Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Page 3

  The twisted line yanked her to the surface. She spat salt and clenched her teeth, watching the wind whip up the sail before it dipped. With a breath of hope, she reached for the gunwale. The sea thundered over her. The boom whacked her skull as she fought for the surface, frantically untwisting her arm from the line. She rose to the air as another wave buried her. Something solid nudged her, tumbling her up and freeing her arm. Gasping, she burst from the cold water as another wave dashed her into the boat’s overturned hull. She seized what remained of the smashed rudder and hung on.

  Elan Sia rocked in the distance, flowing farther into the night.

  Chapter Four

  The Wandering Swan rocked on the swells, a floating village of wood, bronze, sailcloth, and line. The Cull Sea stretched from horizon to horizon, the sky a cerulean mirror, the storm blown west with the afternoon. A gauzy strip of land rippled in the distance, the city of Elan-Sia within Gannon’s grasp. He sat on the edge of the aftcastle, watching the spectacle below, his tanned feet dangling over the deck.

  Cull Tarr ship-crafting had spared him a watery death. The glittering waves of twilight rose to mere foothills compared to the morning’s mountains, and what remained of the sporadic spray failed to wet him through. His trousers improved from drenched to damp, and the shirt he’d stowed below was dry beneath his vest.

  He gnawed on a piece of iron-hard cheese they’d purchased in the Cull Tarr shipyards along the coast. Overall, the food was a notch above unpalatable, everything boiled to death due to a hearty fear of luminescence. He hadn’t swallowed a decent meal since escaping Ava-Grea.

  A season past, the shipmaster had elevated him to full crew and a sailor’s wage except for what she repossessed. The woman figured he still owed her for his upkeep after saving him from the maws. He’d spied one of the green beasts with its rows of razor teeth and hadn’t needed a second peek.

  The Wandering Swan planned some Springseed trading in Elan-Sia, and Gannon planned his escape. He’d been stuck on the ship coming on three seasons and wasn’t keen on a fourth. He’d earned voting rights—one-man-one-vote—and on the Cull Sea that came in handy. He’d voted his way back to Elan-Sia when the port of Nor-Bis lay weeks closer. The shipmaster hadn’t smiled at the vote’s outcome, but those were Cull Tarr rules, and it was too late to kill anyone to change the outcome.

  The entertainment at hand brought the ship’s operation to a veritable halt. The Wandering Swan had plucked a blond goddess from the sea, and the shipmaster, the scantily clad and swarthy Emer Tilkon, was deciding what to do with her.

  The girl kept her balance well despite a rolling sea that would leave a raw crewman green around the gills. Her tangled hair plastered the edges of a tempting face and her clothes dripped like washrags. Even wet, the azure jacket didn’t look like anything worn by fisherfolk or traders. It screamed of wealth. That meant she was a thief or from the tiers.

  Compared to the new arrival, Shipmaster Tilkon was a far sturdier woman with a nose rivaling a black-speared tern. Her dark hair brushed the tops of her ears, and a scar puckered her upper lip for a frightening kiss. Gannon tallied a grand old twenty-five, and she had to be ten years older, a guess he wouldn’t wager on.

  The blond held her chin in the air as if she sniffed a dead fish in the wind. Her arms crossed, she was listing a string of demands, and the shipmaster wasn’t taking it like a lady. Gannon swung to the ratlines and climbed down for a better listen… and look. With his improved view, the girl was no longer a girl, a few important years curvier than he’d first thought. She also needed to be careful, or she’d be hauling on the braces to pay Tilkon for saving her from the maws.

  “I command you to deliver me to Elan-Sia,” the girl said.

  Gannon winced with the rest of the crew, sucking a breath between his teeth. Tilkon’s beady eyes tightened into evil slits, and her fists ground into her hips. “Your commands will see you dangling from the yard before the sun sets.”

  The blond glared, impervious to threats of death. She dropped her hands to her hips, mirroring the shipmaster. “This is a Cull Tarr ship.” She swung her gaze across the faces of the crew. “I sincerely doubt your Shiplord would tolerate an offense that destroyed his negotiations with Ellegeance.”

  “Is that so?” Tilkon snarled. “And why would Ellegeance and the Shiplord care if you’re scrubbing the pots in my galley?”

  “Because I’m Lelaine-Elan, Heiress to the Ellegeance throne.”

  The crew erupted in a hubbub of chatter, and Gannon winced. The blond castaway had stomped on Emer Tilkon, and that was a foolish thing to do.

  Tilkon didn’t flinch a muscle. If she didn’t sway with the deck, Gannon would have thought her transformed to a sturdy, if shapely, figurehead ready for the bow. She cracked her knuckles, and the crew’s speculation trickled into silence.

  “Our pardons, Heiress,” Tilkon said, her wrinkled lip skewing into a smile. “Founders forbid us from failing to do our duty. We will deliver you to the Shiplord directly. You may have use of my cabin.”

  “No.” Lelaine shook her head, the first sign of trepidation Gannon noticed. “No, you must return me to Elan-Sia.”

  “The Shiplord handles all matters pertaining to Ellegeance.” Tilkon’s stance relaxed. “I sincerely doubt the Shiplord would tolerate my meddling in his affairs.”

  “The king will pay you in gold for your troubles,” the heiress said. “I shall guarantee it.”

  “Prepare for right full rudder!” Tilkon shouted, ignoring the woman. She strode toward the wheel, and crewmen leapt to their stations.

  “Vote!” Gannon bellowed. There was no way in Founders’ Hell he was heading back to sea for another season. The shipmaster spun, harpoons shooting from her eyes. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “I call a vote!”

  The crew paused in their duties and turned to listen. The heiress stared at him, a look of desperation in her sky-blue eyes.

  “I thought we should vote,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “Fine.” Tilkon glowered, cracking her knuckles. “State your case.”

  Gannon cleared his throat and hauled in a breath, praying he wouldn’t find himself swimming to shore, especially since he couldn’t swim. He faced the men and women of the crew, his voice raised, “You heard what the heiress promised. The king will pay for her safe return in gold. We’ll ransom her. How many of us are there, sixty? I wouldn’t wonder if we could walk away with… three whole gold pieces each. And that’s after giving the Shiplord his quarter share.”

  “Four hundred gold coins,” the heiress called out. “Five to each of you after you honor your Shiplord.”

  Gannon eyed her, impressed. He pivoted back to the crew. “Forget the ransom idea. We saved her. The Shiplord is the exalted hero whose people rescued the Ellegean heiress. The king owes him a profound debt and rewards us with promised riches. The Wandering Swan will give the Shiplord a stronger hand in… whatever he’s negotiating. What better way for all of us to get exactly what we desire.”

  Alright,” Tilkon said, her voice carrying over the crew’s ruckus. “Here’s the other side of your gold coin. We return the heiress whose bond with the Shiplord would make him ruler of all Ellegeance when the mad king dies. He’s furious because we traded a kingdom for five gold coins. To teach his fleet a lesson, he chains us to the deck, douses us in oil, and burns us alive along with our ship.”

  “A forced bonding is an affront to Ellegean law,” the heiress shouted. “Such a union would be void and all chance of alliance lost.” She leaned toward Gannon, her voice a murmur, “Isn’t it also banned by Cull Tarr Protocols?”

  “Not entirely,” he whispered. “Depends on the day.”

  Tilkon raised a fist to her heart. “The Shiplord is Founder-blessed. His word is law. If we deliver the heiress to him, we honor his right to choose the Cull Tarr’s path. Do you doubt he will be righteous in his choices? If he sees the wisdom in returning her for gold, we will return her. If he chooses to ransom her, breed
her, or slit her throat, so be it. Either way, we will have shown ourselves his loyal servants.”

  “But we won’t be rich as the Founders intend us to be,” Gannon countered, veering down a different tack. “The Founders blessed The Wandering Swan with this gift.” He presented the heiress, and she smiled on cue. “Who are we to show our backs on the gods’ will and their blessing of five gold coins to our families, a chest of a hundred gold coins for our blessed leader? The Founders chose us, the crew of The Swan to serve the Shiplord and the future of the blessed Cull Tarr.”

  “Enough!” Tilkon shouted. “Vote!”

  “All in favor of returning her now for a blessed fortune of four hundred gold coins raise your fists,” Gannon called out, punching his fist in the air. He watched as the fists roses—less than half.

  “Twenty-three,” a man shouted from the forecastle to a muttering of agreement.

  “All is favor of delivering her to the Shiplord and preserving our scraggy asses,” Tilkon yelled.

  Gannon held his breath and counted as the fists rose.

  “Nineteen,” the same voice called out. “The Cull Tarr voted. We sail for Elan-Sia.”

  The heiress slipped her hand into his.

  Chapter Five

  The next day, when the morning tides lost their bite, The Wandering Swan anchored inside the breakwater. Gannon heaved on the oars of the ship’s dory, the labor warming him along with the Springseed sun. His neck ached from craning over his shoulder at the magnificent tiers of Elan-Sia that petaled outward and upward on twelve massive pylons.

  He’d missed a view of the city on his unconscious drift down the Slipsilver a year ago, poisoned by fenfolk mushrooms through no one’s fault but his own. His ill-fated rescue of Catling had landed him in the swamps with the rafters, and his escape from that fiasco had ended in chains in The Swan’s hold. His life was descending into one long and perilous misadventure, and from this day forward, he swore off rescuing anyone but himself.

  Except this one last time.

  The heiress counted for something. He swiveled around and pulled on the oars, catching sight of the blond girl… woman standing at the ship’s rail. Emer Tilkon wasn’t about to free her until she tested the gold with her teeth. She didn’t trust Gannon either, but he was Ellegean, a fact he insisted was critical to any negotiation. Plus he’d offered her his five gold pieces to pay off his debt two hundred times over.

  The ninth bell tolled in the tier. His dory glided in, bumping other hulls at the pier, and he tossed the bowline to one of the urchins that ran small errands when not fishing in pockets for coppers. He leapt to the planks and floated a hard-earned clipped silver in front of the boy’s greedy little eyes. “Here’s what I want you to do.” He bent over. “You find me a few boxes and fill them with river rats, as many as you can find and seal them in.”

  “What for?” The boy frowned.

  “Because I like the way they taste.”

  “They’ll eat through the box.”

  “That’s the point.” Gannon bobbed his eyebrows. “You want the coin or not?”

  The boy grabbed it out of his hand and pocketed it. “Where should I put the boxes?”

  “In my boat. Before the next bell.” He figured that would lend him enough time to squirm his way up the tiers, parlay with the king, loot the royal vaults, and be on his way. “Make it two bells.”

  “They’ll eat through—”

  “—my boat. Yes, I know. Now go on. Another split if I like your hustle.” He flashed a slip of silvery shell, and the boy darted off, convinced.

  The trade season began early this far north, merchants and riverfolk transporting goods down the Slipsilver from colder points south. The delta waters bled around the royal city, the channels as convoluted as the shifting waterways of Ava-Grea’s swamps and prone to tidal flooding.

  Gannon jogged onto the girding dock, aiming for the northern ramp to the first tier. Traders flashed arms laden with baubles and silks. Tables displayed luminescent lanterns, Springseed greens, southern furs, and a hundred other items fresh off the boats. The first and second tiers extended the markets with higher quality goods carted up from the docks or down from the Trade-Crafters Guild. The raucous chatter, clutter, and swarm of people were food to a man starving for the familiar.

  He would have likened it to Ava-Grea except for the overabundance of Cull Tarr. Preachers in scarlet garb railed against the excesses of the tiers while coins clinked into purses swinging from wide belts. He pushed past them. After nearly a year under Emer Tilkon’s thumb, his knowledge of the Founders’ Book of Protocols was second to none. He’d actually read it, which was more than his shipmates could boast. Most of them couldn’t read.

  The most direct route to the king wound through his councilors, which meant reaching the King’s Guard through the City Guard. A modest congregation of such idled on the steps leading up to the third tier. He slowed his pace to a confident stride. “I bear a message for the King’s Guard,” he announced.

  A bored guardsman leaning on the rail shooed him away. “See your Ambassador, Cull Tarr.”

  Gannon would have glanced over his shoulder, except the man looked him straight in the eye. He supposed the misunderstanding was forgivable under the circumstances. “I’m not Cull Tarr. I’m from Mur-Vallis and would be happy to prove it at another time. At this moment, I need the King’s Guard.”

  “King’s Guard is on the seventeenth tier,” the man informed him.

  “Thank you.” Gannon started past him, and three guards jolted into action, blocking his way.

  “I didn’t say you could go up there.” The guard’s countenance shifted from boredom to annoyance.

  “I carry a message regarding the heiress,” Gannon said loud enough that he turned a few heads. “Do you really want me to walk away?”

  The guards frowned. An older man with a manicured beard and a short cloak in the style of Guardian warriors pushed toward him. “She’s missing.”

  “No, she’s not.” Gannon pointed with a thumb over his shoulder at The Swan. “I have a ransom message for the king.” The greybeard coldcocked him so hard that stars sparkled in his eyes.

  ***

  The podgy councilor, Oaron-Elan, trailed Gannon down the ramp to the docks. Edark-Rho followed, the gaunt man clearly skeptical. Oaron wrung his hands. “I’d feel ever more relieved if I might assign an influencer to accompany you.”

  “No influencers,” Gannon said. “The shipmaster will honor her word.” The last thing he needed was an influencer getting him killed. He already sported a swollen eye the color of a spiny plum.

  “We are dispensing with four hundred gold coins on your word,” Edark said. “You must realize this is highly risky.”

  Gannon glanced back at the king’s two representatives and the score of King’s Guardsmen protecting the beloved chests of gold. “Might I remind you, the shipmaster voted to gift the heiress to the Shiplord? She thought a bond might please the man more than the gold.”

  “The Shiplord, the ruler of Ellegeance.” Oaron-Elan blanched. “We would go to war.”

  “Which would cost more than four hundred gold coins,” Gannon pointed out.

  “And what do you gain from this negotiation?” Edark inquired.

  “I relieve my unwarranted debt with the Cull Tarr and get off that ship.” Gannon turned up the pier. “Though I won’t refuse a royal gesture of gratitude.” Another fifty city guardsmen headed for a flotilla of boats that would do little but afford an earnest show. Gannon spied his skinny errand boy munching on a lucky cake in his dory, a foot propped up on one of four boxes.

  The boy clambered out of the boat, gawping at Gannon’s eye. “I had to keep flipping the boxes,” he said, his hand out. “They’re chewing through.”

  “What’s chewing through?” Edark craned his thin neck over the boat.”

  “A little surprise for Emer Tilkon.” Gannon jerked his chin toward the boy while addressing the councilors, “He needs a whole s
ilver.” Oaron blinked but followed orders and pressed a twinkling coin into the boy’s sticky palm. Gannon hopped down into the boat and cringed at the scuffling and gnawing inside the boxes. With a grimace, he flipped them and wiped his hands on his trousers. “I’ll take the gold. We better hurry.”

  Edark nodded, his skepticism deepening his frown. “Take great care. You understand the penalty should you fail?”

  “I won’t fail.” Gannon eyed the man. “The Cull Tarr voted. The vote is the law until the Shiplord says otherwise.”

  “Ransom,” Oaron said, wringing his hands.

  “Reward according to the Cull Tarr,” Gannon reminded him. “The heiress set the price.”

  The councilor flicked his fingers at the guards, and they handed down the chests. Gannon arranged them around the plainer boxes and cracked a lid for a brief inspection of the goods. The coins blazed, blinding in the sun. A riverman’s eyeballs nearly tumbled from his head as he tied a second dory to the stern. Gannon climbed into the spare boat, planning to hand over the gold-laden dory when the heiress plunked safely at his side.

  He gave way on the oars, the ride with the current easier than the ride against it. The guards’ skiffs followed but kept a healthy distance as instructed. No reason to stir up the hackles on Tilkon’s back. The unmanned dory with its fortune in gold trailed from the stern, Gannon’s revenge tucked inside.

  When he’d rowed well clear of the piers, he glanced over his shoulder. The Swan lowered another boat, and the heiress climbed down a net after two crewmen. Gannon let his dory drift, aiming for an exchange beyond Tilkon’s formidable reach. The Cull Sea glowed with luminescence, not with the magnificence revealed by a night sky, but beautiful nonetheless.

  He took up the oars again as the heiress’s dory neared. She nodded at him, hands clenched in her lap, the ordeal not quite concluded. A worm of uneasiness wriggled beneath his skin as he glanced at the chests of gold and his hidden gift for his nemesis. His desire to strike a blow at Tilkon had outsmarted his good sense. He needed to get this done.