“First sailed here when I was nine,” she said on the evening of the second day. She had just steered them past the shoulder of a coral reef that appeared nowhere on any Ironship chart of the region. “My father’s boat, The Silver Dart. First blood-burner owned by the Okanas family.”
“And you fired the engine, presumably?” Hilemore asked.
“Of course. Father was able to borrow enough to buy her the day after the Blood-lot revealed my Blessing. He made it all back with interest on our first voyage. Aren’t many freighters can out-run a burner. By the time I was sixteen we had funds enough to buy two more ships, and timber to build a port of our own.”
“Your family built the Hive?”
“It was more of a joint enterprise. Pirates tend not to compete with each other if it can be avoided, those that survive for any length of time that is. Feuding makes for poor profits.”
“Is it your father that waits there now? Is he the man your daughter fears?”
Her face took on the stern aspect he had come to realise meant she had no more words for the time being. It was therefore a surprise when she replied after a lengthy silence, “No, just his bitter seed.”
—
They gave the last of the dead to the Deep the following morning, the four doomed men on Weygrand’s list plus two of the possibles who had expired overnight. Hilemore said the appropriate words and formally crossed the names off the ship’s list whilst the honour guard stood at rigid attention in newly laundered uniforms. He had insisted on a strict observance of dress code today. With the ship in its current state and so many comrades fallen, the crew needed the reassurance of discipline and ritual. Steelfine dismissed the men after the last body had slid over the side, and Hilemore had him linger to survey the Viable’s works.
“Battle-scarred but unbowed, sir,” was the Islander’s estimation.
“Battle-scarred indeed,” Hilemore said, taking in the numerous scorch-marks in the decking that were too deeply ingrained to be scrubbed away. The upper works had been partly reconstructed thanks to the diligent work of the ship’s carpenter, the timber provided by a tree-felling expedition ashore whilst they had been at anchor. At Steelfine’s urging Hilemore had permitted only one tree to be taken. “My people will know we are here,” he had said. “And they don’t appreciate greed.”
“Then why do your people tolerate the Hive?” Hilemore asked. “It strikes me there must be greed aplenty there.”
“Pirates have been traversing the Isles for a hundred years or more. They learned early on the value of reaching an accommodation with any tribes they encountered. I imagine the Hive is tolerated because its leaders pay annual tribute, and the price will be steep.”
“Gold?”
Steelfine gave a rare smile, teeth bright in the morning sun. “Weapons, sir. Plus a few sundry luxuries, but mostly weapons. The only currency in the Isles.”
—
The Hive came into view in late afternoon, heralded by the sight of smoke leaking into the darkening sky from a cluster of tight-packed dwellings halfway up the slope of the island’s highest peak. Instead of a dock, the few ships in attendance were moored to a series of tall posts, each at least sixty feet high. “Mooring ropes are fixed to a ratchet that slides up and down with the tide,” Zenida explained. “Couldn’t afford a wall to guard against the three moons. Works well enough as long as there’s no storms.”
The Viable moored up just within cannon-shot of the town. Hilemore ordered a red flag with a white circle hoisted above the wheel-house; the universal signal requesting truce and negotiation. “Don’t expect it to be a shield if this goes against us,” the pirate woman advised as she and Hilemore climbed into the launch. “It’s just a rag on a stick to the man you’ll meet tonight.”
Hilemore turned to Steelfine, who stood staring at the town with undisguised suspicion, his jaw clenched in suppressed anger at being ordered to remain behind. “Remember,” Hilemore said. “Not one second past the twelfth hour. Confine the bombardment to the ships then make all speed north. No delays, Number One.”
He held Steelfine’s gaze until he received a curt nod then sat down to grasp the oars. Zenida Okanas spared a glance at her daughter standing at Steelfine’s side, saying nothing but Hilemore saw the brightness in her eyes before she blinked and looked away. “You haven’t told me her name,” he said, starting to row for the shore. They were alone in the boat at her insistence, also unarmed, which made his back itch with every pull of the oars.
“Why would that interest you?” she replied, gaze fixed on the approaching town.
“The ship’s log for one. I like to keep accurate records.”
She remained silent as they came level with the moored ships, the crewmen coming to the rail to watch them pass. A few held rifles and shotguns, though none was aimed in their direction. From the straightened backs of a few, Hilemore discerned they recognised his passenger.
“Akina,” Zenida said when they had cleared the ships. “It means jewel.” Her voice was hoarse and Hilemore kept his gaze from her face to spare her embarrassment, knowing she was fighting tears. She expects to die tonight.
The shore-line consisted of a broad beach, crowded with boats and piled cargo awaiting transport or sale. There were numerous onlookers as they grounded the boat and strode free of the surf, however the small group of armed men barring their path captured most of Hilemore’s attention. They were led by a stocky man of middling years and North Mandinorian origin, judging by the red hair crowning a face tanned from many years under the southern sun. In contrast to the men at his back he wore an affable, even jovial expression. “Captain Okanas,” he greeted Zenida in a rumbling baritone. “So glad to find you’re not residing with the King of the Deep, after all.”
“Constable Tragerhorn,” she replied, taking off her hat to return the bow. “May I present Captain Hilemore of the Ironship vessel Viable Opportunity. Come ashore in search of honest commerce.”
One of the pirates gave a scornful snicker at that, soon echoed by his fellows, though Hilemore took note of the speed with which they fell silent at Tragerhorn’s backward glance. “Captain,” he said, turning back, and maintaining his genial tone. “Constable Kaylib Tragerhorn, charged with maintaining order in this port by its duly appointed government. Your flag has been noted and will be respected. However, any breach of the customary rules of parley will result in swift punishment.”
“I understand, sir,” Hilemore replied in as neutral a voice as he could manage. Treating with pirates was not a circumstance he relished, but honour must be set aside in the face of dire necessity.
“How many are present?” Zenida asked Tragerhorn.
“Three of the five,” he replied. “More than usual, in fact. Recent events have gotten everyone in a bit of a tizzy, as you might imagine.” He stepped aside, gesturing at the winding track stretching away from the beach. “They’re waiting, and given their mood, we’d best not tarry.”
—
As with any land regularly beset by the three-moon tide, the slope beyond the beach was mostly rock and sparse bush, ascending at a sharp incline until it levelled out when they came to the town. There were considerably more onlookers here, clustered in doorways and alleys or peering down from windows and balconies. Also, unlike the pirates on the ships, they were less shy in giving voice to anxiety.
“What you doin’ with ’im, Captain?” a woman demanded of Zenida as they passed by one of the larger dwellings. She glared down from a balcony amidst a number of other women, sparsely dressed and liberally painted as befit their profession. “Take your ship away and it turns out you’re more a whore than I am!”
“Clamp down on that shit-mouth, Lirra!” Tragerhorn warned, pausing to fix the woman with a hard stare that soon had her shrinking back into the protective huddle of her sisters. Tragerhorn lingered to regard the surrounding townsfolk with a challenging
glare, gaze tracking from face to face, each abruptly finding somewhere else to look. After a few seconds, he moved on and they proceeded along the muddy thoroughfare that formed the Hive’s Main Street, this time without any accompanying catcalls.
“Glad to see your authority hasn’t waned, Constable,” Zenida said. “I assume the One Rule is still in force?”
“That it is, Captain,” Tragerhorn replied. “Been a good six months since I had to enforce it though.”
“One Rule?” Hilemore enquired.
“Those that founded this place were a pragmatic lot,” Tragerhorn said. “As us seafarers tend to be. There’s only one rule if you break a law here.”
He paused again and gestured ahead where the street opened out into a square of sorts. Rising from the centre of the square was a tall scaffold resembling a gallows but with four arms instead of one. From each arm there hung a narrow cage inside which Hilemore could see the dull white glimmer of bone or skull amidst the shrunken bundles of rags and desiccated flesh.
“They can last a good while, sometimes,” Tragerhorn commented. “Folk throw food at the cages, apples and such, all rotten naturally. Surprising how long a man can subsist on other people’s leavings.”
He led them past the scaffold to the largest structure Hilemore had seen so far, an oddly elegant reproduction of the kind of mansion favoured by the higher echelons of the Mandinorian managerial class. It stood three storeys high, complete with rectangular columns and tall windows, though the modern aspect was spoilt somewhat by the classical statuary adorning the roof-top.
“My father had the good fortune to happen upon an accomplished architect aboard a liner out of Carvenport,” Zenida said. “He built this in return for his freedom. Oddly, when it was done he decided he’d rather stay. Too many bad debts, apparently. Spent his remaining years whoring and drinking, all at my father’s expense.”
“I’d say he got his money’s worth,” Hilemore replied, his eyes lingering on the statues, long-forgotten gods and goddesses standing as dumb sentinels over this den of scum. It put him in mind of the crumbling pile at Astrage Vale and the many marble figures that littered the grounds. They were all antique and retained considerable value though his father had always resisted selling them, no matter how many times the bailiffs came knocking. Hilemore doubted that Cousin Malkim would share the same scruples.
“Best not make them wait, Captain,” Tragerhorn advised, gesturing to the steps ascending to the mansion door. It was opened by a hulking South Mandinorian fellow clad in archaic servant’s livery of satin waistcoat and an elaborately cuffed lace shirt. The near-comical appearance was offset somewhat by the pistol on his hip and the Dalcian tulwar strapped across his back. Two more men stood in the corridor beyond, not so large but both similarly attired and armed.
“Constable.” The hulking fellow greeted Tragerhorn with a respectful nod.
“Mr. Lockbar,” the constable replied. “Captains Hilemore and Okanas to see the Directors.”
Lockbar stepped aside to allow them entry then courteously requested they raise their arms and stand still whilst he searched them both. “I was welcome in this house long before you,” Zenida said, face paling with anger as the man patted her down.
“My contract is with the Directors,” Lockbar replied in a neutral tone.
When satisfied they were unarmed he turned and led them through a marble-floored hallway, the two other guards falling in behind along with Tragerhorn. “Leave all negotiation to me,” Zenida murmured to Hilemore as they proceeded to a set of double doors. “Speak only in response to a direct question.”
Lockbar swung the doors open and bid them enter. The space beyond was cavernous and lit by a row of six chandeliers suspended from a ceiling of moulded plaster. Ballroom, Hilemore decided, taking in the floral pattern on the tile floor. Three people sat in chairs next to the cavernous fire-place, long shadows stretching away in the orange glow. They stayed seated as Hilemore and Zenida came closer, stopping a dozen feet away at Lockbar’s order.
The seats were occupied by two men and a woman. The man on the right was portly and balding, with a bulbous nose so reddened from burst veins he appeared almost clownish, an impression countered by the deep scars tracing across his hairless head and the sharp calculation in his eyes. The woman on the left was perhaps fifty years old with thin, handsome features and hair tied back in a severe bun. She was elegantly dressed in a black mourning gown free of any adornments or jewellery. She regarded Hilemore with only the barest flicker of interest before fixing her gaze entirely on Zenida. Hilemore saw a weight to that gaze despite the woman’s expressionless features, whether born of malice or warmth he couldn’t tell.
But it was the man in the centre who captured most of his attention, his honed instincts attuned to seeking out the most salient threat. He was a few years Hilemore’s senior and not particularly tall, nor especially muscular. He wore sailor’s garb of good quality and had his hair worn long as was customary with Varestian men-folk. Unlike the bald man he bore no scars but Hilemore took one look at his face and knew he looked upon a killer. The eyes were steady as they traced from him to Zenida, taking in every detail and seeing more than most could. It was always the way with predators.
“Aren’t you going to introduce your new friend?” the man in the centre asked Zenida in slightly accented Mandinorian.
“Captain Hilemore of the IPV Viable Opportunity,” Zenida replied, keeping her voice on an even keel.
“Ah yes.” The man turned to Hilemore with a smile. “The ship that came to pound us to dust then just sailed away. That was your mission was it not, Captain?”
Hilemore saw little reason to lie, knowing deception would be wasted on this man. “It was. More pressing matters compelled us on another course, however.”
“More pressing matters, yes.” The man laughed. “In particular, this war you appear to be in the process of losing. It seems we owe the Corvantines a considerable debt.”
“If they come here, I doubt you’ll get the chance to repay it.”
“Why should they come here? Unless in search of you.” The man’s smile faded and he turned back to Zenida. “You haven’t finished your introductions.”
“Captain,” Zenida went on, face flushing a little as she gestured to the bald man. “This is Captain Kordwine of the Osprey, Co-Director of the Eastern Isles Trading Conglomerate. This”—Zenida’s discomfort visibly deepened as she turned to the woman, “is his fellow Co-Director Ethilda Okanas, my esteemed stepmother, and this”—she gritted her teeth upon facing the man in the centre, “is Director-in-Chief Arshav Okanas . . . my brother.”
Arshav’s smile returned, though only for an instant as he said, “Half-brother,” very precisely.
Zenida said nothing, face now tense with anger and, Hilemore was disturbed to see, a definite measure of fear.
“Where is my niece?” Arshav asked in a tone of soft intensity. “Aboard the Ironship tub, perhaps? Or are you going to claim she died at this one’s hands? Which would, of course, beg the question, why are you willing to sell yourself to him . . . ?”
“Arshav,” Ethilda Okanas said, her voice not overly loud but possessed of a sharp note of command. Arshav fell silent, though Hilemore saw a spasm of resentment flick across his face.
“She is well, I trust?” the woman enquired of Zenida, casting a brief but loaded glance at Hilemore. “And not held hostage to your conduct here?”
“I am pardoned and contracted under the captain’s authority. Akina is not here by my choice.”
“You have no ship,” Arshav stated. “The law is clear.”
“I am contracted as crew,” Zenida returned. “Therefore, I have a ship.”
Her half-brother abruptly slipped into Varestian, a snarl creeping into his voice. “A corporate ship. A slaver’s ship.”
“But still a ship.”
“E
nough of this,” Captain Kordwine said in Mandinorian, speaking for the first time. “Your family disputes are a private matter, and this is conglomerate business.” He gave Hilemore an appraising stare before speaking again. “From the look of your ship it seems you’ve been in the wars, Captain.”
“Indeed we have, sir.”
“As our Chief Director says, we had chance to see you sail by recently. She’s a blood-burner, isn’t she? Fastest I ever saw, in fact. It doesn’t take a brilliant mind to reckon out what you came here for.”
“We have a hold full of valuable cargo.” Hilemore glanced at Lockbar before slowly reaching into his tunic and extracting the list of the hold’s contents. “If this is truly a commercial enterprise, then I’m sure a price can be agreed.”
“There’s only one price I’ll agree to,” Arshav said, still staring at Zenida. “I’ll not see my niece given over to corporate scum . . .”
“We will need some time to consult,” Ethilda broke in, Hilemore noting the annoyance colouring her tone and surmised she was either aggrieved by her son’s intent or peeved at his lack of guile in revealing it. “Mr. Lockbar, escort the captains to the Shell Room and provide appropriate refreshment.”
—
The Shell Room was aptly named, a large study in which the walls and ceiling had been inset with sea-shells of varying sizes, some painted in brightly coloured enamel or adorned with semi-precious stones. Hilemore found its garishness at odds with the rest of the house, thinking it doubtful that this had been in the drunken architect’s plans. “My father had curious tastes when it came to decoration,” Zenida explained. “The older he got the more curious they became.”
Lockbar had placed a bottle of wine and two glasses on the broad, oak-wood writing-desk set back from the window. Zenida had poured a small measure into a glass, sniffed it once then set it aside. “No whiff of poison, but we’d best not trust it.”