Chapter Eleven
Porpoises played in the wake off Dainty’s bow. The wash made sizzling sounds and sent spray into humid air scented of sweet spices. Gulls dogged the ship, and ahead of them, gray and ivory sea birds with short wings dove under the water, leaving trails of bubbles. The heat made him sweat, but pleasantly, like fencing in the garden in summertime.
Mark couldn’t see much of Perida City despite the cerulean daylight. Mostly he saw mop-topped trees and rocky hills piled behind a bay crowded with ships and timber buildings.
Meridua Island was larger than he expected. From this close, a few miles from the bay, he could have mistaken it for a piece of the mainland.
He felt half-undressed in the filmy, bloused shirt and thin silk stockings he’d bought on the previous island, but if he’d worn proper linen he couldn’t have worn his waistcoat without passing out. He didn’t mind looking effeminate, but fainting was a bit much even for him. The captain assured him that fashion on the island allowed a proper young man to walk about without a coat over his waistcoat. Good thing, but he still felt underdressed for walking about in public.
He’d gone barefoot long enough that it felt odd to belt on shoes over proper slippers again. It didn’t help that the slippers were new and hadn’t shaped to his feet yet. The few days of wear he’d put into the shoes hadn’t softened the straps, either, and they cut into the tops of his feet.
Mark leaned against the rail, sipped red wine from a silver cup, and tried not to worry. He’d felt private and at home on Dainty. He’d suffer through delivering the book and ring as quickly as he could, and then he intended to come back and stay with her forever. Finally at sea, after so many years of confusion and loss ... he didn’t want to leave the ship at all.
The captain settled beside him. “Best be careful until you get to the parks.”
“Parks?”
“The neighborhood surrounding city hall. The rest of the city, and the docks in particular, can be dangerous. Men who fought in the war lost their fear of lords and jesters after killing their fair share of them. They won’t grant much respect to a stranger just because he wears fine clothes.”
Mark lost interest in finishing the wine. “Thank you for the warning.” His stomach churned uneasily.
The captain nodded.
“I hope I’ll be back tonight.”
That made the captain laugh. “No rush, Mr. Seaton. We’ll be here at least two weeks if not longer. We’ve had hardly two days in a given port with no time for leisure all along the Hullundy coast in cold weather. We’re all ready for some sunlight and fresh food. I’m hoping to reserve some time for the old lady at the cleaning yards, and most of my men will be spending some well-deserved time ashore with their sweethearts.”
I swear not a man survived who wasn’t ashore with his sweetheart.
That night when Mairi burned rushed back to him. He smelled smoke and in his mind he imagined a dark figure dancing across Mairi’s deck while the men inside screamed—
The sailors had told a lot of stories, and more than one about figureheads that screamed when they died. He wondered if that strange, painful thing he experienced at the Bracken Watertower had been Mairi’s death cry.
“Are you all right?”
The captain’s voice steadied him. “Yes, sir.” He still smelled smoke, but it faded. He realized his hands hurt from gripping the rail. Mark forced himself to relax.
“There is one thing I feel compelled to mention before you go ashore,” the captain said. “It’s clear to me you’re in a great deal of trouble. I like you. My men like you. But as long as you keep secrets I won’t be inclined to help you. And if you bring trouble to my ship, my lack of desire to help or protect you will be the least of your worries.”
Mark drew in a shaky breath. “I’d rather go back to Cathret bound in chains than let anything happen to Dainty.” He doubted the captain believed him, especially since it sounded so over-played, but he meant it with a passion that frightened him. “Anyway, I don’t see how anything regarding this matter would come back to you. I’ll be cautious on your behalf just the same.”
The captain grimaced. “I would be reassured, Mr. Seaton, if you shared your situation more openly with me.”
“I hope to do just that very soon.” Soon he’d have no use for secrets. Maybe he’d even get the chance to uncover a few about his father’s disappearance and his mother’s death.
The captain drummed on the rail. “Time to get back to work.” He pushed off the rail. “It might be best if you stand out of the way somewhere. You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothes, and anyway, this will be a little more tricky than anything you’ve learned.”
“I won’t get in the way.”
The captain nodded and headed off.
The play between muscle and sail, rope and bone still remained a mystery, but he recognized the steps to the dance if not how it worked with the wind as they orchestrated an approach. The ship passed two large floating statues of half-naked women with long, wild hair while the men furled the sails to slow the ship on their way to the docks. The men waved to the statues and blew kisses at them as if they were alive.
Mark had never seen so many ships, and Seven Churches by the Sea had more than its fair share. There had to be—he counted by fives for a bit—well over a hundred war-ready ships with respectable cannon and countless trade vessels that could be converted to fight in a pinch.
Dainty slowed even further until she came to a near halt with all sails furled. The men lowered longboats into the quiet bay waters and rowed her in the rest of the way. After quite a bit of maneuvering that included some help from sailors on ships they passed, Mark started to wonder where they’d find space to berth. They ended up tying up to a larger ship, whose captain cordially allowed Mark, Captain Shuller and Mr. Johns passage across his ship to the docks. “The harbormaster will give us a better place once we’ve paid for our berth,” the captain told Mark. “So don’t come looking for us here. Ask at the harbormaster’s quarters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck.” He held out his hand.
Mark hesitated only a moment before he shook. The captain’s hand felt warm, but dry, his grip solid and comforting. Mark had seen the men shake on various things over the course of the sail, but he hadn’t actually done it himself. He’d understood it meant some sort of pact, but this felt more like goodbye. “Thank you, sir.”
The captain nodded, and they parted ways.
Mark resisted the urge to make sure the book and ring were in place. He checked his pistol to make certain it was in order, then made his way through the maze of wooden walkways toward land, his art bag slung on his shoulder. Before he was truly ready for it, he set foot for the first time in Perida among people of so many colors and forms his mind couldn’t place them all. He was forced to think of them only as islanders, nationals of the newly-formed Meridua, once known possessively as the Cathretan Isles.
The people smiled openly, and laughed heartily, and cursed freely. He blushed more than once at profanity he barely understood, and the obscenities weren’t even directed at him.
It saddened him that at least one in every dozen, or perhaps even one in ten men had visible scars or missing limbs from the war. One man he saw sat on a low platform with wheels. He had no legs. How could a man survive the loss of both legs? It spoke of his strength. His friends that crouched beside him had no pity in their eyes. Just respect.
It felt as if the land rolled like the sea as Mark walked. He thought the sensation would pass quickly, but after several minutes it hadn’t faded. Perhaps that explained the distinctive gait that some of the older sailors had on shore. He hoped one day to earn the shadow of it in his stride.
White sand roads traveled unevenly between crowded buildings of driftwood and thick beams that likely came from wrecked ships. Many of the buildings had rooms with at least one side open to the road, and few had glass windows—just screens or shutters, often braced o
r barred wide open. Some of the buildings were huge, the largest being among the shipyards where massive hoists loomed and rows of ships being repaired or built in dry dock lay in frames or awkwardly on their sides, their disassembled masts stacked beside them.
The masses of people had few carts and next to no horses to impede their casual business. No one seemed to be in a hurry. Dogs roamed freely, sometimes at heel, often with no sign of an owner. Many of the animals were massive in size—some tall and lean, wolfhounds or a bastard cross, others heavy and shaggy, usually white with a ginger mask or purest black and in the company of sailors. Large dogs usually made him nervous, but none of the beasts paid any attention to him.
Fashionable men and women both seemed to prefer scarves on their heads rather than hats, though they sometimes wore both. Some of the straw hats were woven in amazing designs as delicate as lace. Those of means still wore the familiar coats, waistcoats and hats Mark was familiar with, but they seldom wore velvet or linen, preferring silk far above any other material. They seemed to wear cloaks mainly for embellishment or shade, usually lighter colors and light, sometimes translucent fabric or even lace. Some of the ladies had hats that seemed to be made entirely of feathers and dried flowers. Others wore fresh flowers in their hair. They all seemed very innocent and carefree, except that every male above the age of majority carried weapons. Especially those that had just turned fourteen seemed too young for such responsibility. They looked so young and small, even compared to him. They wore either a large dagger, or a sword with ostentatious pride. Some even carried pistols. Women often carried daggers or pistols as well, and a few carried rapiers.
Most of the streets ran in shadows, either covered by awnings or shaded from the glaring sun by tall buildings on both sides. Some of the buildings were four stories, all timber built. It looked dangerously unstable.
And children—they ran wild everywhere. He’d never seen so many.
Yes I have, in my old neighborhood in summertime.
The children dashed around playing indecipherable chasing games, sometimes with dogs running among them. The adults worked or traveled in groups in the shade, talking, rarely sparing him a glance. Those brief glances, though, spoke to him. They knew he didn’t belong here. Was it the clothing, or his barely-tanned skin, or did they somehow recognize the curve of his spine?
He hoped they were more wary than unfriendly toward strangers.
A man selling what he called juice freshes seemed kind, so Mark approached him. “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone.” He hoped Rohn Evan was a person of importance. If not he’d have to try to get his hands on a directory. “Do you know of a Rohn Evan?”
The man grinned. “Sure I do. Ev’ry’n knows him.”
Mark didn’t realize how straight and tight he’d held his spine until it eased. “Where might I find him?”
The man made an exaggerated nod. “It’s a long walk on the Black Shore Road. Easy goin’ from the parks, due west, on the windy side of the isle.”
“And how do I get to the parks?”
The man’s grin broadened. “Up there at the dontist turn north and then west at Main and you’ll see ‘em right ahead. Isn’t more than two mile.”
“The dontist?”
“You know, the dontist. Makes teeth?”
Mark nodded. “Thank you.” He paid him a bit, shouldered the bag so it sat close under his arm even though it blocked the draw for his pistol, and made his way in the direction the man had gestured. He didn’t see any signs for a dental business, so he kept going straight.
The streets narrowed and quieted. He would have felt a little more at ease without the crowds, except the buildings here looked rough and the few people about seemed overly accommodating toward each other. It felt like an act, like snakes pretending friendship and ease while watching for a moment of weakness. They stared at him lazily, measuring him.
There weren’t any children here. A lone dog growled at him from beneath a slanted, half-rotten porch.
The hairs on his neck prickled up. A group of drunk men about his age rounded a corner. They looked him over, openly predatory, but moved on.
I need to get out of here.
Mark didn’t want to back out or turn around, so he aimed for a narrow alley that looked like it would go through to the next street over. He heard someone whistle. His attention switched that way.
Just in time he heard a whisper of a foot in sand and turned.
Sharp pain shot like red lightning through his head. Bainswell—he spun with an infuriated cry and shoved.
Metal flashed to his right. Mark threw himself back from the sword attack in shock. Not Bainswell. He ran, piecing together that he was in a fight for his life. His head throbbed and he couldn’t see beyond flashes and blurs. Heavy steps and heavy breathing ran close after him. He fought for air. The man behind him wasn’t losing ground. A sickening horror suffused him as he realized he couldn’t run fast enough to escape.
Mark pivoted and swung the bag. The impact slammed through his arms.
The swordsman grunted and fell. The euphoria from his small success died as a second man charged in. Tight with terror, Mark retreated to a wall, prepared to surrender.
Which would give these men all the power.
His body more than his mind remembered his training. He dropped his bag, drew his rapier and the pistol. The second man, tall and bearded with drink-reddened eyes and a rusty rapier, slowed.
“Give me the bag,” the rapier man snapped.
Mark’s head screamed with pain and he couldn’t see straight. He nudged the bag toward them, but not very far.
The man raised his rapier slowly. “Good. And now your purse.” He had scars on him, and he looked confident.
“It’s in the bag.” Mark managed to keep his voice steady, but the pistol wavered all over. He would have pulled the trigger if he thought he had a chance of hitting something.
The first attacker stood and slapped his hands against his pants, leaving smears of pale sand on dark clothes that may have been the remnants of a military uniform. He picked up his sword. He had a broad chest and a thick scar on his arm. “Give over your rapier.” The swordsman drew a dagger. The look in the man’s eyes made Mark’s balls creep up. Mark knew but he couldn’t explain how he knew that the man intended to kill him.
Gutter had taught him to never give up a means of defense without the promise of better. Sound advice he found more difficult to follow than he’d expected now that he faced a competent swordsman with cold death in his eyes.
“You can have the bag. Just let me go.” Mark couldn’t let them have it—it had the masks—but he didn’t want them to know he’d fight for it given the chance.
“Give me the rapier!”
Mark’s heart skipped and his breath staggered. His hands shook. No matter how hard he gripped the rapier it felt loose in his hand. Gutter’s voice intruded. Don’t grip. Loose, just not so loose they can knock it out of your hand.
“Someone help me!” Mark cried. As if in answer, a door rattled shut somewhere up the street.
“No one gives a shit about you,” the rapier man said.
“Let’s just kill him,” the swordsman said.
“We should wait for Jonas and Bates.”
“He’s just a boy,” the swordsman said. “Should be easy.”
Fire, Mark. Gutter’s voice sounded clear as a morning songbird in his mind. Mark’s pistol instructor held the target, and if Mark missed, he might hit the man.
Don’t close your eyes when you pull the trigger.
Mark’s pistol hand steadied and he aimed for the glint of a button on the swordsman’s chest. He cocked the mechanism.
Both men rushed him.
Do it!
Mark fired the pistol. Time seemed to slow. A tiny bit of blood sprayed red where the bullet struck the center of the swordsman’s chest. Mark slapped him across the face with the pistol and lunged past the thrust from the rapier man. No pain yet. Ma
rk’s rapier pierced the swordsman’s soft belly and he whipped it out before the blade might be trapped.
Time sped up again. He tasted blood on his lips.
Mark charged and the rapier man retreated. A man started screaming. Mark chased the rapier man as if this was a practice bout before his fear checked him. Two more men came running into the street, a new broadswordsman, the other with a machete and a pistol. Mark retreated to the wall again. The rapier man hung back, watching. Mark tried not to let himself be distracted but the downed swordsman made weepy, animal sounds where he gasped against the ground.
It was three men on one. Mark’s fear spiked and he couldn’t catch his breath.
Don’t let the enemy choose his time, and never give a man with a pistol time to aim, cock and fire.
Mark charged the pistol man. The man’s eyes widened. The pistol report felt like a punch to his gut. The rapier point, just off-line, sliced him—ice-fire-hot-pain—across his arm as he closed. He shouldered the rapier man, shoved, and snapped his point across the rapier man’s face. His blade cut the shallow meat and skipped on skull bone. The broadswordsman slashed. Mark deflected the blade toward the rapier man, who backed away. Mark crowded the broadswordsman. He was too close to bring his point to the target so he punched with his edge along the throat as hard as he could and sliced hard. To his surprise the blade’s edge opened the broadswordman’s neck.
Pain flared from Mark’s thigh. He staggered back, too breathless to scream, unable to straighten his leg all the way. The broadswordsman fell with a grunt, blood blooming from his throat. Blood and unwashed bodies cloyed the air.
The man with the machete stared at him. He started to approach, but then a huge man in a floppy hat arrived, Mark couldn’t say from where. The machete man lowered his weapon. The man with the rapier retreated to him and the two ran.
Mark’s heart battered his chest and he couldn’t catch his breath. He limped backed until he was braced on the now-familiar wall, on the verge of retching.
Still alive.
The broadswordsman lay on his side, dying hard, kicking and choking from his throat wound. His hands clasped tightly over his own neck. Mark forced himself to look away and focused on the big man coming closer every moment.
The big man stopped a few paces away, a pistol held low in one hand, a crude, heavy short sword in the other. Mark clenched his teeth. He couldn’t stop shaking. His fingers were glued tight around his rapier. He forced his fingers to relax, though they weren’t nearly soft enough to be quick anymore, his sword on guard. His injured leg supported him, but it stubbornly would not straighten. He had to rest its weight on the ball of his foot.
“You all right, milord?” the big man asked.
Mark blinked up at him. “Who are you?”
The big man sheathed his sword and holstered the pistol. “Grant Roadman, milord.” He took his hat off. “Look, if you need me to send for someone, I can do that.” His words swung in an easy accent Mark had never heard before.
Mark took the offer as a good sign and let himself really breathe. Big mistake. The wall kept him from buckling, but his guard dropped. Grant stepped closer and Mark forced himself back on guard, hissing from the pain.
“Whoa!” Grant stepped back, putting up a hand. “Easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Mark wanted to believe him. The man had a kind look to him, though Mark wasn’t sure he could trust a kind look. For all he knew, the man selling the juice had sent him up here to die. “Thank you for saving my life.” Any moment he’d catch his breath again. Any time now.
“I did nothing valiant, milord. Just came out to see what the noise was all about.” Grant looked down at the dead man still bleeding into the sand. The sight made Mark queasy. The other body’s hands had fallen from the throat and existed as an unmoving dark blotch in his peripheral vision.
My fault he’s dead.
The dying man, the first one he’d skewered, wouldn’t stop moving.
He’s suffering. I should put him out of his misery.
Slitting his throat, and the added pain that would give him, seemed just as horrible as letting him die. No good options. Those glazed eyes didn’t seem to harbor a soul in them. Perhaps he felt nothing anymore, and his body kept twitching and shifting because it had nothing within to tell it that life was over.
“You need help, milord?” the big man asked.
Mark forced himself to look away again. “I’m in your debt.” Maybe that’s why this Grant person still lingered; he wanted to get paid. Just as well. Mark needed him. “I don’t suppose there’s a doctor nearby.”
“Um, sure, toward the parade.”
“What about a coach?”
“Aren’t no coaches for hire on the island, milord. Y’either own a carriage or you don’t.”
“Well I don’t at the moment.” His breathing had eased, though the air burned his throat. “Would you mind leading the way to the doctor?”
Grant looked about. “I could fetch a friend or two from the Rum House to watch you and go get her while you wait.”
More strangers to contend with? “No thank you.” His mind then locked on the fact that he thought Grant had said her. A woman doctor?
“All right. We should get going, then, if you’re rested up. There’s more of them, you know.”
“More of who?”
“The Morbai’s Kiss. They got a taste for killing mainlanders and do it when they think they can get away with it. You shouldn’t’ve come here. It’s their place an’ everyone knows it.” Grant walked over to where Mark’s bag lay and picked it up. “Have to say, I haven’t seen fighting like that since the war. Damned good, damned brave.”
A dead man lay nearby, still twitching. A man he’d killed. Another corpse lay with sand sticking to sweaty and bloody skin. He didn’t feel brave. He felt sick.
He realized he still stood on guard. Mark finally let his arms rest. More strength slipped from him, and that frightened him. Mark started to sheath his sword before he remembered he’d need to clean it first. At some point he’d dropped the pistol. “Do you see my sidearm anywhere?”
Grant looked about a moment before he walked and picked up the pistol. Mark limped after him. “It’s this way,” Grant told him, and started walking uphill past the curve. Mark clenched his teeth and set the best pace he could manage after him.
One leg burned and stung, the other felt disjointed and insubstantial. His body felt as if it were a broken doll’s rather than his own. The first block went on forever, and the next one ahead seemed even longer and steeper. “How much farther?” Mark asked.
“Not much. Need to rest?”
“No.” He wanted to get as far away from the blood as possible.
“You’re not looking good,” Grant told him.
“I’m fine.” Red splotches spattered his vision, and the skin on his forehead crawled. He was having trouble catching his breath again.
“Look, my place is right over here,” Grant told him. “Maybe you should wait in there and I’ll get the doctor to come over.”
“No, I’ll make it.” The sunlight dimmed, and the air felt hot and somehow that made him feel cold.
“Sure, if you like.”
He crossed another intersection. The buildings here looked slightly better, a neighborhood of tall tenements with brightly-painted plaster walls and elegant if somewhat rust-stained ironwork balconies. “How much farther?”
“Not much.”
Mark staggered but didn’t fall. The effort of keeping his feet stopped him dead. Sweat stung his eyes but he felt colder than ever. He willed himself to take a step, but his body didn’t obey.
Grant had gotten ahead of him, but he stopped and came back. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
Mark looked down. Thick crimson streaked with darker wine colors stained his breeches and stocking. His shoe squelched. It had filled with blood. He looked back the way he’d traveled and saw bloody splotches and drips in the sand.
> “Why don’t you sit down in the shade and I’ll get the doctor.”
Where he’d be helpless.
He couldn’t go on. The realization forced him to accept that he would be at someone’s mercy very soon. Grant had saved his life, and he hadn’t run off with the bag or finished him off or taken any other of many advantages he had available. The next person who stumbled on Mark bleeding in the shade might not be as noble-minded. “Where is your ... place?”
“Right here, at the top of these steps.” Grant gestured with the bag toward steep plank stairs leading up between sections of a faded orange tenement building.
Mark steeled himself. He’d endured beatings, hours of fencing practice, perverse exercises meant to strengthen him and make him more flexible. He could manage a few stairs. He lurched toward them and started up.
The stairs seemed to go on for hours, an agonizing succession of lift-pain-step-pain-rest with only his sheathed rapier to help balance him. He stopped briefly to retch, but he managed not to vomit. Finally Grant stopped by the door at the top, unlocked it, and Mark shuffled into a long, narrow room with the barest of amenities. Grant set down the pistol and dropped the bag by a table with two chairs. The front area doubled as a kitchen and sitting room. The large bed cordoned off by a dresser at the far end had thin, tattered blankets. A lone closet made of crude but heavy oak had a stout lock on it. Grant had an empty armor stand and a modest cabinet with some dishes, food and wine, but besides that there wasn’t much. “Lay down on the bed,” Grant said. “I’ll be back quick.”
“Thank you.” Mark sat on the bed, his wounds burning and biting. His head hurt so badly he couldn’t see in focus. He peeled off his waistcoat, wincing as fresh pain from his arm wound burned and stung.
Grant went out and shut the door behind him.
The room had no windows, just a small rear doorway covered in fine netting that led out to a balcony, but the tropical sunlight and glare from the white sand street gave Mark more than enough light to check his injuries. He found a long cut on his right arm, and a fleshy slice on his thigh that seared every time he moved. Other than those and some bruises that had already puffed into rigid lumps, he seemed all right. He pressed his hands over the leg cut again. It hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before, ice and fire and a constant gnawing far worse than he’d felt when he’d damaged his hands on the bucket. The nearest thing he’d felt to it was when a practice weapon broke and sliced his skin. That was shallow, though, and it didn’t bleed or make him feel weak like this.
Crap, his clothes. They were ruined.
Maybe not. Maybe this would wash out and stitch back together.
Am I really worried about my clothes? Really?
Mark’s eyes closed. Gutter had saved his life again, without even being there. His voice had told him what to do, and would never leave him. An unexpected feeling of peace settled in. The scent of his own blood mingled with the warm, enticing scent of Grant’s bed. He laid back, wincing at the sharp stretching and opening of cuts. Nice, soft bed, quiet, his heavy and poorly-hinged weight supported at last .... He knew he shouldn’t relax in a stranger’s bed, but somewhere between the pain and exhaustion, he forgot to care.