Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Jacrys nodded at him and the healer crossed and knelt at his bedside.

Jacrys fought to lift his head from the pillow; he didn’t want to give orders lying down, not any longer. ‘Mirron… leave the querlis,’ he managed, then, haltingly, ‘You are relieved of duty. Find a transport back to Orindale. Tell Colonel Pace that I dismissed you.’

Mirron flushed, indignant, and started, ‘But sir, you-’

‘Don’t argue,’ Jacrys cut him off. ‘I don’t care what you have to say. You’re dismissed.’

The elderly man stood stiffly, trying to preserve a measure of dignity, and said, ‘Very well, sir. Good luck with your convalescence.’

Jacrys tried not to laugh. Mirron had been quite right: he had done this to himself. If he hoped to live through the next Twinmoon, he needed to proceed cautiously; laughing was banned. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, ‘although I think we both know there isn’t going to be any convalescence.’

Mirron said nothing, just started for the door.

‘Ah, Mirron,’ Thadrake said, ‘the querlis?’

The irritated healer stomped down the rickety stairs and into the crowds moving along the Pellia waterfront. Thadrake retrieved the bags, did some unpacking to avoid the uncomfortable silence in the small room, then added more wood to the fire.

‘Leave it be,’ Jacrys whispered.

‘But sir, it’s too cold-’

‘It’ll warm up when they stoke the ovens downstairs. They’ll bake bread for this evening. It gets plenty warm in here when they do. If you make me a querlis poultice, I’ll most likely sleep through the night. That should give you some time to look around a bit, perhaps find someone who can tell you about the goings-on here in the capital, or even at the palace. And I know you’re not a healer, Captain, but I’m glad to be rid of that horsecock Mirron.’

‘Me too, sir.’

‘Excellent. Now, please look beneath the third plank from the left, there near the window.’

‘This one?’ Thadrake heard a hollow thud when he thumped the board with the toe of his boot. ‘Something under here?’

‘Silver, copper, some tobacco – although it’s probably no good any more – and a bit of root.’

‘Fennaroot?’ Thadrake looked surprised. ‘You don’t seem like the kind of man who would use that stuff.’

‘Not for me,’ Jacrys rasped, shaking his head slightly, ‘but it can be an excellent aid in interrogation.’

‘Really?’ Thadrake used his knife to pry up the length of old wood. ‘I would have guessed that your methods of interrogation were a bit more… well, rough.’

‘There are many ways to conduct interrogations, Captain.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said as he withdrew the contents of the hidden storage chamber. ‘Did you want some of this root now, sir?’

‘No, you blazing fool,’ Jacrys murmured. ‘I want you to take some of the silver and get us something to eat, some wine, the best you can find, more querlis and maybe a pair of willing young women.’

‘That’d kill you,’ Thadrake smirked.

‘Ah, but what better way to start towards the Northern Forest?’

‘How about much older, and in your sleep?’

‘Good point.’ Jacrys found to his surprise he was enjoying the banter. ‘Forget the whores, but maybe bring back-’

‘A pastry or two?’ Thadrake risked the interruption. Pastries were one of Jacrys’ weaknesses.

‘Yes, please.’ The spy rolled into his blankets and closed his eyes. ‘I’ll be here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Thadrake pocketed a handful of copper Mareks – there was no need for silver.

‘Thadrake?’ Jacrys didn’t bother opening his eyes. ‘Nothing for the morrow. I take only bread and tecan in the mornings, understand?’

‘Very good, sir.’

Later, with the remnants of their shared dinner on the table, Thadrake, still in uniform, sat near the window, watching a team of sailors and stevedores prepare a three-masted schooner tied up at the wharf. He swallowed a mouthful of wine, the finest he had tasted in his life, and propped his feet up on the chest.

Thinking Jacrys asleep, Thadrake poured another goblet and nibbled at what meat remained on the gansel leg. From the darkness behind him, the spy asked, ‘What’s happening out there?’

Thadrake jumped, spilling wine on his leggings. ‘Rutters, you scared me.’ He put his goblet on the table, mopped up the wine and moved to beside Jacrys’ bed. ‘Not much, sir,’ he reported. ‘The dockers are making that three-master ready to sail. Customs officers have already been on to check her hold. I expect they’ll be pushing off shortly.’

Jacrys’ breathing sounded worse. He wouldn’t live much longer if he didn’t get to a sorcerer with knowledge of the healing arts. There was too much blood pooling in his lung and attempting to cough it out would only exacerbate the injury and kill him more quickly. ‘I’d like to see that,’ he murmured.

‘Would you?’ Thadrake considered the cot. It was a simple wooden skeleton with leather straps to support the thin mattress. ‘Hold on, sir.’ He hefted the head of the small cot and dragged it to the window, then went to the wardrobe and collected the rest of the bedding to prop up Jacrys’ head and shoulders, giving Jacrys an unimpeded view of the quay, the waterfront and the harbour beyond.

When he’d finished, he asked, ‘Are you all right, sir?’

At first Jacrys didn’t respond, and Thadrake was starting to fear he’d actually killed the spy. Finally, Jacrys made a sound that, a Twinmoon earlier, would have been a sigh of contentment but now sounded like something broken. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he whispered.

Thadrake drained what was left in his goblet. ‘I worry, sir, that perhaps you shouldn’t be at the window for too long. It is quite draughty here.’

‘I’ll be fine right here,’ Jacrys said. ‘Good night, Captain.’

‘Good night, sir.’

‘And Captain,’ Jacrys turned his head and found Thadrake in the candlelight and repeated, ‘thank you.’

Within the aven, Jacrys was back on the slip of sand across the Welstar River. Brexan was with him.

Thadrake sat up until the candles burned out, finishing the wine as he watched the schooner push back from the pier and disappear into the night. Listening to the Malakasian spy struggling to breathe, even in his sleep, Thadrake eventually drifted off himself.

Garec stepped on deck and immediately regretted it. Roiling black clouds filled the sky with the promise of freezing rain. What would be a pleasant dusting of snow on the Falkan plains was a bone-chilling drenching for the passengers and crew of the Morning Star, and just to exacerbate the discomfort, the ship was running north under a steady Twinmoon wind, heeling over in a way that – to Garec – felt dangerously close to capsizing. He braced his boots on the canted deck, gripped the gunwale and made his way carefully towards the helm. I will never get used to this, he thought grimly. Give me the mountains any Twinmoon; this is madness.

Captain Ford was at the helm, looking absurdly happy with their tailwind and the following tide. ‘Good morning,’ he shouted over the din.

Garec grabbed the wheel to keep from falling. ‘Do we have to be tipped quite so far over? Is this normal?’

‘Perfectly normal,’ the captain assured him. ‘Just a bit of heel – we want to make good time; so I had Marrin and Tubbs haul the sheets in tight. We’re rutting near flying before this wind. You don’t feel it while you’re asleep, because your hammock acts as a plumb: the ship rolls around you. It’s not a good way to get your sea legs, though. You ought to sleep in a bulkhead bunk. By the time you wake up, you’re already used to the swells.’

‘Is that what you call these terrifying waves? Swells?’ Garec sounded incredulous; it felt like a full-fledged flood tide to him.