David Farland - Sons of the Oak

There in the galley she cleaned herself by candlelight, washed her hands in a bucket of salt water, washed drops of telltale blood from her pants and boots. In the light of a single wavering candle, it was hard to find them all, and she looked again and again. Each time that she thought that she was clean, she found a new dab somewhere.

And she had to hurry, fearful that someone would come in, catch her washing. Daylight was coming. The cooks would be here soon. Twice she heard footfalls as some sailor rushed to the poop deck to relieve himself.

Even getting back down to the hold unnoticed might be impossible. There were chickens down in the hold, and if it got any lighter, when she opened the hatch the roosters would begin to crow. Little Sage had been making a game of it for days, closing the hatch and then opening just to hear the roosters crow. Rhianna needed to leave now.

Worst of all she imagined that Myrrima would be awake when she got back to the cabin. Myrrima, with her endowments of stamina, rarely needed sleep. Not like Borenson, who kept folks awake with his loud snoring.

It was a long, long hour before she finally crept back down to her cabin, stealthily opening the hatch and sneaking to her room, only to find Myrrima sound asleep; it was many hours before Rhianna finally slept herself.

It was early morning when Captain Stalker realized that Streben was missing.

A deckhand found the dead ferrin on the poop deck and was about to throw it over when he saw a pool of blood, more than a ferrin could account for. It wasn’t uncommon for a sailor to cut himself or get a bloody nose, but this was a lot of blood, and so the deckhand searched the ship, looking to see if anyone was hurt.

It took a long time before he realized that Streben was missing and reported the news to Stalker.

Stalker blew the whistle for an assembly, and all hands reported for the count. Streben was definitely missing; Stalker went to the bloody pool and studied it.

Humfrey’s spear lay on the deck still. It had rolled against the railing. A little blood on the point revealed that the ferrin had died trying to defend himself.

The rounded end of the blood spatter was like a comet, pointing the direction that Streben had been traveling at his last, backpedaling toward the railing.

“Think the ferrin got ’im?” the sailor asked. “Maybe ’it ’im in the eye?” Stalker was an imaginative man, but such a scenario stretched his credulity. Too much blood, he reasoned silently. No, what we have here is murder. Streben’s mother would demand vengeance. Of course Stalker could always cover it up. Men fell from the rigging every day, or took too much rum and stumbled overboard.

Yes, he thought, why not? Why not tell his sister that a ferrin had killed her son?

It was ludicrous. It sounded so much like a lie that she’d think that it had to be the truth.

“I don’t think a ferrin did this,” Stalker admitted.

“The ferrin belongs to that boy,” the sailor said, “the one that fought yesterday. Maybe ’e came up in the night to lighten ’is load, and the ferrin came with. So the kid…”

Stalker gave the sailor a sidelong look. “He’s just a kid. And kids that age don’t murder.”

“ ’E’s good with a blade,” the sailor muttered.

And it was true. But in his heart, Stalker doubted that it was murder. Streben would have terrorized the boy if he’d found him alone at night. Streben might even have tried to cut the kid’s throat. It was self-defense, if it was anything.

Maybe one of Streben’s victims had finally turned the tables on him.

His mother would still want vengeance, but it would be hard to get.

“Go down to the guest cabin,” Stalker said. “Ask Borenson… and his son, to come meet me for breakfast.”

Stalker went to the galley and took a seat. The rest of the crew had taken breakfast at sunrise, and so the galley was empty. He had Cook fry up some sausages and cut up some oranges to go with their hard bread, then sat at the table trying to compose his thoughts.

When Borenson and young Fallion arrived, they both looked tired, stiff from sleep. Their blood wasn’t flowing, and indeed, Fallion was a tad green. Stalker had become accustomed to the pitch and roll of a ship long ago, and he hadn’t even noticed that the seas had grown heavier this morning. But Fallion was taking it badly.

“ ’Ave some breakfast?” the captain asked, letting Borenson and Fallion find their own seats.

Fallion just stared at the platter of sausages, hard rolls, and fruit, going greener by the moment, while Stalker and Borenson loaded their plates.

“Go ahead, lad,” the captain ordered. “Nothin’ will come up so long as you’ve got somethin’ ’eadin’ down.”

At that, Fallion grabbed a roll and ripped off a piece with his teeth, swallowing it as if it might save his life.

Borenson and Stalker both chuckled, and took a few perfunctory bites. Borenson ate silently, waiting for Stalker to state his business, but in Landesfallen, men didn’t mix food and business, and so they ate through the meal in silence.

When everyone was full, Stalker leaned back in his chair and came straight to the point. “Thing is, see, Streben is dead. Got ’isself killed last night.”

Both Borenson and the boy looked surprised.

Neither of them squirmed at those words, but then again, Stalker hadn’t expected them to. They could have taken turns hacking the man to death with axes, and he suspected that they still wouldn’t have shown any guilt.

“So, gentlemen,” Stalker said, “it’s your blades I’m wantin’ to see.”

Borenson raised a brow. “Why, sir, I protest: I haven’t killed a man in… three days.”

From the glittering in Borenson’s eyes, Stalker knew that he spoke the truth. He hadn’t killed a man in three days. But who would he have killed three days ago?

Not my business, Stalker told himself. Yet he inspected Borenson’s blade anyway. Good metal, Sylvarresta spring steel, the kind that would hold an edge for ages and wouldn’t rust for a century. It was so clean it might never have been used, and the blade was sharper than a razor. But then Stalker expected that a warrior of Borenson’s stature would keep his blade in such condition. First thing after a kill, he’d have wiped it, honed it. Wouldn’t have slept or eaten until that blade looked as polished as new.

Stalker returned it.

Fallion presented his own blade, and Stalker whistled in appreciation. Though the haft was a simple thing wrapped in leather, the metal had a dull grayish cast that Stalker had rarely seen. Thurivan metal, maybe six hundred years old, forged by master weapon-smiths who believed that they imbued the blade with Power from the elements. It was a princely weapon, and Stalker, who had done more than his fair share of weapons trade, was duly impressed.

But even more impressive was the blood wedged up in the cracks where the blade met the finger guard.

“Where’d this blood come from?” Stalker asked, peering down at the boy.

Fallion looked up at the captain and struggled to think where it had come from. The strengi-saat, of course! Fallion had stabbed it deeply four days ago, and worrying that others might strike at any moment, he had not cleaned the blade proper.

But he dared not tell the truth. He was, after all, still supposed to be in hiding.