvellero, I found the town in a sorry state. The earthquake had shaken the town horribly, and all that was not built of heavy stone been broken or tumbled. Every street was crowded with activity, as the crowds worked in tandem to raise up the fallen houses, to build back the thrown down temples, and to corral the wild livestock back into their pens.
The harbor was in much the same state. There was a shocking amount of traffic among the shipping there, barges and hulks carrying lumber and stone from far afield, fishers in their dozens hauling barrel after barrel onto the shore. I climbed the steps of a temple and, from that vantage, cast my gaze out far across the water.
There was the Eridan.
Perhaps a mile off-shore the frigate stood alone, every sail furled, bobbing silently on the thrashing waves. It was a grey, overcast day, and against such a sky the stark lines of the ship seemed grim and foreboding. If I could reach the ship, I could be free of this place – free of all Iraphos. There was ban Karsten to deal with, certainly – but the crew could not love him. He must be removed, that was plain. But I need to try to do so alone.
-
“Lem!” I called, pounding on the door. “In the name of the God, Lem, open the door!”
The door swung open and there on the other side, was the small, dark mouth of a pistol trained at my head. There, behind the pistol, was Lem.
“Attaboy, Lem,” I said, shouldering past him.
“Lewyn – er, sir! You’re alive!” he said. “They said you were court-martialed – you beat them?”
“No, Lem, I’m afraid I’ve turned fugitive,” I said. I came into the room as though I owned the place – indeed, I had been paying the fare – and began to toss the furniture and clothes around at random.
“Are you jokin’, sir?”
“No, Lem, sadly not,” I said. “Where have you put the bloody thing?”
“What thing, sir?”
“My sword, Lem, my sword!” I shouted. “Do not tell me you’ve sold it?”
“Hardly, sir,” he said. He seemed gravely dejected that I should accuse him of such a thing; I regretted having raised my voice. Very calmly, he belted the pistol, approached the meager bed, and flipped the mattress over. There, he cut a long series of stitches, and from within the mattress itself, withdrew the sword.
My messer. At long last.
I threw off the soldier’s sword and belted the messer in its place. Lem had been good enough to keep my rucksack, too, and I was greatly relieved to change my clothes. I would have liked to wash up, too, but I did not think that there was so much time to spare.
“Well, sir – what are we about?”
“The Eridan,” I said. “Ever been among a cutting-out expedition, Lem?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s simple. Climb aboard, subdue the crew, take the ship for our own.”
Lem looked from me, to his pistol, then back to me.
“Just you an’ I, sir?” he said. I could not help but smile.
“No, Lem,” I said. “We’ll have some help. Where’s Madzia?”
“Just down the way. She’s lendin’ a hand with that temple they’re puttin’ back up – you want I should go an’ fetch her, sir?”
“Please do,” I said.
While Lem ran off to retrieve Madzia, I set about packing up the room. There was not much; Lem and Madzia had lived more or less in abject poverty all this while. A few minutes later, I heard footsteps up the stairs; it was them, as I had presumed, but still I kept my hand to the messer all the while.
“You live?” Madzia cried. “But how? They said you were a traitor; they said you would be burned!”
“And I will, if they have their chance,” I said. “But there is not time. Lem – where is the crew?”
“Scattered about, sir – some are with the ship, some are in the town. A few are helping with the building,” he said.
“Where’s ban Karsten?”
“That blackguard? What do you want with him, sir?”
“Nevermind, Lem – where is he?”
“With the ship, last I heard,” Lem said. “You want I should fetch him, too?”
“By the God, no,” I said. “Listen to me: I need you to go around the town and gather any of the Eridan who you feel are worth their salt: anyone who loved Captain Horan, anyone who ever repaid a debt, anyone who ever had a kind word. Do you understand me?”
“That ain’t many, sir,” he said.
“Perhaps not,” I said. “Then forget the part about the debts. Anyone trustworthy, Lem – gather them, and bring them downstairs. Let me know when you’ve finished.”
“Aye, sir,” Lem said. He touched his brow in salute and ran off once again.
“Is he a slave?” Madzia asked.
“Who, Lem?” I asked, incredulous. “No, he’s a sailor; a slight difference, but an important one. But it doesn’t matter now. Listen, Madzia: things have changed in Mardioc. How much have you heard?”
“They say Lubosz died in the last earthquake,” she said, “but I know better than to believe it.”i
“Well, Lubosz is dead; that much is true,” I said. Her eyes filled with wonder.
“The war has ended? Who rules now?”
“Lord Biga rules now, but no, the war is not ended,” I said. “Gorasz, one of Draho’s generals, intends to avenge the old Son-of-God. He’s marching on Mardioc as we speak. The war has not ended at all, is what I mean to say.”
“I see,” Madzia said, looking to the floor.
“Once I return, the Eridan is going to set out,” I said. ”I can’t say precisely where we’re bound, but we’ll be leaving Iraphos altogether.”
Madzia’s eyes unfocused, turning away towards the window with a vacant, far-away look.
“I see,” she said again. I took her by the shoulders.
“Madzia, I told you that I would keep you safe if I could. I intend to do that. If you wish to come with us, you are welcome to; I cannot say where we are bound or how long the voyage may be, but I must go, and I cannot protect you from afar,” I said. “You need not decide now. I shall leave you time to think on it.”
“Very well,” she said, nodding. “You say, ‘once I return.’ Where are you going?”
“Never mind that,” I said. “Signo’s horse – is it still in the stables?”
Madzia nodded again.
-
When Lem returned, I donned my uniform coat, washed the dirt and sweat and blood from my face, and did all else that I could to improve my appearance.
“I brought as many as I could, sir,” he said. “I couldn’t find that bastard Donnick, though. Looked high and low for him – must’ve run off!”
“Donnick’s dead, Lem,” I said. “Are the others downstairs?”
“Dead?” he said softly. He tried to recollect himself. “Aye, sir, downstairs like ye asked.”
With that, I went to the top of the stairs. Below, I could hear a cacophony of voices, ranting and arguing, the whole building shifting and groaning with the mass of them. Better have them out of here quickly, I thought, before the whole place tumbles down. Then, I thought of the villa, collapsed on top of the prisoners. I took a deep breath and descended the stairs.
The room quieted as I entered.
Lem was right: there weren’t many. Perhaps as many as forty of the Eridan’s crew had gathered in the common room of the inn. Some sat on the long trestle benches, others crowded around the hearth; some drank, some ate, others stood smoking and grimacing. None seemed particularly cheerful. There were a hardy, weary, intrepid lot; so much the better, I thought. So much the better.
“Shipmates,” I said. My voice seemed small and frail in such salted company. I paced down the rows of them, looked them in the eyes; kept my back straight and my shoulders wide, as an officer ought to. I smiled at those I knew well and nodded to those I did not. It was not, I must say, a particularly warm reception.
“Shipmates…”
“But we’re not your shipmates, then, are we?” someone from the back of the room called out. Everyone turned to her. She was an old tar, had been asea longer than most of us had been alive. “You’ve been court-martialed, means you’re not active service any more. You’re not our shipmate; you’re hardly an officer.”
The crew turned back to me.
“As for that…” I said, but nothing more came. The sailor and her friends stood and made for the door. Others seemed inclined to follow.
I crossed the room as quickly as I could and held the door shut.
“A sea-lawyer,” I said. The sailor paused. “Every ship’s company has one. Been afloat so long, the laws of the service are as natural to them as any other. A court-martialed officer is no officer at all, they say – and they’ve been at sea so long, who can contradict them? And when the ship is struck, and all hands are set on some unknown shore, they pipe up to say: well, the commission goes down with a ship, and a shipwrecked officer is no officer at all. Ever notice that, shipmates? A sea-lawyer; always the first to disobey. Always the first to turn to mutiny.”
The silence of the room, which had previously been passive, uninterested, became instantly taut at the mention of the word: mutiny.
“What’d you say?” the sea-lawyer said, stepping forward and drawing a marlinspike from her belt. I raised my hands in acquiescence.
“Oh, don’t take it to heart, friend,” I said. “Why do you think I called you all here, if not for mutiny?”
The silence of the room erupted into noise, protestations, threats. I pressed myself against the door; they might not like it, but they damn well had to hear it. A ringing came from the far side of the room; beside the fire, Lem was striking a cauldron with an iron poker. The room fell quiet.
“Hear the man, damn you all!” he cried.
“I’ve been court-martialed, it’s true,” I said. Better to appear confident, I thought; I left the door unattended and went back to pacing up and down the rows. “And why is that, do we know?”
“Because you lost the cutter!” the sea-lawyer called.
“Lost it to the enemy!” someone else added. “Lost, with all hands!”
“That’s right!” I shouted. The accusation was more than I could bear; I could feel my blood beginning to boil. “I lost it. But I didn’t lose a single hand. We were taken prisoner in Vishello, but everyone who sailed out of this harbor with me survived our capture. But that’s not why I was court-martialed, no. I was court-martialed for refusing a lawful order.”
The sea-lawyer and her companions went once again for the door.
“A lawful order that Captain Horan himself refused.”
They did not reach the door. Standing beside it, they paused, and turned to me.
“If I refused an order, it was not out of pride, but loyalty. I refused it because Captain Horan refused it,” I said. “When the Eridan reached Vishello, it was the Lord-Ambassador who gave the word to fire. We had come to that harbor under flag of truce to parlay with Draho – to parlay! And the Lord-Ambassador gave the word to level the city, and it was Captain ban Karsten who obliged her. Captain Horan refused, and I followed his example.”
Turning to the sea-lawyer, I drew the messer free of the scabbard. In the firelight, the deadly steel gleamed.
“So, shipmate,” I said. “You may call me a traitor if you like. But if you would call Captain Horan the same, you will answer for it.”
The sea-lawyer did not move. She endeavored to appear unimpressed. But I could tell that she was nervous.
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said.
I took two steps forward.
“No, sir,” she said at last. “No, sir, I wouldn’t.”
I sheathed the messer and turned my back to them.
“Then take a seat,” I said, “and listen up.”
-
“The situation, shipmates, is this,” I said, striding across the tabletops. I could feel every eye upon me; I had their attention now. “Every hand who set out with me on the cutter is dead. But not one of them was killed by the enemy – or should I say, not one of them was killed by the Yraf.”
I paced a moment longer in silence.
“We killed them.”
Another gout of murmurs. I raised my hands.
“They were prisoners in the fortress at Vishello,” I said. “When the Eridan opened fire, the fortress collapsed. Every sailor – every Lairisken sailor, I say – was buried alive, or crushed to death by falling stone.”
Now, I let the murmurs flow.
“Two score! Two score of your compatriots, of your fellow-sailors! Dead! Killed senselessly!” I cried. I could feel the timbre of the room rising. I had to keep the balance – I couldn’t have them rushing out of here in a mob just yet.
“And why? Why are they dead? Why were they crushed to death in their chains?” I called. “Because of Roderyck ban Karsten. That’s why. Because of Lord Averness. She gave the order; when Horan refused it, ban Karsten heeded it. He gave the word to fire. His own sailors, shipmates! The crew of the Everspring! They would sit beside you now, if it weren’t for him.”
“I’ll gut the bastard myself!” someone called, a horrid fishing knife raised above their head. Cheers resounded.
“Quite right! Quite right – but too hasty, my friend, too hasty by far,” I said. “Ban Karsten’s blood is all well and good – believe you me! – but that’s not what we want. That’s not what I brought you here for.”
“What the fuck did you bring us here for?” called the sea-lawyer.
“Why indeed? What is it we want?” I called, wheeling around to address the crowd. “We want our ship, my friends. We want the Eridan. We want to leave this cursed place and go home. And more than that, we want our captain back.”
A cheer filled the room.
“And if you do as I say,” I said, my voice low and confiding, “that’s exactly what I’ll give you.”