Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

The planks bowed under the weight of the rush, and more than one refugee fell into the water. Able men joined the press, pushing and shoving until it seemed more than not were falling into the water. No one bothered to help the fallen—all were focused on getting aboard.

At last the ship reached capacity, dipping noticeably deeper in the water. The captain shouted something into his horn, but the fleeing townsfolk kept trying to get aboard. The sailors kicked out the planks before they sank the ship, and turned the sails to the wind, moving swiftly away from water churning with desperate, screaming refugees.

Abban sighed. He might feel no remorse, but neither did he wish to watch people drown. He moved his lens back over the town, where the Sharum appeared to have taken firm control. He hoped they would douse the fires quickly, already there was too much smoke …

Abban started, moving the lens quickly back to the docks.

“Everam’s balls, not again,” he said. He turned to Qeran. “Ready the men. We’re going in.”

“It is hours before noon,” Qeran said. “The Sharum Ka—”

“Is going to lose this war if he doesn’t get his camel-fucking idiot warriors under control,” Abban snapped.

“They are burning the ships.”

“What difference does it make?” Jayan demanded. “Capture the tithe, you said. Do not let the ships escape, you said. We have done both, and still you dare come shouting before me?”

Abban took a deep breath. His blood was up as high as Jayan’s, and that was a dangerous thing. He might speak to Ahmann as if he were a fool, but his son would not tolerate such words from a khaffit.

He bowed. “With respect, Sharum Ka, how are we to get your warriors to the city on the lake to conquer it without boats?”

“We will build our own. How hard can it …” Jayan trailed off, looking at the huge cargo vessels with their intricate rigging.

“Put them out!” he cried. “Icha! Sharu! Get those fires under control. Move the remaining ships away from the flames!”

But of course the Sharum had no idea how to move the ships, and the Everam-cursed things seemed to catch sparks as if oiled. Abban watched in horror as a fleet of almost forty large ships and hundreds of smaller ones—along with much of the docks—was reduced to ten scorched ships and a scattering of smaller vessels.

Jayan glared, as if daring Abban to speak of the lost fleet, but Abban kept wisely silent. The ships were a concern for springtime, and winter had only just begun. They had the tithe, and if they had lost the ships, so, too, had Lakton lost its link to the mainland.

“My congratulations on a fine victory, Sharum Ka,” Abban said, reading the stream of reports from his men as they catalogued the spoils of the attack. The grain would mostly be sent back to Everam’s Bounty, but there were countless barrels of strong drink Abban could make vanish, and turn to profit, as well as other precious items and real estate. “The Damajah will be most pleased with you.”

“You will learn soon enough, khaffit, ” Jayan said, “my mother is never pleased. Never proud.”

Abban shrugged. “The treasure is vast. You can hire a thousand mothers to follow you and shower you with praise.”

Jayan looked at him sidelong. “How vast?”

“Enough to give lands, holdings, and ten thousand draki apiece to all your most trusted lieutenants,” Abban said. A year’s pay to most Sharum, the number seemed grand, but it was a pittance spread amongst a few dozen men.

“Don’t be so quick to give away my fortune, khaffit, ” Jayan growled.

“Your fortune?” Abban asked, seeming hurt. “I would not be so presumptuous. These are anticipated costs of war covered in the budget I gave the Andrah before leaving. Your purse will be free to begin settling your outstanding debt to the Builders’ Guild. I can arrange payment directly, if you wish.”

Like all men, Jayan had little tells as his blood began to rise. He cracked his knuckles, and Abban knew he had struck a nerve.

Jayan’s weakness was his palace. He was determined it be greater than any other, as befit the Skull Throne’s true heir. Coupled with his complete inability to count past his fingers, the quest had left the firstborn prince with stale air in his coffers and more interest accumulating each day than he could hope to pay. More than once he had come before the Skull Throne begging money for the “war effort” simply to keep his creditors at bay. Construction on the palace of the Sharum Ka had stopped midway, an embarrassment that followed Jayan everywhere.

It had to be dealt with, if the boy were to ever become pliable.

“Why should I pay those dogs?” Jayan demanded. “They have suckled at my teat too long! And for what? My palace dome looks like a cracked egg! No, now that I have this victory, they will resume work or I will have them killed.”

Abban nodded. “That is your right, of course, Sharum Ka. But then you would be short of skilled artisans, and those remaining would have no materials to work with. Or will you kill the quarrymen as well? The drainage pipe makers? Will threats keep the pack animals alive without money for feed?”

Jayan was silent a long time, and Abban allowed him a moment to simmer.

“Frankly, Sharum Ka,” Abban said, “if you were to kill anyone, it should be the moneylenders for the ridiculous interest rate they are charging you.”

Jayan clenched his fists. It was well known that he had exhausted a line of credit with every moneylender in Krasia. He opened his mouth to begin a tirade that would likely end in him commanding something quite bloody and stupid.

Abban cleared his throat just in time. “If you will allow me to negotiate on your behalf, Sharum Ka, I believe I can eliminate much of your debt, and begin payments that will see work on your palace resume without emptying your purse.”

He dropped his voice lower, his words for Jayan alone. “Your power and influence will only increase with a reputation as a man who pays his debts, Sharum Ka. As your father was.”

“Do not trust the khaffit, Sharum Ka,” Hasik warned. “He will whisper poison in your ear.”

“Do,” Abban said, pointing his chin at Hasik, “and you’ll be able to give your dog a golden cock to match his tooth.”

Jayan barked a laugh, and the rest of his entourage was quick to follow. Hasik’s face reddened and he reached for his spear.

Jayan put two fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. “Whistler! Heel me!”

Hasik turned to him incredulously, but the cold look the young Sharum Ka gave him made clear how he would deal with insolence. Hasik’s head drooped as he moved to stand behind Jayan.

“You have done well, khaffit, ” Jayan said. “Perhaps I won’t need to kill you after all.”

Abban worked hard to keep his face and stance relaxed as he watched the warriors surround the warehouse, but his jaw was tight. He had begged Jayan to let him send his Hundred for the delicate mission instead of the dal’Sharum, but was dismissed out of hand. There was too much glory to be had.

The massive dockfront warehouse had great windows facing the three great piers jutting into the water like a trident. The local merchant prince, Dockmaster Isa, had reportedly barricaded himself and his guards inside.

According to Abban’s spies, the dockmasters were the real power in Lakton. Duke Reecherd was the strongest of them, but unless there was a tie, his vote had little more weight than any other.

“You shame him with that task,” Qeran said.

Abban turned to the approaching drillmaster, who was nodding at Earless. The rest of Abban’s Hundred ranged all over the town, surveying and preparing reports.