Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1) Page 28

  He’d already rummaged through his meager supplies: smoked fish, scarlet-capped mushrooms, corpse-colored lichen, and a precious heel of bread, hard enough to crack a tooth. His stomach snarled like a cornered crag bear, the last snack of bony viper taken for granted. Before long, he’d have to moor at a waystation or riverside village to purchase food, a blanket, perhaps a pair of oars. Landfall required luck, paddling with his hands, or gripping the gunwales and kicking. The prospect of leaping into the infested waters rattled his bones.

  Dawn hid behind the fog and rain that shrouded him in growing misery. The East Canal slipped by without his notice, an oversight placing him on the river’s wrong side when the West Canal glided into view. He winced as the huddle of buildings on its banks faded to gray. That left him with at least five days of drifting before reaching Elan-Sia’s delta and the Cull Sea. He’d arrive on Darkest Night.

  This near the moonless night, river traffic was sparse, superstitions fraying the nerves of most Ellegeans, himself included. He hunched over, studied his paucity of culinary options, and gnawed half the bread, quieting his rumbling belly.

  “Yo!” a voice called. “To the east!”

  Gannon jerked up. A barge hauled by waterdragons passed on his right. “I could use a hand,” he shouted. “I lost my oars.”

  “Too far past you,” the shadow on the deck called back. “Waystation on the west bank ahead of you.”

  “How far?” he yelled. The fog gave no reply, the barge gliding beyond hearing.

  How far didn’t matter. He intended to fondle the left bank until he bumped into the pilings. He wolfed down the remaining bread and draped himself over the bow to paddle with cupped hands. The water felt warmer than the air, a pleasant surprise.

  The skiff bumped along the bank until nightfall. “Ahead of you” seemed a matter of perspective and the discrepancy rankled like grit in his teeth. Other craft sailed past him while he floundered in the slower waters, and twice he ran aground in sandy shallows. He had to climb out, shove the boat free, and then clamber back in before drowning. Walking had crossed his mind, but the river ran swifter—questionably—and he was no more equipped to survive in the forest than on the water. In other words, not at all.

  He wrinkled his nose and nibbled on the dried fish. When the charcoal clouds blew west, stars salted the sky. The moons waned, Clio and Sogul slim as fishhooks and blue Misanda a mere quarter of her beauty.

  Ahead against the black wall of forest, light flickered. The waystation.

  Leaning against the gunwale, he bit his lower lip and paddled like a web-footed ringtail. He steered the skiff closer to shore, afraid he’d sweep by the jutting docks. Luminescent lanterns swung from raised hands, and he heard a bellowed alarm. A score of men stood on the pier, others at the rails of a huge ferry, its elaborate quarters aglow and blotting out the sky.

  “Move off!” a man shouted.

  Gannon got his feet under him. “By Founders’ foul, I will.”

  “Move off!” The man ordered. “By order of the king.”

  “Codwits,” Gannon muttered under his breath. Since when did the king venture from his throne? He drifted closer, banking on luck. Luminescence glimmered on the royal guards’ azure jackets. Staves punctured the air above their heads, and it dawned on him that they might carry crossbows. “I’ve no oars,” Gannon yelled back. “I’m out of food, and I have a pocket of coins. I need a hand.”

  “Start paddling,” a guard shouted to an infuriating chorus of snickers. The water in front of Gannon uttered a hushed splash as a bolt skidded through the surface. “Last warning!”

  “There’s another station a day north. East bank,” a more helpful voice called from the ferry’s deck.

  Gannon ducked as another bolt flew by, the threat clear. “Ass badgers,” he hissed. The only way to miss them was to jump overboard and kick. He stared at the water, the glimmering luminescence oddly reassuring along with the probable absence of crajeks and other swamp-bound vermin. Waterdragons swam in rivers, but they ate fish, not men… as far as he knew.

  A bolt cracked into the skiff’s bow. Grabbing the transom, he hopped over, his feet thumping the bottom at the exact moment it occurred to him that he should have tried the pole. He dragged the boat deeper into the river and then holding on for his accursed life, he kicked.

  He skirted the ferry by no more than twenty paces, but the guards refrained from murdering him. Likely a reward for his effort. With a groan, he hauled himself into the boat, scraping his chest and belly over the transom. For the rest of the night, he shivered on the floorboards.

  The humid haze of dawn relieved his chills but not his hunger. He rifled through the sack of supplies and grimaced at his choice: red mushrooms turning evermore slick or lichen the mottled gray of dead flesh. The mushrooms weren’t going to last, so he ate those, gagging on their pungent slime.

  Before the morning ended, his stomach cramped. He leaned over the gunwale and vomited until he thought his guts would turn inside out and spew from his mouth. His throat parched, he drank from the river, not caring a fig that he filled his belly with luminescence. He spilled his guts again, drinking and purging in an endless cycle while he baked in the insufferable heat. The river swayed and bent, plummeting downhill, Ellegeance sliding off the planet. He clung to the transom, afraid he’d tumble from the boat as it fell through the clouds and whirled into the void. Confusion surrendered to drowsiness, his thoughts to nothing at all.

  ***

  Gannon woke in a cargo hold, his ankle manacled to an eyebolt in the rocking floor, his body weak as a feathered hatchling. He lay on his back, deep in a ship’s bowels, the vessel a seafaring hulk by the creaking and groaning as it smashed through the waves. Distant voices teased his ears along with a chorus of clanking metal and squabbling seawings.

  The hold was dark but not lightless. Crates and rough sacks crammed timber berths, strapped down with camgras ropes. Oily barrels perched in wooden frames to keep them from rolling. He needed food and water, and he stank to the stars.

  He’d been captive in a ship’s hold before. Memories of his trials after the ambush in Mur-Vallis flooded his head. Panic broke out on his skin in a lurid sweat, and his heart leapt into a gallop. “Gah! Help! Ah. Get me out of here! Help! Let me go!” He thrashed the chain, kicked at a convenient crate, and shouted until a hatch cracked open and a spear of sunlight nearly blinded him.

  A sturdy woman with chopped hair and a pickaxe nose climbed down the ladder. A scar wrinkled her upper lip, and her eyes shone in the dim light like chips of flint. She wore a black bodice and leggings, snugly fit and bordering on transparent. For ease of movement, a slit parted the front of her calf-length skirt, and her wide belt sported an assortment of bone-handled blades, none of them friendly. Though older than he and far from beautiful, she exuded an alluring confidence.

  She was also Cull Tarr; he was shackled in a Cull Tarr ship.

  Her hand dropped to her hip, and she held up a key. “I won the wager.”

  “Unchain me,” he demanded and shook his leg, clanking the chain. “Get this thing off me.”

  “You might be dangerous.” Her eyes narrowed, lips turned up in a mocking smile.

  “You’re delusional if you think I can slay you all and seize the ship?”

  “Probably so. Still, why risk it?”

  His heartbeat slowed its pace, and he stopped rattling his irons. “I give you my oath.”

  “Ellegeans break oaths. They broke faith with the Founders.” She considered the key. “However, I’ll accept your word. If you break it, I’ll slice you up and feed you to the sea.”

  He didn’t doubt she would. She knelt by his ankle and unbolted the lock.

  “What wager did you win?” he asked, rubbing his ankle.

  “I gambled on your life.” She hung the key on a nail “We found a sack of poisons on your boat. The others figured you for dead. If you didn’t wake up today, we planned to toss you overboard.”

  “I’
m glad you won.” He sat up and almost fell over. “I need food and a bath.”

  “I’ll feed and water you, and give you a bucket.” She stood up and offered him a hand. “Maybe a fresh pair of trousers. You stink like a grounder’s shithole.”

  He grabbed her hand, grateful for the help and unsteady on his feet. The ship’s roll did nothing to pacify the queasy swill in his stomach. “My respects.” He held onto the corner of a crate and managed a crooked bow. “I’m Gannon.”

  “No fancy little surname?”

  He shook his head. “Just Gannon.”

  “A pity.” She shrugged and swung toward the ladder. “I’d hoped to ransom you. We’ll talk when you smell better.”

  “Who are you?” He staggered after her.

  “Emer Tilkon of The Wandering Swan. Shipmaster to the likes of you.”

  ***

  The luminescent sea stretched from horizon to horizon, the sky a blue dome. A hazy streak of land rippled in the distance, as alluring as a mirage. Rolling waves cradled the tri-masted ship, its multi-hued sails taut in the wind.

  Gannon swayed across the deck like a man on a binge. He ate and drank until his gorge threatened to bite the back of his throat. With the promised bucket of water, he stripped and washed, ignoring the crew since they ignored him. Where would he run off to anyway?

  The Cull Tarr galleass was a floating city of wood, sailcloth, and line. Men, women, and children moved across the deck with practiced grace while those tending the ship’s pitching progress through the waves went about their duties. Few wore the black garments of the shipmaster. Most dressed colorfully if simply: bare-chested or in short vests, cuffed trousers, and shoeless. The younger of the sun-browned children had dispensed with clothing altogether.

  “Shipmaster wants you in her quarters.”

  Gannon noted the speaker, a tall seaman with the Cull Tarr’s swarthy features. The man didn’t pause for a reply and walked toward the ship’s stern.

  “How long until we reach Elan-Sia?” Gannon trailed after him.

  “Springseed,” the man said without turning.

  “Ha!” Gannon smiled. “Seriously. A few days, I imagine.”

  The man stopped outside the aftcastle door, face expressionless if not for the spark in his eye. “Shipmaster’s cabin.”

  Gannon ducked into the cabin. Shipmaster Emer Tilkon sat at one end of a long table surrounded by sturdy chairs. The slanted light from the aft windows revealed a purposeful space, every stick of furniture hung or hammered into place. A green glass bottle marked the table’s center between two silver cups topped off with red wine.

  “Have a drink, Gannon.” She waved him to the seat. “You look ghastly.”

  “When will we reach Elan-Sia?” He ignored the drink and held onto the chair’s back, his bones still loose as rope.

  “Springseed.” She leaned back.

  “You can’t be serious. That was last season.”

  “You have a debt, Ellegean.” She raised her cup and drained her wine.

  If Gannon had found something to appreciate about the woman before, it rapidly soured. “For pulling me out of a boat and chaining me in your hold? For a piece of bread and a bucket of seawater? I had a purse of coins I seem to have misplaced. That should cover it.”

  “Did you notice the full hold? We aren’t headed to Elan-Sia. We plucked you out of the sea, and I assume you don’t want to go back in. That means you sail with us, earn your keep, and go ashore when I say so.”

  “What about my boat?”

  “You want it; it’s yours.” She poured herself more wine. “Good fortune to you, paddling with your hands against the currents.”

  He raked a hand through his hair and tried a different tack. “I don’t know anything about ships or the sea. You’d be better off giving me a set of oars and seeing me off.”

  “You’ll learn or you’ll drown.” She rested her forearms on the table and gave him a hard eye. “I’ll tell you how this works, Ellegean. The Cull Tarr vote. One man, one vote. One woman, one vote. You want to turn the whole ship around for your scrawny ass, put it up for a vote. See if they don’t laugh you over the rail. I’m the Shipmaster until the balled bitches out there decide I can’t lead. Until that time comes, I keep everyone happy as best I can. The only one who gives me orders is the Shiplord, and as long as he’s getting his, I’m the master of my sails.”

  Gannon stared at her, his mind grappling for a halfway reasonable option. He took a chair, downed the wine, grimaced, and poured himself another. “Where are we going?”

  She smiled and lounged back in her seat. “West along the shore. We have supplies for our settlements, and some members of my crew want to move to a new deck. That suits me fine. I want loyalty, Ellegean. You give me loyalty, and I’ll keep them from feeding you to the maws.”

  “Maws?”

  “You’ll know one when you see one.” She smirked. “Look for the rows of pointy teeth.”

  Gannon’s hand shook as he sipped the second glass of wine. What choice did he have? “I suppose I’m yours to command.”

  “A wise man. You’ll make a foreigner’s wage until you learn the ropes. Otherwise, you’re part of the crew. One vote, majority rule.” She winked. “For the most part.”

  His head swam, and the ship’s pitch stirred his stomach. “I could use some air.” He pushed himself from the chair and blinked to steady his vision. Drinking the wine had been a poor choice.

  “One last thing, Gannon.” The shipmaster narrowed her eyes. “If you know the history of our rift, you know the Cull Tarr are devout. We don’t take well to heresy and blasphemy. Consider yourself warned.”

  “Well then, Praise the Founders” Gannon held onto the chair as he bowed. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and an urge to spew burned the back of his throat. “Shipmaster, I need to…”

  “You have the rest of the day off.” She waved him away. “Welcome aboard.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Vianne glanced out the window for the hundredth time, eyes roving the river for a sign of the heiress. She paced despite the feverish weakness melting her limbs. Free of infection, the raw rifts in her beautifully woaded back crusted with black scabs. She attributed the heat to blinding rage at her humiliation. The three men pretended ignorance of her discomfort, unwilling to fathom that her clothes chafed, that the stripes across her back broke open and oozed when she sat. Their nonchalance suggested the dawn rose on this Summertide day like any other.

  She could have sent word that she felt too ill to attend their daily council, and they would have graciously understood. Though tempting, it was an option she refused to consider. Never would she hand them the means to whittle away her power.

  Every other pass by the sideboard, she sipped on a goblet of cool water. Her hands trembled, rippling the liquid against the glass. Tomorrow she would resume her classes and come face to face with Kadan. The punishing pain Dalcoran had inflicted on the young man had been especially brutal, and though she hadn’t participated, she played a role in her guild’s disciplinary structure. Her righteous choices weren’t free of censure. She had tortured the man, Gannon. A decision she justified for the greater good. Yet truly, what had she accomplished?

  As she’d suffered in her bed, weeping over the past week, the multi-faceted nature of pain acquired new clarity. The ache of losing Qeyon hurt no less than her lashing, and it would last far longer than required for her scars to heal. Was her physical and emotional pain more real than the influenced agony inflicted on Kadan? On Gannon? What was she a party to?

  “My influence was a snowflake in the sun,” Tunvise reported. “The rafters were immune, knew it, and profited as a result. I simply took advantage of her shield’s flaw.”

  “The girl hid there,” Piergren concluded.

  “So it seems.” Dalcoran sipped a cup of hot tea, despite the midday heat.

  Her eyes closed, Vianne forced her heartbeat to slow. What was Catling thinking, using her shield? V
ianne was a fool to trust Gannon. How could they behave so rashly with their lives at stake?

  “You elected not to call the guards,” Dalcoran said.

  Tunvise threaded his fingers together over his belly. “Too many fenfolk, and they’re a belligerent mob when untamed. They escaped with our gold, and I’ve no doubt they’ll return for more.”

  Vianne dabbed her forehead with the corner of a lace handcloth and turned to listen. The callousness with which they talked about Catling irritated her. This girl was her charge, her responsibility. She was surrounded by shortsighted imbeciles of every ilk. The men before her were reckless, far too cool, and their disregard for her presence grated. They acted as if her beating had somehow granted her enlightenment and left her in total accordance with their views.

  “We should collect our own luminescence,” Piergren said. “We’re surrounded by it.”

  “It’s diluted.” Vianne resumed her pacing. “The Poisoner would refuse it, and venturing into the swamp would upset our peace with the fenfolk, for what it’s worth. The king would never agree.”

  “We might convince him.” Piergren smiled, the influencer’s message clear.

  “Our oath is to Ellegeance,” Vianne snapped, her wrath blistering. “When did we forget our duty? Is infuriating the fenfolk in the best interests of our realm?”

  “We need the girl,” Dalcoran said. “That’s the goal. We entice them with gold until we trap her.”

  “Kill her,” Vianne sneered. “Speak the truth, Dalcoran. Until we murder her for possessing a gift we don’t understand.”

  He scowled, meeting her eyes. “Until we remove the threat to Ellegeance.”

  “Coward,” she muttered and spun on her heel.

  ***

  Raker sat cross-legged atop the crates, impervious to the veil of rain. Once again, they’d left the foggy channels and paddled across the river’s breadth toward the tier city. Behind him, the goddess draped her arms over his shoulders and brushed her lips against his neck, cooing and humming, her cajoling having little effect.