SIX
In the Liban port of Al-Aran I took ship on a cog named Santa Maria, the same vessel that took most of the salt my companions had spent the best part of the previous month hauling north from Hamada. They also found room for my three camels in the hold, and I’ll admit to a certain satisfaction at the beasts’ distress, having spent so long enduring my own distress on a camel hump.
“I warn you, captain, God crafted these creatures for three things only. Passing wind from the rear end, passing wind from the front end, and spitting. They spit stomach acid so tell your men, and don’t let anyone venture into the hold with a naked flame or you may find yourself the master of a marvellous collection of floating splinters. Also we’ll all drown.”
Captain Malturk snorted into the bushiness of his moustaches and waved me off, turning toward the masts and rigging to shout nautical nonsense at his men.
Travel by sea is a miserable business best not spoken about in polite company and nothing of any account happened for the first four days. Oh, there were waves, the wind blew, meals were eaten, but until the coast of Cag Liar appeared on the horizon it was generally distinguishable from all my other sea voyages only by the temperature, the language in which the sailors swore, and the taste of the food coming back up.
Also, never take a camel to sea. Just don’t. Especially not three of the bastards.
Port French on Cag Liar, the southern-most of the Corsair Isles, is the first stop of many ships leaving the coast of Afrique. There are two ways to sail the Middle Sea and survive the experience. Firstly armed to the teeth, secondly armed with a right-of-passage purchased from the pirate-lords. Such things can be obtained from factors in many ports, but it bodes well for a ship to put in at Port French or one of the other main centres on the Corsairs. The code flags are changed regularly and it doesn’t do to be sailing on out-of-date flags. Plus, for a merchant, once the painful business of “taxes” is concluded, there are few places in the world that offer as wide a range of goods and services as the corsair ports. They trade in flesh there too, the bought-and-sold type as well as the hired type. Slaves run mainly west to east and a trickle north to south. The Broken Empire never had a big demand for slaves. We have peasants. Much the same thing, and they think they’re free so they never run off.
Coming into port it felt good to at last see the world I knew best, the headlands thick with pine and beech and oak in place of the scattered palm trees of northern Liba. And seasons too! The forest stood rustspeckled with the first crisp touch of autumn, though on a blazing day like this it felt hard to imagine the summer in terminal decline. In place of Liba’s flat roofs the houses on the slopes above the harbour boasted terracotta tiles, sloped in a tacit admission that rain actually happens.
“Two days! Two days!” Malturk’s first mate, a barrel of a man named Bartoli, who seemed incapable of wearing a shirt. “Two days!” A booming baritone.
“How many?”
“Two d—”
“I got it, thank you.” I wiggled a finger into my half-deafened ear and proceeded down the gangplank.
The quays of Port French are like none I’ve seen. It’s as though the contents of every brothel, opium den, gambling hall, and blood-pit have been vomited up onto the sun-soaked harbour, pushing out among the quays so that the dockhands have to weave their path among this bright and varied crowd just to tie off a hawser.
I immediately found myself swamped by maidens in all shades from jet through dusky to sun-burned, along with men trying to steer me to establishments where any vice might be indulged so long as it parts you from your coin. The most direct of all, and perhaps the most honest, were the small boys dodging in and out among the adults’ legs and attempting to lift my purse before I’d gone ten paces.
“Two days!” Bartoli, on the rail, watching his crew and passengers disperse. The Santa Maria would sail with or without us once its business had concluded and the code flags were hung.
After Hell, the desert, and then the sea, Port French seemed as close to heaven as makes no difference. I wandered through the crowd in a state of bliss, paying no specific attention to any of the people trying to lure me this way or that, no matter how persistent. At one point I paused to boot a particularly annoying little cutpurse into the sea, and then at last I was off the quay and climbing into the maze of streets leading up to the ridge where all the finest buildings seemed to cluster.
Nothing paralyses a man so well as choice. Offered such a banquet after so long in the wilderness the decision stumped me. I settled at a table outside a tavern on a steep and cobbled street halfway to the ridge. I ordered wine and it came in an amphora cradled in a raffia jacket to keep it whole. I sat watching the world go by, sipping from my clay cup.
They call them the Corsair Isles and it’s true that pirating defines them, but there are millions of hot dry acres in the interior where the sea can’t even be spotted from a hill, and in those valleys they grow damned fine grapes. However cheap its container, the wine was good.
My travel-stained robes and Sahar tan made me more of an Arab than a man of Red March, only the sun-bleached gold in my hair told the lie. Certainly nobody would mistake me for a prince, which has its advantages in a town packed with robbers, thieves, pirates and pimps. Anonymous in my desert attire I took a moment to relax. Hell, I took several moments, then two hours, then three more, and enjoyed the passing hustle and bustle of close-packed living while the sun slipped across the sky.
I considered my return to Vermillion, my fortunes, my future, but most of all I considered Yusuf Malendra and his calculations. Not just Yusuf though, not just the Mathema where a hundred mathmagicians scratched away at their algebras, but all of those who saw or told or lied about the future. The völvas of the north, the magicians of Afrique, the Silent Sister with her blind eye, the Lady Blue amid her mirrors looking for reflections of tomorrow. Spiders, all of them, laying their webs. And what did that make men like me and Jorg Ancrath? Flies, bound tight and ready to have our vital juices sucked away to feed their appetite for knowing?
Jorg had it worse than me of course. That boy prince with his thorn scars. He’d escaped that tangle of briars but did he know that he hung in a larger one now, its hooks long enough to eviscerate a man? Did he know my grandmother whispered his name to the Silent Sister? That so many conspired to either make or break him? Emperor or fool—which he would be remembered as I couldn’t say, but he was one of those in the making, no doubt about it. Perhaps both. I remembered his eyes, that first night I saw him in Crath City. As if even then he looked past the world and saw all this coming his way. And didn’t give a damn.
I knocked back my cup and tried to pour another. The amphora dribbled and ran dry. “I’m well out of that business.” I had covered the Ancrath boy with a blanket and left him on that roof in Hamada. I should have done him the kindness of pushing him off. Still, I had escaped, and that, as always, was the important thing. A prophecy has to get up very early in the morning indeed if it wants to snare old Jalan!
“Rollas?” Looking up from my close inspection of the amphora’s interior, in search of hidden wine, I saw a man turn from the main street into a side alley. Something about the square cut of his shoulders below the blunt and bristly back of his head, put me in mind of my friend Barras Jon’s man, Rollas. I stood, swaying somewhat, steadying myself with a hand to the shoulder of a man seated by the next table. “Your pardon.” The words slurred over numb lips. “Just getting my land legs.” And I stumbled out across the street. It hadn’t just reminded me of Barras’s man. It had been him. I’d followed the back of that head home to the palace after enough drunken Vermillion nights to know it anywhere. It was habit more than anything that made me set off after it this time.
I walked carefully, not wanting to step in anything unpleasant, and had to negotiate passage around an ill-smelling beggar even more drunk than myself. I emerged from the alley into another street leading from the docks to the heights, sure that I must have lost my quarry, but found myself just in time to see him enter a whorehouse. You can always tell the places: better presented than the drinking holes, more conspicuous than gambling dens, and if business is slow then girls will be leaning out of the upstairs windows. Besides, this one had “Hore House” painted in big red letters on a sign running the length of the eaves.
I crossed over and let the street-hook snare me.
“A fine-looking man like you shouldn’t be alone on a nice afternoon like this now.” The hook, a striking, dark-haired woman in her forties took my arm, steering me toward the brothel door.
“And you’d like to keep me company would you?” I leered politely.
She smiled, professional enough not to wince at my wine-sour breath. “Well, I’m a little old for a young man like you, but there are some beautiful girls inside just dying to meet you. Samantha has the b—”
“Do you know the man who went in just before me?” I held back against the tug of her arm, just shy of the doorway and the door-guard hulking in the shadows of its porch.
She released me and looked up, smile erased. “We’re a very discreet establishment. We don’t tell tales.”
I held up a Liban bar between finger and thumb and let the rectangular coin catch the afternoon light. I’d borrowed ten bars from Omar the night before I left, each made of a touch more gold than an Empire ducat.
“I haven’t seen him before. I would remember. Handsome fellow.”
“What did he want?”
She rolled her eyes at that. “A whore.”
“He came straight here. He wasn’t wandering. He didn’t hesitate . . . did he come to see a particular girl?”
“That’s a pretty coin. Does it weigh much?” She held her hand out, palm up.
“Yes.” I pressed it into her hand. It seemed a lot to spend on what was probably mistaken identity—and I didn’t quite know why I hadn’t just shouted out to Rollas. I considered walking away but Barras was my friend, albeit a treacherous, backstabbing one who had married the girl I’d been mooning over in the frozen north . . . at least when there weren’t any other girls to keep me warm. And if it was Rollas I’d seen then something was very wrong. I couldn’t think of any good reason that the man the Great Jon hired to protect his son would be hurrying into a Port French brothel. “I’m spending any change inside, so the better the story the less work this Samantha of yours has to do.”
The woman bit her lip, considering the odds. She’d make a terrible poker player. She glanced at the doorman, at me, eyes finally coming to rest on the Liban bar in her hand. “Said he wanted to look the girls over. Wanted to know if we only used free workers, or if we bought chained skin. Asking after any new girls. White girls. My height, dark hair. Told him no, but he wanted to look anyway.”
“Did he mention a name?”
“It doesn’t do to ask questions like his on the Isles. It’s an easy way to get a cut throat.”
I took her meaning. Even drunk I knew it wasn’t idle talk. Even so. “Did he mention a name?”
“Lisa?”
“DeVeer?”
“New girls only get one name. Do a good job and you might get another in a couple of years. DeVeer, though? That’s not going to bring them in. DeLicious, maybe. Mine was FourWays. Serra FourWays.”
Lisa? A corsair captive? I needed to think it through. I stepped away, almost crashing into a man laden beneath sacks. “Your pardon.” Somehow I’d been reduced to apologizing to common labourers. “I . . .” I turned and started down the street.
“You don’t want to use your credit?” Serra called after me.
“Maybe later . . .” I’d stopped turning but my head kept spinning, and it wasn’t all too much afternoon wine. Lisa DeVeer a slave in Port French? How?
“You’re still wondering what the fourth way is, aren’t you?” She called the words at my back.
I didn’t answer, but truth be told, even with thoughts of Lisa swirling in my head . . . I was.
The sun was setting as I walked back up the gangplank onto the Santa Maria. The quays were quieter, though far from quiet. There’s a hush that settles as the sea turns crimson and the shadows reach. The shadowmasts stretch out from ships at rest, venturing farther and farther, across the docks, up the warehouse walls, meshing, merging until only the highest ridge is lit, the sun’s last rays burning on the mansions where pirate lords and pirate ladies play at nobility.
“You back to water those fucking beasts of yours?” Bartoli loomed behind me as I stood at the rail looking out across the sea. Time was when a man took a risk interrupting me at sunset, but Aslaug no longer even whispered.
“They’re camels, for Christsake. Camels don’t drink. Everyone knows that.” I held a hand in front of his face to forestall any reply. “Corsairs trade in flesh—but they don’t raid for it . . . do they?” Asking questions in Port French might well get Rollas his throat cut. Me, I’d ask my questions on the Santa Maria. Much safer.
“You looking to buy? You can’t even look after camels!”
“Where do they get their slaves from?” I stuck to my question. “Slavers bring them in, obviously.” Bartoli rubbed at the blackness of his beard and spat noisily over the rail. “Corsairs will sell on prisoners off a ship, but they don’t snatch from ports or raid inland. Even pirates need friends. Don’t shit where you eat. That’s a lesson for everyone . . . except your fucking camels, apparently.”
“So . . . where would someone buy a slave?”
“At a slave market.” Bartoli gave me the same look he’d been giving me for days, the “you’re an idiot” look.
“And where—”
“Take your pick. Must be a dozen of ’em. First one is just over there, general market, behind the Crooked Jacks warehouse, big one with the shingle roof, tobacco and such. Second one is a kids market, just past the King’s Heart tavern at the bottom of Main.”
“A dozen?” It seemed like a lot to check out just on a hunch and the back of a man’s head.
Bartoli furrowed his brow and stared at his fingers. “Thirteen.”
I felt the ripple run through me as the planets aligned. “Thirteen?”
“Thirteen.”
First stop, second sister, thirteen . . . “Where’s the thirteenth?”
“Way up, past the lords’ houses, back in the hills.” He waved a thick arm at the town. “They actually call it Thirteen. S’how I figured there’s thirteen. Not so much selling goes on there. More of a . . . how’d you call it? School? Training up quality females. Not for the likes of us though. Sell ’em on to rich men in Maroc and the interior.”
And so it was that on the following morning a hunch, the back of a man’s head, the memory of Lisa DeVeer’s many charms, and two devious mathmagicians, had me toiling up through the streets of Port French nursing a hangover. I found myself drenched in sweat despite the cloud wrack burgeoning over the hills of Cag Liar. Storm coming. I didn’t need to be a sailor or a farmer to know that.
Yusuf had set me up for this. I knew it. From plotting out my route home to handing over those three little numbers that he must have known I would ask for. I resolved to settle my scores with Omar and his master in due course. For now I kept on walking, manfully resisting the various taverns opening onto the street, the rattle of gaming wheels from low garrets, and the calls of commercially-minded young women from arched windows.
I’d slept on the Santa Maria the previous night. My afternoon’s drinking had caught up with me and I’d settled on a big coil of rope by the forecastle steps just to rest my eyes. The next thing I knew seagulls were crapping on me and an unreasonably bright morning was in progress, with sailors shouting too loudly and the keenest salesmen already setting out their quayside stalls.
After forcing down a hearty breakfast I decided to do the honourable thing and see if I could find Lisa. I considered searching Rollas out—if it was Rollas—but at least I knew Lisa wouldn’t be wandering about. And besides, the chances were that Rollas had already asked enough questions to get himself knifed and dumped in the docks. Or knowing Rollas, to have knifed his attackers first and then had to flee.
Port French peters out into a scattering of merchants’ estates and vineyards as you climb up into the hills that step their way into the countryside. It’s pretty in its way, but I’d rather see it from the saddle. Or not at all. Especially not on foot, battered by a squally wind that couldn’t decide on a direction in which to blow. I narrowed my eyes against the grit and dust and followed the conflicting directions of several locals, plotting the average path. Soon I found myself lost, pursuing dry tracks that snaked their way between drier ridges. I passed one slack-jawed yokel who gave me another bunch of lies concerning the route to Thirteen, his dialect so thick as to be barely distinguishable from the grunting of his hogs. After that I met only goats, and once, a surprised donkey.
“Bollocks.”
I couldn’t see the sea any more, nor the town, just rolling brown hills, studded with thorn bushes and rocks. Apart from the goats, the odd lizard sunning itself, and a buzzard circling overhead, possibly waiting for me to die, I appeared to be utterly alone.
Then it began to rain.
An hour later, sodden, muddy from several falls, and having already abandoned my quest—my goal now being to find Port French again—I scrambled over a ridge and there, on the crest of the next rise, lay Thirteen.
The place had the look of an old fortress to it, a high-walled compound with observation towers at each corner, facing out over a slate-grey sea. From my elevation I could make out a range of buildings within the compound: barracks, stables, officers’ quarters—the only part of the edifice that looked vaguely hospitable—a well and three separate exercise yards. Formidable gates of iron-banded timber stood closed to the outside world. Guards manned the towers, alongside bell-bars waiting to be given their voice in case of alarm. Other guards ambled around the walls, some resting on the parapet to enjoy a pipe or watch the clouds. It seemed unreasonably well defended until you realized that the concern was not the slaves escaping but that they might be stolen. They were, after all, a valuable commodity and this was an island ruled by criminals.
I could see small groups of women in sackcloth being marched from one building to another. At this range I couldn’t make out the doors on the slave blocks, but no doubt they would be sturdy and well locked.
“Hmmm.” I wiped the wet hair from my eyes and contemplated the place. The rain had slackened off and lighter skies promised in the east.
I’ve never claimed to be a hero, but I knew that a woman I had briefly intended to marry could well be incarcerated, destined for a life of slavery, most likely as a concubine in some harem far to the south. I drew Loki’s key out from beneath my muddy robes. It glistened in the grey light. I could almost feel the thing laughing at me as I held it in my hand.
My gaze shifted from the consuming blackness of the key to the dark mass of the fortress they called Thirteen, glowering at me from the next ridge. Once before I’d stormed a stronghold to rescue a friend. The key twisted in my grip as if already imagining the locks that would surrender to it.
I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to get back on the Santa Maria and ride her all the way home. But I was a prince of Red March, and this was Lisa, Lisa DeVeer, my Lisa, damn it. I knew what I had to do.
“You bastard!”
“What?” I stepped back sharply out of the reach of her fists. “Camels?” Lisa shouted, and shuffled toward me, hampered by the rope still hobbling her legs. “You traded me for three camels? Three?”
“Well . . .” I hadn’t imagined this reaction when I took her slave-hood off. We were only a hundred yards from Thirteen’s doors. The men on the towers were watching and probably having a good laugh at my expense.
“They were good camels, Lisa!”
“Three!” She swung at me again and I jumped back. Overbalanced, she toppled, cursing, into the mud.
No probably about it. I could hear the tower guards laughing. “Lisa! Angel! I rescued you!” I thought it politic not to mention that it was actually just two camels. I traded the other one for five pieces of crown silver and a rather stylish leather jerkin with iron plates stitched to the chest and sides, nicely engraved. The factor had admitted after the deal that Lisa had been proving a pain to train in the duties of a harem girl and would likely have had to be whipped beyond the point of physical acceptability in the role. “I saved you!”
“My husband should have done that!” Her shriek managed to make my ears ring.
“I’m sure Barras is . . .” I bit the sentence off and decided not to make excuses for the treacherous bastard. “Well, he didn’t, did he? So you’re lucky I found you.” I drew my knife. “Now, if you’ll stop trying to hit me I’ll cut your legs free.”
Lisa dropped her arms and let me kneel to slice the rope. The moment the last fibres parted, she was off. Charging straight back at the doors, screaming bloody threats and dire promises, both hands raised in obscene gestures. Fortunately the circulation hadn’t fully returned to her legs and I caught her before she got a third of the way back, wrapping my arms about her from behind and spinning her around bodily. “Christsakes, woman! They’ll take you right back off me and tear up the bill of sale. These are not nice men. Your mouth’s going to get your nose cut off and find you doing tricks in a dark-house just to eat!” I was as worried for me as for her. We were a long way from town, and these were the Corsair Isles: they could do pretty much anything and get away with it. I started to drag her away. It was actually slightly easier than dragging my three camels all the way up from the quayside. I got her back to where we started before she got her arm free and slapped me.
“Ow! Jesus!” I clutched my face. “What was that for?”
“They said you died!” Angry, as if it were my fault.
“They said you got married!” My turn to feel angry, and for more than being slapped, though I wasn’t sure why. The ingratitude of it probably.
I’d liked those camels. I grabbed her arm and pulled her on. “We’ve got to get out of here. If they see I know you they’ll either want more money or just kill me so this never comes back to them.” I set off, Lisa stumbling and jerking behind me. “How long before one of the men on the wall reports all this to someone important down below? I should have kept the hood on you till we were out of sight of the—”
I broke off as Lisa started sobbing, heaving in great lungfuls of air and shuddering them out as she walked. In other circumstances I might have said or at least thought something patronizing about the “weaker sex,” but frankly I knew exactly the feeling—there had been too many escapes of mine where I would have been sobbing with relief too if I hadn’t had a front to maintain before the company I was in. I kept glancing back at Lisa as I led her down through those hills.
Her sackcloth dress had got almost as muddy as my robes when I wrestled her to the ground, her hair stuck out at odd angles or hung in dirty straggles—slave-hood hair you could call it—and her eyes were red from too many tears.
Back at Thirteen I’d said I was after the least expensive beauty they had, and Lisa was in the line of eight they’d brought out from the discipline hut. None of them had been made presentable and some you had to look at pretty hard to see much beauty beneath the grime and bruises. Lisa though, took my breath. Something in her eyes, or the shape of her mouth, or . . . I can’t tell you. Maybe just because that mouth, those eyes, the curve of her neck, meant something to me, each part of her so overlaid with memories that it became hard to see what stood in front of me without our history crowding in. I didn’t like the sensation at all—most uncomfortable—I put it down to the shock of my Hell-trek and having been so long in heathen climes. It gave me additional reasons to be grateful for the desert veil I’d put in place. I’d worn it of course to stop her recognizing me and giving away the fact I was there for her. At best that would have simply increased her price ten-fold. At worst it would have got me killed.
“What?” she asked, self-conscious for the first time. “Have I got something on my face?” She reached up to touch her cheek, unconscious of the action and smearing more dirt there.
“Nothing.” I looked away, managing to stumble over a rock as I did.
She looked gorgeous. Far too gorgeous for Barras Jon.
We reached the outskirts of Port French before Lisa gathered herself enough to ask, “You have brought a ship haven’t you?”
“Well. A ship brought me, that’s certainly true.”
Lisa shuddered. “I never want to sail again. I was sick the whole way to Vyene!”
“Ah. Well, we are on an island, so . . .” I fell back alongside her, stepped in closer and put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I know a lot of people don’t take well to boats. I’m a great sailor and even I felt a little rough during my first storm, but I took to the whole business with the ropes and whatnot immediately. Taught those Vikings a thing or two . . .”
“Vikings?” She looked up at me and frowned.
“It’s a long story.”
“And why are you dressed as a shepherd out of the nativity? Is it some kind of disguise?”
“Kind o—”
“And why.” She shook my arm off. “Are you so muddy?” She poked at a particularly filthy part of my Bedouin robe. I didn’t like to tell her it wasn’t mud. Camels are disgusting creatures, a week at sea does nothing to improve them, and I’ve never seen the like before when it comes to projectile shitting.
Rather than explain my garb I diverted her with a question. “Why were you in Vyene?” I couldn’t think what business she would have in the Empire’s capital—or at least former empire’s former capital. “Barras was taking me to meet his family and settle on one of their western estates—”
“Barras, is he—”
“He’s fine.” Anger creased her brow. “He got held up with his father’s business in Vermillion—the Great Jon went ahead of us to Vyene—so he didn’t sail with me as planned, just sent me and my maids on with some more of the effects from the rooms in the palace . . . At least I think he’s fine.” Lisa put her hand to my arm. “He must be looking for me, Jal.
He could have come to harm—you said the pirates—”
“I’m sure he’s in good health.” I may have snapped it. My momentary concern for Barras had vanished as soon as I heard he didn’t sail with her. I wondered how many men he had out searching for his wife—trust Rollas to come closest to the mark—a man of many talents. “Come on.”
I picked up the pace. “We need to get to our ship.”
Lisa hiked up her sackcloth and hurried after me.
The Santa Maria lay where I left her, waiting for the tide, and we boarded without incident. Bartoli also remained where I left him, leaning against the ship’s rail, scratching his hairy belly. He extorted two pieces of crown silver from me before allowing my guest passage to the port of Marsail, a price I paid without complaint, not wishing to seem cheap with Lisa watching on.
Before sailing we managed to secure Lisa a dress, negotiating with the rogues on the quays over the side of the ship. A short to-and-fro with some tailor’s shop hidden back behind the warehouses and a dress was brought out, little more than an embroidered sack in truth, but better than the actual sack I’d purchased her in.
I stood guard outside the tiny cupboard that served as my cabin, defending Lisa’s honour against the largely uninterested sailors whilst she changed clothes. She emerged, tugging at the sleeves but without complaint. She looked sick even in the gloom beneath decks.
“Are you all right?”
She put a hand to the door to steady herself. “It’s just this rocking.”
“We’re still at anchor, tied to the quayside.”
Rather than reply Lisa covered her mouth and made a dash for the steps. When we set sail two hours later on the afternoon tide Lisa hung over the stern rail, groaning. I stood behind her, cheerfully watching Port French slip into the distance. I may have overstated my claim to being a good sailor, but in fine weather on the Middle Sea I can keep my footing and do a passable impression of enjoying the whole nautical affair. Lisa on the other hand proved to be a sailor who would make me look good on my worst day. I had thought I would never have shipmates messier, louder, or more given to complaint than the three camels Omar foisted on me, but Lisa outdid the trio. Like the camels the slightest swell emptied her from both ends. Only my robust objection prevented Captain Malturk having her kept in their former accommodation.
I learned on the second day of our voyage that Lisa’s violent response to travel by sea had at least made her sufficiently unappealing to the corsairs who captured her vessel that she had remained unmolested during the long passage back to the Isles. Her maids were not so “lucky” and were sold into a different market at the corsairs’ first port of call. Lisa’s escape was not without cost though, since she had arrived in Port French so close to death that the slave master came within a hair’s breadth of dumping her in the harbour rather than invest in her recuperation. At sea once again she went into a rapid decline and spent the three-day voyage curled up in my tiny cabin with two buckets. I kept to the deck and we saw little of each other until the blessed call “Land ho!” from somewhere up in the rigging finally coaxed her into the open.
She stood, pale green and shaking, as I manfully endured her stench and pointed toward the still-invisible coast as if I could see it. “The Port of Marsail! We’ll charter a place on one of the cogs that sail up the Seleen and be in Vermillion within two days at most!”
Home! I couldn’t see it but I sure as hell could taste it, and this time I’d be staying put.