On Dark Shores
Book 1: The Lady
&
Book 2: The Other Nereia
J.A. CLEMENT
Published by Weasel Green Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ON DARK SHORES
BOOK 1: THE LADY & BOOK 2: THE OTHER NEREIA
Copyright © J A Clement 2011 & 2012
Cover Art by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design
Cover Art Photography by Helle Gry Schaub
Cover Art Stock Model: Maria Amanda
(https://mariaamanda.deviantart.com/gallery/)
Tree Glyph adapted from a photo by Jeffrey van Rossum
Editors: Julia Lee Dean and Mike Rose-Steel
Interior Text Design by Tricia Kristufek
ISBN-13: 978-1-908212-07-8
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Requests for permission should be addressed to
[email protected] First Edition:
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to:
My family, who after 25 years still inexplicably fail to hide under the table at the dreaded phrase “Do you mind just having a look at this please?”
And to my wonderful partner, Will, who fills my life with love and laughter, and the best hugs.
JAC
Table of Contents
The Lady
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
The Other Nereia
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Titles
On Dark Shores
1: The Lady
Chapter One
It was a time of dark dreams. They washed in like flotsam on the night tide, slipping beneath doorways and window latches, rising through the streets and hills; and the little fishing-town of Scarlock foundered deep.
The moneylender dreamed of the woman they said was his mother. The fury of her fit over, she subsided on the dirty straw of the madhouse, careless of the stench and the noise. She made no sign of recognising her boy; he was glad. Then the twitching began. His heart began to hammer as he realized that it was happening again. Like the mad woman, his muscles convulsed, and he raved and jerked like a puppet on its strings until he was writhing in the clutch of the padded shackles, pulling him in to share the cell with the drooling wreck that had once been his mother.
The bodyguard dreamt of his final boxing match; the crowd chasing him, the broken shoulder that ended his career, and the brandy he laced with Angel Feathers to dull the pain. He wanted to give up the drug, but everywhere the Angel Feathers touched him a sore blossomed, gaping open like a hungry mouth while he moaned with bitter pleasure.
The thief dreamt of the storm in which her parents had drowned. Dark waves thundered, smashing onto the reef where the ship's bones were broken. The wind-whipped surf lashed up and fell like salt rain. Somewhere in the racing waters, the thief's memories were dissolving, but she could do nothing; she had to hide. She was afraid, not for herself but for the young girl whose beauty shone out, burning through the tattered cloak that the thief held up to cover them both.
And further out across the sea and high up into the mountains the dreams insinuated themselves, even into the heavily-guarded sleep of the Mother of the Shantari….
…the old woman awoke in tears, full of the piercing sorrow which never left her. The time was close, so near that the echoes of it haunted her dreams, and of all her people, the most terrible sacrifice was demanded of her. She wanted to rail against it, but this was the price of being guard and guide to her people; the women of her line were gifted, but the balance was paid in the blood of their own.
With an effort, she hauled herself out of the bed and crossed the room to open the heavy shutters and then the window. She looked out over the craggy slopes that fell steeply to the dark green of the tree line. Up here on the shoulders of the mountain it should have been bitterly cold at this time of year, but the hare was still wearing his summer coat and the waters of the stream ran freely.
The signs were everywhere. She grimaced. She was deceiving herself like a silly old woman, hoping against hope that she was wrong, when in her heart she knew the truth.
“Mother?” Eliset paused in the doorway. “I dreamt it again, the same vision as before; about her.”
“The Lady?”
“Yes. She was walking along the bone-sand, and behind her the sun rose over the Dark Seas. What does it mean?” Eliset hesitated, looking keenly at the older woman. “Mother? Your dreams walked a different path, again.”
“It was Absalom.” Her mother’s voice was barely a whisper. “It is always Absalom. I cannot see beyond his death. I cannot see anything but his death. I cannot see any way for it to end that could possibly make his death anything but wasteful. And I cannot forgive myself for setting his feet on a path that can only lead him to death and the Dark Waters.”
Eliset shuddered.
“Do not speak of it, Mother. Not yet; not while he is still alive. We cannot be sure that he will be called to the Dark Waters. Perhaps he will sleep quiet in his grave.”
“How can he?” the old woman asked. “He is many miles from the Mountains; he will die in a far-off land and be buried there. There will be no earth and stone of Mountain to keep him. The dead soil of the plains may hold his body but it cannot shield him from the pull of the Dark Sea.”
There was a silence. Eliset moved over to lean at the windowsill by her mother.
“You will go.” It was not a question.
“I must go to find the Lady. They are connected. Where I find her, he will not be far away.”
“Then take a jar of good mountain earth and leave it with him,” Eliset urged. “I will fill a jar from the Fields of the Dead. If he must die, we cannot save his life; but I will not lose my brother to the Dark Waters for want of a handful of earth to lay on his body!”
The old woman turned to embrace her. “Ah, my daughter, the Old Blood runs true in you. You will be a strong guide to our people when I am gone,” she murmured, adding more firmly, “and it is as well; for if I have not the strength for this task, then it is down to you to finish it. Much rides upon your readiness to do this.”
“I have the strength, Mother; but not your wisdom.” Eliset paced up and down the room, restless. “Let me come with you-”
“And leave the People unprotected? You know better than to suggest that. Besides, where I go now it will be better not to have such a pretty young thing with me!” She laid an affectionate hand on the dark curls of her daughter’s hair, and gestured Eliset to precede her into the kitchen. The low sun glanced off the copper pans, sending a diffused scattering of light dancing over the tabletop, whose heavy waxen smell mixed with the aromas of drying
herbs. Nodding Eliset to sit at the table, the Mother reached up to a shelf from which she took down a rare treasure: a carved box of dark wood lined with soft white leather. Cradled in it were little glass goblets all the way from Gai Ren. One space was empty, but the remaining five sparkled like gems in the sunlight.
“The purple one is for me; the blue is for her.”
“The Lady?” Eliset asked, as her mother poured water into both goblets.
“Yes; the Lady.” Taking a knife from the table, the Mother pierced the tip of the index finger on her left hand. She squeezed it a moment to let the blood gather, then let a single drop fall into the purple glass, and one into the blue. She passed the knife to Eliset, saying “Only the blue,” and while her daughter repeated the action, the Mother chose from a selection of implements, finally picking a small wooden wand, delicately carved. She passed it to her daughter, who stirred each glass carefully.
“Now?” Eliset asked.
“Now.”
Eliset reached out her hands over the glasses and concentrated. The water swirled and darkened in both glasses; that in the purple glass blushed violet, that in the blue glass a deep indigo. Eliset let her hands drop, and the colour faded.
“You are sad,” she mused, “but she is exhausted, and in trouble. If something happens to her…”
“Nothing must happen to her. That is why I have to go now.”
“And the others?”
“Now is the Lady’s time, and we must look to her. As for the others, when their time comes the Lady will be there to help.” Her mother lifted the goblets carefully, placing them on the sill of the window. “Watch the glasses. Check them each day. The water will remain clear while all goes well. If it goes black…” She looked away. “The Lady’s glass must not go black. It must not. If the other does - mine…”
“You have not seen anything?” Eliset’s voice wavered despite her best efforts.
“I have seen nothing clearly, but nevertheless we must consider the possibility. Should the water go black, then I am dead, and you are the Mother of the Shantari. The Mother’s place is where she is needed most. As to where that will be at such a point, I trust your judgement.” She returned Eliset’s fierce embrace for a moment. “Now come, child. I need to prepare for the journey, and there is much to be done before I go.”
It had been a long day and, Scarlock not being known for its riches, so far not a profitable one. The thief wandered wearily along the alleyway, wondering how in the world she was to find Copeland’s tithes for the week. Her pickings had been scanty and what little she had fell far short of what she needed. Where was she to find the money? The prospect of failing to make the amount echoed round and round in her head, making her feel sick and jittery. She knew what would happen if she could not pay. Copeland would offer her the choice of working off her debt in the brothel, and when she refused, it would mean a beating from his bodyguard. She’d taken many a beating from Blakey before now, but even in Scarlock a bruised woman called more attention to herself than was good for a thief, making it even more difficult to make the next week’s payment. She shook her head in mixed frustration and nervousness. What she was about to try was the only chance to avoid that downward spiral - but it was risky enough that though the pickings were always good, she only came here when utterly desperate. Even the tiny dagger sheathed on the inside of her wrist did not guarantee she would get away unscathed.
She cautiously peered round the corner. Yes; as always, a group of drunken sailors stood relieving themselves against the wall. Predictably enough with sailors newly ashore, the Crow Inn was the first (and frequently the last) tavern they came to. Now it was just a matter of her skill against their determination.
She glanced again, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the overpowering stench of urine. Three of them. That was a gamble; but all three were obviously quite unsteady on their feet. One leant on the wall with both hands; another weaved back and forth, while the third cursed him, backing away and shaking a sodden leg. As he began to rearrange his clothing, she made her decision. They were drunk enough that she was in with a chance and she needed the money. She flicked the little dagger out into her palm, hidden but ready, and closing her eyes for a moment, breathed a prayer to deities she did not believe were listening. Then she dashed round the corner, stopping short in the middle of them as if startled.
“Oh!” she exclaimed and began to back away, hesitantly.
“Hello there!” One of the sailors grabbed her by the wrist, and she turned wide, frightened eyes on him.
“What are you doing? Let me go!” Her voice scaled higher with alarm.
“Look what I found, mates!” He leered at her, his breath heavy with ale. “If it isn’t a real, genu-wine woman!”
“Well, don’t you have all the luck?” The second sailor was disgusted. “Bags I have the second turn with her!”
The third sailor, an older man, cursed. “Gods, Billy, not again. I’m not getting in trouble because you can’t keep your mind clear of petticoats for more than two minutes together.” He spat on the ground and began to walk away. Nereia lunged, snatching her wrist free, while, one-handed, subtly snicking the cords that secured the purse of the man holding her, and sliding it into her pocket.
“Wait, help me, please! They’re scaring me!”
“Just lay still and don’t fight, missy. It’ll all be over sooner that way.”
Nereia’s shock was not feigned, but the slam of the tavern door recalled her as the second sailor grappled her against the wall. For a moment she pushed at him ineffectively, showing signs of increasing panic. She aimed a hefty slap at his face with her left hand. He caught her hand and grinned, unaware that the dagger in her right had been busy and his own purse had just joined the other in her pocket.
The sailors were evidently old hands at this, but they gaped in surprise as she suddenly slithered out of their grasp with equally practised skill. She elbowed the sailor nearest her in the solar plexus and as he collapsed, whipped round to plant a heel squarely in the groin of the other, leaving them both writhing in the filth of the alleyway. She slipped into The Crow, and paused behind the third sailor, lifting his purse while he wavered over his tankard. Passing swiftly through the crowded bar to the far end, she caught the barman’s eye and spoke briefly to him, dropping a few coins into his hand to cover the sailors’ tab. He nodded grimly; his own daughter suffered insult after insult from the likes of these. As the thief left, she heard the noise and ruckus of the barman dealing out blows to the sailor who could not pay for his beer, and throwing him out into the stinking mud with his mates.
Nereia ran from the inn. Halfway up the hill a stitch forced her to slow to a walk, clutching at her side. She hated it. She hated being so desperate that she had to venture her own safety to pay Copeland his damned tithe. She hated Copeland. She hated Scarlock… Well, no, that wasn’t true. She probably hated Scarlock, but it was all she knew and all she was likely to ever know.
She stopped suddenly as the harbour opened out in front of her. It was today: eleven years ago today it had happened, and she had not been up to the cliff-top yet. How could she have forgotten? She made her way down the spray-slick stairway which led from the shore road down to the beach.
Mary would have already been there. Her sister never forgot, though she had been too young to remember anything of that terrible day, and those that followed.
She bent to pick up two smoothed stones from the beach, each the size of a fist and varnished with seawater. A sudden memory seized her, of standing here in the rain a little while after it happened, bewildered by the speed with which all the mainstays of her life had been swept away while the wind mourned along the beach and the grey waves spilled over into hissing spray…
She sighed. That sort of reminiscence did no good. Their old life had died along with their parents and now this scrambling existence was all that was left to them. Nereia wearily made her way up through the town; but where h
er memory-self went along the wide gracious street that led to what had once been the family townhouse, she turned aside to climb the crumbling path up to the cliff-top. She made her way between the cairns, some old and overgrown, others new and bare, to the place at the edge of the cliff, a little apart from the rest. There along the neat line of mounds she came to that familiar one, large enough not for two bodies but for the memories of those two. There were already two clean pebbles added to the cairn. Mary had not forgotten.
Silently she stacked her own alongside them, and paused a moment; but there was nothing to be said, no memories which had not been leached of colour and joy by the past eleven years, and so with nothing more than a brief nod, she turned towards home.
“Reia! You’re soaked! Are you very tired?” Mary kissed her older sister on the cheek, hardly pausing to wait for an answer. “You’re in luck - I have a pot of broth on the fire and it’s nice and hot. Here, sit down and I’ll get you some. And today we even have some fine new bread to go with it.”
Nereia sat on the old chair her sister set out for her, and took the steaming mug. Tired as she was, weary to her bones, she couldn’t help but smile. Mary was eleven years the younger, but still fussed over her older sister like a diminutive mother hen. Now fourteen, she was beginning to show signs of the woman she would grow to be. Her slight figure and fine fair hair were almost fairylike, their delicacy only belied by the calluses and roughened skin on her finely-shaped hands. She looked very much like their Mardonese mother, whereas Nereia favoured her father’s mother, the Shantara after whom she had been named. Yes, she thought, watching Mary, if their parents had been alive still, perhaps those hands would have been unmarked. But the family’s property had all passed to Copeland, their father’s second cousin and sole living relative. Nereia and Mary had been left to his tender mercies, and he had told Nereia in no uncertain terms that as they had to earn their keep, she had only two possible professions to choose from. In a mist of confusion and shame, the then fifteen-year-old had opted for stealing as the lesser evil, and ever since had been grateful for the age gap between herself and her younger sister. Now, she was as skilled as any thief in the trade, but Copeland had been demanding more and more money from her recently, and she was worried that he would try to drag Mary into one of his sordid businesses.
“So quiet, Reia? Was it a bad day?” Mary asked anxiously.
“Goodness, no! I’m sorry, Mary, I must be very dull tonight. No, we have enough for the moment, at any rate.”
“Then that’s plenty!” Mary returned. “Drink up your broth before it gets cold.”
“Yes, Mother!” Nereia took a sip of the steaming liquid while Mary stuck her tongue out in retaliation. “Is there - Mary, what have you put in this?”
“Is it good?”
“Very good, but-”
“I knew you’d like it.” Mary was smug. “Old Emma said I hadn’t put enough salt in.”
“Emma?” exclaimed Nereia, puzzled. “What was Emma doing here?”
“She brought us a present; a rabbit. I put it in the stew, and she went on and on about how I hadn’t put enough salt in. I said I thought I knew well enough how you’d like it; was I right?”
“Of course, it’s lovely; but why should Emma give us a rabbit? She’s got no great opinion of us.”
“Why? I told you,” repeated Mary, exasperated. “It was a present. Mr Blakey brought it round, from Uncle Copeland.”
For a moment Nereia was too appalled to speak. “Uncle Copeland?”
“Yes; is that not right? He said he was a relative of Father’s, and that I might call him Uncle-”
“He is not our uncle, and you will not call him by that name!”
Mary paled at her sister's vehemence, and Nereia took a moment to regain her self-control. She put down the broth, leaned forward and took hold of her hand.
“Mary, listen to me. This is important. When did you see Copeland? When did he say that to you?”
“The first time he came to visit us,” Mary stammered. “He said he wanted to see you and I told him that you weren’t here, but he said that in that case he felt he should renew his acquaintance with me, as we were family. He sat for ages, and didn’t say very much, and the other man, Mr Blakey, he just stood in the corner, and didn’t say anything at all. And he told me to tell him all about myself, and I did, and then he went away.”
“And that’s all? Nothing more than that?”
“Not really. I said I’d tell you he’d been looking for you, and he said that perhaps the visit hadn’t been a total loss after all, and that he would try and look in every so often to see that we were all right. And I said thank you very much, but I believed that we were fine, and he laughed and said that if it was all right with me, he’d look in anyway, so I said I was sure you’d appreciate it. Did I get it wrong? I meant to tell you, but I forgot all about it.”
“When did this happen?” Nereia’s voice was grim.
“I can’t remember exactly. It was one morning. You were out, and he came into the house without knocking, as if he didn’t expect there to be anyone in. Then later, when he’d gone, I went to the market, and - Oh, I know! It was that day when the horse knocked over the vegetable stall, and we had potatoes and onions and some baked apples for tea; you remember?”
“Baked apples... That would be nearly a fortnight ago,” Nereia muttered. “And he’s been back again since?”
“Just once, this afternoon.”
“Did he - he didn’t say anything to you about working for him, did he?” Nereia watched her sister’s face closely, but there was only confusion there, rather than the shame she dreaded.
“He didn’t say much at all; he just asked questions about how old I was, and how long we’d been living here. Reia, whatever is the matter? He only gave us a rabbit. I don’t understand!”
“No, I don’t think you do,” muttered Nereia, relaxing slightly. “Thank the Gods! Give me a hug, love.”
Mary was evidently a little mystified. For a moment she returned her sister’s fierce hug; then her face knotted in thought, and she drew back a little to ask, “So if they bring us another rabbit, do we have to give it back?”
Nereia was forced to laugh.
“Forget about the rabbit! It’s in the stew now, and too delicious to waste.” And wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she picked up the rapidly-cooling mug of broth again.
The next day, Nereia made her way down to the wharves. As usual they were bustling with sailors, merchants, and all the various others trying to relieve them of their shore-pay. Scarlock was not a large town, but having the best natural harbour for miles in either direction, it attracted more than its fair share of passing trade. Not that any of it was a particular benefit to anyone except Copeland, of course, Nereia thought, but in terms of his varied enterprises it was ideal.
“Morning, Nereia!” The speaker was slightly younger than Mary, her face rouged and her lips painted. Nereia’s heart gave a sick little lurch at the sight of her, as it always did; barely grown, and it had come to this!
But she smiled a welcome at the child. “Morning, Bet; another early start to another long day!”
“And after another long night... But the money’s always welcome.”
“If only it would stay in our hands for more than a few hours!”
“If only! But then, if we didn’t have to work we’d just sit around getting chubby.”
This was something of a running joke between them. Copeland tended to leave his people just enough of their earnings to stay alive, but hungry. Hungry people, he maintained, worked harder.
Nereia smiled. “Listen, I’m meeting someone; I’d better go. You be careful, now. I heard that Susie got beaten up quite badly last week.”
“Yes, poor Susie. She is such a fool, though. Anyone could see that sailor was three parts drunk, and likely to be none too careful with his fists.”
“That’s as may b
e; but you just take care of yourself! See you later.” Nereia smiled at the girl and continued on her way.
“Morning, Bet!” The new arrival, an older woman, watched Nereia out of sight before continuing. “Talking to Miss Hoity-Toity? Trying to show you the error of your ways, is she?”
“No, nothing like that, Emma.” Bet shrugged. “She’s all right, is Nereia; a bit of a prude, but not bad.”
“Thinks she’s too good for the likes of us, she does. You should have heard the fuss she kicked up when Mr Copeland told her to join us at The Black Cat! You’d think he’d asked her to walk into the fire or something. And now just look at her! Lives in a hole on the edge of town, and she’s the oldest thief he has. I’ll admit she’s good at thieving; she can pick any lock you put in front of her, but you’d think that she’d grow out of it and move on, the same as the rest of us.”
“Perhaps she likes it. There must be some reason for her to refuse Mr Copeland. You wouldn’t find me saying no to him, with or without taking Blakey into account. I mean, Mr Copeland, when he gets cross, he gets mean with it, but Blakey’s an animal.” Bet shuddered expressively.
“He hasn’t set Blakey on her yet - not seriously, at any rate, though I’ll be damned if I know why.” Emma mused. “The sort of arguments she’s had with him, and the things she’s said; well, I know people who’ve had an hour of Blakey’s undivided attention for much less.”
“You don’t think he’s sweet on her, do you, Emma?”
The older woman grabbed Bet so hard that she yelped.
“The likes of us don’t comment on the likes of Mr Copeland,” Emma hissed. “Not if we want to make the end of the day in one piece, we don’t! For goodness’ sake, girl, learn some sense!” She released her grip on Bet’s arms, glanced around warily, and settled back to lean against the wall again. “But for the record, no, I don’t think he’s sweet on her.”
“Then what-?” Bet fell silent at her warning glance.
“Best that we never know, I’m thinking. But by all accounts, he’ll have her one way or the other before the month’s out. Rumour has it that he’s told Madam to prepare a room in the basement for - shall we say - an unwilling guest, and to have the dressmaker and the silk merchants ready at a moment’s notice.”
“If he’s not sweet on her...” Bet whistled.
“Then he has plans, and if those plans involve her, she’ll be joining us soon, prudery or no. Mind, there’s no saying it’s not the sister he wants, but for all she’s a pretty piece, it wouldn’t take all that preparation to get her safely under Madam’s thumb. No, it’s Nereia he’s after, and for something a little out of the common way. Hoity-toity she might be, but I almost feel sorry for her. From the look in his eyes...”
“What?” Bet prompted, but Emma shook her head.
“Just you keep a low profile, my girl. Blakey’s attention is bad enough, but Mr Copeland can hold a grudge for a long, long time.” And the look in his eyes when he spoke of Nereia was odd, she thought; vindictive. There was definitely more to it than Emma could puzzle out, but the upshot of it was that Nereia and her sister were in for a hard time.
Well; it was nothing to do with her, and she was due down at the drying sheds to supervise the processing of the next harvest of Angels. She nodded her goodbyes and headed off towards the caves under the cliff. Angel Feathers, they called the drug, and there was no denying that it earned Mr Copeland a pretty penny, but it didn’t exactly fall from heaven. She snorted to herself. The other place, maybe, but certainly not from heaven.
After Emma had gone on her way, Bet stood lost in thought for a while. Perhaps everything that Emma said was true, but Nereia wasn’t a bad sort. She always stopped to say hello, and when she could, even slipped a little of her takings to Bet. She never explained but Bet was always grateful, for it meant a few customers less in the course of the week. Bet hated to see her friend get hurt, but there was no way she could tell her, not outright: it would get back to Mr Copeland and he’d kill her, or Blakey would anyway.
A gang of sailors were sauntering along the wharves, laughing and joking.
“Look at this little darlin’!” shouted one of them, and suddenly they were gathered round her in a crowd.
“I bet you got a whole load o’ sisters, all as lovely as yerself, am I right?” quipped another, causing his mates to roar with laughter.
“I surely have; won’t you come home and meet them?” Her voice quavered a little nervously. She still found this scary, but the older girls said you got used to it. “They live at The Black Cat - I’ll show you the way.”
“We’ll come and meet them all right.” The man grinned at his mates. “But I saw this one first and she’s mine! Aren’t you, my girl?”
Bet smiled back as best she could given the smell of his breath. “For the right money, I’m anyone’s, but you’ll have to pay Madam first.”
“I’ve been so long at sea I’ll ‘pay’ your Madam, then you, and probably half your sisters before the night’s over!” he bragged. “Lead the way - you’ll be a rich woman by the morning!”
Forgetting Nereia completely, Bet set off and the sailors followed, shouting and whooping, a troupe of stinking fools rich with pay for the taking. Madam would be pleased with her; The Black Cat would be full and it wasn’t even midday.
Nereia made her way to the far end of the wharves where the more well-to-do merchants tended to congregate. She dreaded what was to come. A message had come through for her to meet with Copeland, and experience warned her that he was going to demand yet more money. He was trying to drive her into joining his brothel, but she had spent eleven years avoiding that and she was not about to give in now. She had a nagging feeling that this was something a little out of the ordinary, however, and somewhere in the depths of her mind, a little voice that she couldn’t ignore whispered that for him to demand a meeting after finding Mary could not be anything but serious.
But in that case why meet her in public, when he knew full well what her reaction would be? No; something different was brewing now. She didn’t know what it was, but all her instincts warned her to be careful. She walked to the end of the wharf and leant on a wall, watching the ships loading and unloading.
“Early, I see,” commented a dry little voice beside her. It was Mickel, Copeland’s chief fence.
“You’ve come to see him too?”
“Oh yes. Purely a social visit, you understand, for the delight of spending time in his company... And yours, of course,” Mickel returned with a wicked grin.
Nereia smiled. Though she’d learnt the hard way that no-one was to be trusted here, Nereia sometimes thought that if it was she had to trust anyone, it would be Mickel. The man had his own code of honour about things. She batted her eyelids outrageously. “You’ve come for the pleasure of my society? How sweet, Mickel; if I didn’t know you said that to all the girls, I’d be flattered.”
“Only you, my dear, only you. The rest may beat at my door and bewail my absence, but I am a captive to the green pools of your eyes!”
“Very pretty, Mickel; a pity that my eyes are blue.”
“Alas! Crushed!” he exclaimed, making her laugh.
“I know; I’m terribly cruel. You’d never think it to look at me.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mickel mused darkly. “You have a very unforgiving brow, and I detect a strong element of viciousness in the line of your mouth!”
“Yes, hardly kissable, is it?” The mood changed in an instant as Copeland approached, followed by Blakey.
“Mickel.” Copeland nodded, ignoring Nereia. “How’s business?”
“Oh, steady enough, Mr Copeland, steady enough,” Mickel replied. “Yourself?”
“The same. Yes; steady is the word. However, that is something we may well be able to remedy.”
“Really?”
“Indeed; to your benefit as well as mine.”
Mickel cocked his head to
one side. “You interest me.”
Copeland’s cold smile flickered across his face and was gone. “I rather thought I might,” he murmured. “Come with me.”
Blakey stood back to let Mickel and Nereia pass, but when the woman made no move, growled “Ladies first.”
“Oh, am I to go too?”
Mickel was intrigued to notice a momentary clench of Copeland’s jaw muscles. The whole town cowered at the feet of this man, so it was interesting (if not wise) that Nereia should set out to antagonise him, and more interesting still that she seemed to succeed.
“May I ask where we’re going?” He stumbled, trying to catch up with Copeland who did not slow down in the slightest, regardless of Mickel’s limp.
“We’re going to look at some merchandise you might be interested in. Let me tell you a story, Mickel. Many years ago, the captain of a sea-going ship came to me wanting to borrow a large sum of money, and offered to put his ship up as security against the loan. At first I was not inclined to do so; what would I do with a ship? Of course, there was an outside chance that the man would pay up, but as a businessman I long ago learnt not to rely upon a man’s word of honour. Of what use is it?”
Mickel passed a hand over his beard, a gesture habitual to him but which, from where Nereia stood, did not quite hide the thinning of his lips.
“It doesn’t buy meat or wine, you can’t harness it to a carriage - in short, it is good for nothing. No, in my business, you lend hard cash only if you get a material return. I sent the man on his way none the richer, but he was very persistent. Five or six times he came knocking on my door and each time I refused him. And then one day, after he’d been begging again, I began to think. A ship in itself was no good to me but it seemed that a ship in return for a couple of hundred silver pieces was no bad return if it could only be sold or used somehow. The only question was how.”
“You don’t strike me as the sea-faring sort,” Mickel commented.
“Indeed not; nor am I interested in trade. As the Captain found out, there are too many hazards and too much water beneath the keel for a man like me to be content to tie up money in a cargo which may very well founder before it even reaches me. Trade seems prohibitively risky; but you know me, Mickel. I am not the sort to let an opportunity pass, even if it requires an unorthodox solution to make the most of it. My problem with trading was the possibility of losing my money between one port and the next; the obvious solution is to trade something which costs me nothing. Then the cargo may be lost but if I am no better off for it, neither am I worse off.”
“Ingenious. My presence here implies you’ve found an answer to this problem?”
“Of course I have,” Copeland snapped. “I can kill two birds with one stone. My business relationship with you has always been of a distinctly limited status, has it not, Mickel?”
Mickel began to wonder where this was going. Being Copeland’s chief fence was no guarantee of security. “If you’re unhappy with-”
“I cast no aspersions on you, Mickel. You’ve always given a reasonable price for whatever has been brought to you, but this is not a large town. Whilst there is plenty of small fry such as purses and jewellery, it must be some time since you’ve had anything worth the selling from us. Take our good friend Nereia here, one of your best clients, I have no doubt. How long is it since she passed on a single thing that was worth the time you spent haggling with her over it?”
“Nereia brings me a great many small objects-” Mickel interjected. Did the man know everything that went on in his town?
“No, I thought not. She has a great opinion of her own skills, but it’s not necessarily justified. I have a feeling she could do better in other circles.”
“I think we’ve had this discussion, Copeland,” Nereia interrupted. “If this is all you have to say, I might as well get on with my work - assuming you still want what paltry profit I can bring you.”
Copeland nodded at Blakey, who nearly felled her with an open-handed slap to the side of the face. Mickel started to step forward but stopped himself in time. It was a mark of the end of town they were in that two well-dressed women actually stopped to stare and whisper.
Nereia staggered but caught her balance. “Well? Can I go?”
Mickel caught his breath. Where he was from, men who hit women were not tolerated. He had always known at some level that this was going on but it had never happened in front of him before, and this fleeting slap had made him sick to the stomach. That said, the last reaction he had expected was for Nereia to simply ignore it.
“If I didn’t have a specific reason for you to be here, you may rest assured that you would not be!” Copeland exclaimed. “I am unlikely to invite you for my pleasure!”
“That’s something, anyway,” she muttered.
Mickel noted the red flush which flowed and ebbed over Copeland’s face. Nereia was altogether too good at riling him; if she pushed the moneylender much more, it would not go well for her. He hoped it would not come to that, partly because he liked her and partly because he had no desire to get involved in whatever was going on between them. It was starting to look dangerous.
“Mickel! As I was saying, I feel that my employees” Copeland spat the word out, “may be limited by this town's opportunities. What we need is a wider range of goods and that can only be achieved by having access to a wider range of houses. Of course, there isn’t a house here that hasn’t contributed some item or other but at best we have a few wealthy merchants, and at worst a town full of dirty hovels with barely a crust between them, never mind objects of saleable worth. Even should we acquire valuables from one merchant or another, there are too few of them in the town to be able to sell the goods on without fear of their being recognised.” Having warmed to his subject, he was calming down. His own cleverness was always a favourite topic.
“We need access to better quality valuables. We have the people but we need to know the houses in question. The only houses really worth our attention are large ones inhabited by the rich and that means those in the cities, but in its turn, that means that anything we relieve them of has to be resold on the spot - a very dubious business at best - or transported back here. Once here, the chances of them being recognised are minimal and you, my friend,” he smiled emptily at Mickel, “have the contacts to sell or trade them to merchants all along the river and the coast in either direction. Now, if we have a ship of our own and someone trustworthy to captain it, the possibilities are endless, wouldn’t you say?”
Mickel raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly.
“I should imagine I can get rid of anything you can give me, but there are a lot of gaps in this plan; I mean, things you haven’t told me yet,” he added hastily as Copeland frowned. “Who’s to captain the ship? Who’s to do the breaking-in? And if you’ve had the ship all these years, why isn’t it all set up already?”
“Good questions. Follow me. There is something I want to show you.”
They passed through the more wealthy part of town to a large warehouse which backed onto the river. From the outside it appeared to be verging on derelict, but it had a solid door and shiny new lock. Copeland opened the door, locking it again once they were inside.
Nereia was uneasy. She didn’t like being locked in anywhere with Copeland and Blakey. She was preoccupied enough that even when her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she did not immediately pay any attention to her surroundings.
Then Mickel exclaimed “Good grief!”
The warehouse was large and only the portion of it nearest the door was taken up, but even in the dim half-light it was obvious that these goods were not the shoddy old artefacts that Mickel usually received. He limped forward to look more closely at the elegant chairs and matching tables, the curving lines of fine porcelain, and the finely-wrought metalwork of a small chest. Even Nereia, despite her unease, was drawn to run a thoughtful hand over the softness of the carpets and rugs piled in a corner.
“Where did
you get all this?” Mickel breathed.
“An associate of mine took an opportunity in Seagift. The house belonged to an old woman who in her prime was an actress of some note. Her belongings - or perhaps I should say, my belongings,” Copeland coughed out his brusque ha!ha!, “are a little dated, perhaps...”
“-But of a quality I haven’t seen these many years.” Mickel finished.
“Look in the jewellery box.”
Nereia watched Mickel open the box. His face went white, and with reverent hands he picked out an immense diamond. As he lifted it into a stray shaft of sunshine, the way the light refracted took her breath away.
“You can sell them?” Copeland asked, gesturing them abruptly back towards the door.
Mickel put the stone back in the box, a stunned look on his face. “How could I turn them down?”
“It’s settled then.”
“You were telling me about the ship.” Mickel was not about to say so but he wished Copeland was not striding on quite so fast. The pace was starting to tell on his bad leg; more point-scoring on Copeland’s part.
“Ah yes; the ship. Well, I lent the Captain his money and in due time the ship became mine. The Captain had - shall we say, some unprincipled ruffians among his crew, and his cargo was ruined when a hatch was - er - accidentally left open on a stormy night, ha!ha! As he lacked the means to repay me, I had Blakey send the Captain back to his boat with instructions to vacate it by dawn. Unfortunately, it seems that our friend the Captain had a son who was by no means willing to accept his father’s failure, and come dawn there was nothing left but an empty berth at the harbour.”
“What was the Captain’s name?”
“The Captain’s name? It was Captain Vansel, of the Black-Eyed Susan. Why do you ask?”
“Idle curiosity, that’s all.” Mickel shrugged. “There was a merchant captain found dead on the end of the wharf a few years back. I wondered if it was him.”
“Was there really? And was it him?” Mickel nodded, and Copeland seemed vastly pleased. “I do wish I’d known that at the time! It would have made me feel a great deal better about the whole thing. It seems that your strength was greater than you thought, Blakey!” he added jovially. Blakey simply grunted.
“These were only idle imaginings at the time, and the lack of a ship soon put a halt to them; but I never gave up the idea and a year or so ago, I managed to get my hands on another ship. Of course, it’s not of the same calibre as the Black-Eyed Susan - ships like that don’t come along more than once - but it’s quite enough for my needs at present and once we’ve sold a few loads of cargo I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t buy a bigger one, should we so wish.”
“I can see that part being very profitable indeed, but the part that baffles me is how you plan to co-ordinate your shipping with the house-breaking on the other side.”
“A good question,” noted Copeland, “and this is the point where our much-vaunted thief comes in. You may have noticed, Mickel, that our good companion here is considerably over the age of my usual thieves. She likes to claim that it is because she’s good at what she does but in fact it is because so far I have been lenient with her. I have plenty of whores; one more or less is really neither here nor there, and foul-tempered as she is, the chances of her attracting much custom are negligible anyway.”
Nereia stopped dead. She didn’t like the direction this was taking at all, and less so when Blakey took hold of her arm in a grip hard enough to make her cry out. Mickel had to unclench his fists.
“As she herself is of no particular use to me, I’m thinking of introducing her younger sister to our beloved Madam. The girl is slender and fair-haired - she’ll fetch a fine price from all comers.”
“Don’t you dare, Copeland! Don’t you touch her! If you even lay a finger on her, I swear I’ll kill you!” Nereia’s voice was more venom-laden than the loudest scream, and much of Blakey’s considerable strength was required to hold back the thief’s violent fury.
“Yes, Nereia; think well on what is in store for that sister of yours….”
“You bastard!”
“Now, tell me what would you do to spare her that?”
“What-?”
Copeland’s smugness was almost palpable. “You know, her future is in my hands. I can make her life very, very unpleasant; or I can let her go on as she is.” He smiled, pleased with the arrested look on her face. “It’s really all down to what you do next.”
Nereia sagged in Blakey’s iron grasp. “You damned toad. You know I have no choice.”
“Well?” He pressed her to say the words.
There was an anguished pause.
“I’ll do what you want,” she whispered brokenly, “damn you.”
For the first time Mickel saw her head bowed, lolling off her shoulders as if something inside her had snapped. Even Blakey loosened his grip on her, supporting her rather than holding her back now.
“Mr Copeland-” Mickel began again, but the moneylender’s attention was not on him.
“So crushed!” Copeland laid a hand to the side of her face almost tenderly. “So crushed, and she doesn’t even know what it is I require her to do yet. Oh, I’m not sending you to the whorehouse now, my dear; well, not in that way, anyway.” Dully Nereia heard him, but did not cherish any illusions of mercy. “No. What I require of you, my dear Miss Hoity-Toity, is to become what you once were. You shall have dresses of finest silk, eat the most fashionable food from porcelain platters; you shall become a lady once more. What do you have to say to that?”
“I don’t understand.”
He slapped her, hard. “I think you mean ‘Thank you Mr Copeland’, don’t you?”
“No I don’t mean ‘Thank you’, I mean I don’t understand what you want me to do or why! I’ll do what you want because I have to; I’ll sell every last shred of integrity you’ve left me because I have to, but if you think I’ll thank you for the joy of it, you’re sadly mistaken, Copeland!”
Copeland went white; and then, just as Mickel had decided that Nereia was about to die, he laughed. “If I didn’t need you in one piece I think Blakey would enjoy spending some time with you, my girl, but as it is I think we must refrain for the moment. Very well then, I’ll explain. Blakey, bring her. Mickel, come with me.”
Mickel stared at Nereia for a moment, just long enough to see the hate in her eyes fade to a searing mixture of shame and despair; then, unable to bear it, he turned his back on her and limped after the other man.