Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘Nothing to ship, betting on low bids, that sounds like a risky way to make a living, Captain-?’

‘Ford, Doren Ford.’ He rolled up his tunic sleeves, revealing strong forearms, tanned like leather and tufted with greying hair.

Nice to meet you, Captain Ford. I’m glad you chose the Topgallant. Nedra keeps a nice place here, and she’s the best cook you’ll find north of the city.’

‘If last night’s dinner is any indication, you’re not exaggerating.’

‘And from here,’ Brexan chuckled, ‘you can certainly keep an eye on your boat.’

‘Again, you’re not joking-?’ It was his turn to wait.

‘Brexan Carderic.’

‘Been working here long, Brexan Carderic?’ he asked. He let his gaze follow the crooked line of Brexan’s jaw. He figured she’d either had a difficult birth and a doula who had pressed too hard on one side of her head, or that young serving woman had sustained quite a nasty blow to her cheek. Either way, Ford was transfixed by the irregularity; it was strangely endearing.

She put a stack of dirty trenchers on a nearby table and struggled to tie her hair back with a bit of rawhide. No, about a Twinmoon actually, which reminds me, if you and your crew are here through the next Moon – it’s only a few days now – you can join us for the party.’

‘Party?’

‘Nedra’s turning…’ She hesitated, checking towards the kitchen. ‘Let’s just say she’s getting older.’ She lowered her voice and whispered, ‘She might be ancient, but she can still hear like a woodland predator.’

‘Got it – if we’re still here, I trust you’ll give me some idea of what to buy for her.’

‘Men!’ Brexan said. Nedra just wants a man, but I understand they sometimes have them on a discount rack at a place just off the southern wharf.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Captain Ford smiled. ‘Thanks for breakfast.’ He watched her go until visions of his own wife, frowning, one arm cocked dangerously on her hip, distracted him. ‘Ah, Marrin,’ he murmured into his trencher, ‘it’ll be a double shift for you today, my boy. I’ll teach you to get my thoughts wandering so.’

‘Stalwick, go and help someone else, please,’ Sharr Becklen said as politely as he could. ‘I’ve got this on my own, really.’

‘But I can help with the folds,’ Stalwick started. ‘I’ve done these before. Do you remember when we attacked that caravan on the Merchants’ Highway? What was it, fifteen, maybe sixteen Twinmoons ago? Were you there, Sharr? I think you were- Anyway, do you remember when we attacked that caravan, and Gita was so furious that the one driver was her uncle’s friend’s daughter’s betrothed? The driver with the red hat? You remember him, Sharr, don’t you? Or was it a beige hat? I don’t… never mind, never mind. Anyway, when we hit that caravan, Sharr, and we spent those two nights in that ditch beside that field? It was a pepperweed field. Do you remember, Sharr? Because I was there, and I kept the fires going – I’m good with fires, I mean, that’s one of the things I can do pretty well. Anyway- Oh, it was a red hat, I can see it clearly now! And Gita was fuming, I don’t know why, I mean, everyone’s got to make a living, so he’s a driver, so what? Does every driver ask what he’s hauling, I mean, when they’re getting paid well, do they always ask? Anyway, anyway, Sharr, that day, after we hit that caravan, I helped with the tents, Sharr, and I was good with the folds- Do you remember Timmon? Of course you do, of course you do… He’s dead now, isn’t he? Bone-collectors, or some kind of monsters in a cavern, rutting dogs, I tell you, rutting dogs, but anyway, Timmon was there, and his company was there, and they were packing things up that day. I mean some of us were hurt, but I wasn’t, and Timmon wasn’t, so some of us who weren’t hurt, we took care of packing things up, and I helped Timmon that day, because I’m good with folds, Sharr- Sharr?’

Sharr stood up from kneeling, folding canvas tents into tight bundles. It was sleeting in Traver’s Notch, and that stinging, freezing downpour had soaked the tents through; they’d all need to be unrolled to dry out as soon as the weather cleared, otherwise the cloth would sprout fungus and start rotting through. Trying to prepare for travel or combat in the rain was unavoidable, and Gita had ordered the entire Resistance force – almost regiment-sized, if they were part of a proper army – to be ready to march on Capehill at a moment’s notice. Platoons, companies, squads of farmers, merchants, woodsmen, sailors, even, were all scattered throughout the surrounding foothills, all disguised as miners and spread out so they wouldn’t attract notice from passing occupation patrols. Every group, no matter their size, had a cache of mining implements to help with the ruse, and some of the soldiers were actually working the lode shafts outside Traver’s Notch when not drilling, each hoping to tap a rich vein before the assault on Capehill.

The order had come that morning: prepare to move southeast right away. And an extra order for Sharr Becklen: keep a close eye on Stalwick Rees of Capehill.

Sharr cursed, scraped the mud from his knees and glared at his annoying countryman. Gita had made it clear that Stalwick was not to be left alone at any time, and any changes in his behaviour, any seizures or fits, were to be reported to her immediately. Inexplicably, Stalwick had grown attached to the burly Capehill fisherman, and Gita had encouraged the pairing, telling Sharr, ‘It’ll be good for you! You two have so much in common; I imagine your new friendship will last a lifetime.’

Standing in the sleet, his clothes clinging to him like wet laundry, Sharr thought that even for one as old as he had managed to become, a lifetime of friendship with Stalwick Rees would leave anyone contemplating suicide. He scratched at his grey-streaked beard, considering his charge.

Stalwick was tall and lean, with blotchy skin and hair that looked permanently matted to the top of his head. His vision was poor and he had nervous tics and idiosyncratic gestures that left everyone around him on edge. He was interminably clumsy, and more than one dinner companion had discovered the challenge of eating beside him – Kellin Mora now automatically moved her goblet out of his reach the moment he came near, although even that didn’t always save her from having its contents spilled on her food. But they all put up with Stalwick, for he had a few uncanny abilities that made him an asset to the Falkan Resistance. He could make a fire anywhere; Sharr had heard that his campfires managed to burn even through the torrential rains that blew through Falkan in the early spring. He didn’t quite believe it, though he had also heard that a log from one of Stalwick’s fires had remained alight even after it had accidentally been kicked into a pond.

In addition to kindling his resilient flames, Stalwick periodically foretold the future – not the distant future, Ages and Eras yet to come, but the immediate future, the next aven, or the following day. What was troublesome about Stalwick’s clairvoyance was that he himself rarely knew he was seeing anything at all; he’d say something odd, leaving those around him to try to work out what he was prophesying. ‘I’m looking forward to the fish tonight,’ or ‘The mud will be thick tomorrow,’ might be followed with ‘I’ve never sailed on a schooner before.’ Later, Stalwick’s family and Resistance colleagues – now plagued with anxiety about what might happen – would discover that a relative who had been fishing near a mud flat had dropped by to share the day’s catch and was keen to talk about the schooner he’d seen passing by on the horizon. Sharr found Stalwick’s ability to capture glimpses of the future infuriating; he tried to ignore the periodic babble, pretending not to hear.