Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Intrigue

“To be logically consistent,” said Shaa. “I should point out that you were the one who was blaming my limitations on my curse a moment ago, and you were -”

“So what - you’re just going to let this curse rule your life?”

Was the ship passing through a zone of logical plasticity? “If I recall correctly, I was arguing for free will in the face of destiny’s control, manifested in this case by the curse, and you were arguing in favor of not pushing the issue. Now you seem to be trying to reverse -”

“For once in your life, answer a question, will you?”

Shaa had not been facing her; now he turned to do so. Under the shadowing hood, she had exactly the look of determination he had expected. “Very well,” he said. “I recall doing something like this with your brother, so I suppose it’s only fair. What question do you have in mind?”

Her teeth clenched even further; if she kept this up, she was going to make some dentist who liked crown work very happy. “Are you going to let the curse rule your life?” she said, squeezing each word through her lips like a spurt of batter out of a tight dough bag, and chopping off the end of each syllable with the verbal equivalent of a sharp cleaver.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Shaa said. “I am, at least up to a point. That’s what you do with curses, that’s what they’re for.”

“What about happiness?”

“It’s difficult to be happy when you’re dead,” said Shaa. “I have this on solid authority.”

“Then why are you deliberately putting yourself in danger again?”

The dock was approaching quickly; they’d have to wrap this up soon. “The immediate danger should be minimal, it shouldn’t involve much physical exertion, and in any case I never said I don’t intend to keep on challenging the curse envelope. At the moment I have certain boundaries; there’s no getting around that. Everyone has boundaries; mine are more limited, that’s a downside, but I know where they are, which is generally a plus. Nothing doesn’t keep me from being creative about working with them and trying to push them out. And I hope you’re satisfied now, because that’s all you’re going to get.”

The mate and coxswain between them had been managing their advent at the dock. “Very neat,” Shaa told them, “very clean, all very shipshape.”

“Urr,” the mate said again, followed by a reluctant “aye.”

“So who do they think they are?” Roni said. “There, on the dock?”

“Police, do you think?” said Shaa. “Militia, perhaps, in those numbers.” A troop of thirty men were drawn up in ranks on the quay where they’d been directed to moor by the harbor-pilot’s vessel crisscrossing the river at the head of the harbor. At the head of the troop was a loose group of five more men - the troop’s commander was clearly distinguishable through his polished breastplate, serious-looking olive beret, and swagger stick, and a second man wearing oilskin coveralls, thick boots, and a professional manner was confirmed by the mate to be the dockmaster. This man, his arms planted impatiently on his hips, was looking distrustfully at the third member of the party, a purse-lipped sallow-faced fellow with a plumed hat and a satin-lined off-the-shoulder cloak, and a rolled-up document of some sort under his arm. Behind him on either side were two fellows with the look of personal guards, their swords loose in their hands; one was large, but the other was larger. “Avast, there,” Shaa said absently.

On a barked command from the coxswain, oars were raised and shipped, the ship lost headway, the mate twirled the wheel and the stern of the ship swung smartly to starboard, and then they were creeping to a dead halt not three feet from the wharf. Lines were tossed and secured and the gangplank was lowered. The crew stood back, silent; they had their orders. On the dock, the official bearing the document was in the midst of a hurried consultation with the dockmaster, the official jabbing his arm toward the ship while the dockmaster alternately shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. Then they appeared to resolve something, or perhaps they didn’t, for the official was stalking officiously up the gangplank, followed immediately by the two guards and after them by the commander of troops, and trailed at a distinct distance by a clearly displeased dockmaster. Shaa drifted toward the front of the quarterdeck and observed their passage over the gunwale and back toward the bridge. The official had a moment’s hesitation on encountering the steep stairs, which usually demanded a double handhold on their railing if one was not to tumble backward onto the deck at the slightest swell, or even sideways, encountering on one side the lower stair into the cabin or on the other a barrel of pitch. The man clearly did not intend to be trifled with, though, least of all by a staircase, so he jammed his document more firmly between his chest and shoulder and took hold of it with the same hand, a feat mediated by a dramatically contorted elbow and forearm, and continued his march up the steps, his gait almost unbroken. He popped off the top stair riser like a spring-loaded toy, looked around, promptly culled Shaa out from the group, no doubt by his natty nautical outfit, as the one in whom he was most immediately interested, and fixed him with the pallor of his gaze.

“I applaud you,” Shaa said, touching a finger to the brim of his cap.

“Cawp-whopt?” said the official, his own words stumbling in his mouth as they encountered his reaction to the unexpected greeting. “What is this?”

“I didn’t believe the promise was serious,” Shaa told him, in a confidential tone, draping an arm over his shoulder and down his back, “but my pessimistic anticipations have clearly been proven wrong. My vote is secure for the next election, I can assure you.”

“What are you talking about?” The man’s voice was rising.

“It is so rare these days to redeem from local government the trust one has placed in it. We were promised a civic campaign to maintain order on the waterfront, though, and by the gods that is surely what we have here before us.”

The official finally squirmed free from Shaa’s friendly grasp and reeled back. “Seize that man!” he ordered, pointing with his entire arm outstretched. The two guards, their faces impassive, moved toward Shaa and reached out to take hold of him from either side.

“Ah,” said Shaa, “a personal demonstration of the firm-rootedness of your measures - what a graphic example of outreach to build solidarity among the loyal constituents! Nevertheless, the exhibition most properly should be made on yonder dock, since as your companion the worthy dockmaster will testify, the captain of a ship is inviolate upon his own deck. It would be an unfortunate precedent to attempt to set, I’m sure you’ll agree, as you are so obviously a gentleman of some authority and repute yourself, regardless of the benefits of the civic promotion or other gains that may accrue through - I beg your pardon!” Shaa glared at the guard holding his left arm, and then turned a matching glare on the guard to his right. To his right, and up - the man was at least a head taller than Shaa, and the mass that had seemed so well proportioned from the distance of ship-to-dock was more reminiscent of a small foothill when pushed up against it at shorter range.

The dockmaster cleared his throat reluctantly. “We are part of the civilized world, as you know, Lord, and therefore the rule of law and practice is a code we all bear witness to. It is true that a captain on his own ship -”

“Thank you, sir,” said Shaa. “You see, this man speaks the matter right. The breakdown of custom is a terrible thing, a terrible thing indeed, leading to abrogation of the law, rioting, agitation; breakdown, in short, of all those enlightenments that separate us from the savage, from the life of the barbarians. Present company excluded, of course,” he added, in an aside to the guard on his right, whose hand had wrapped itself easily around Shaa’s entire upper arm.