Dead Stars - Part Two (The Emaneska Series) Page 8

  ‘… and then, right, Sheps comes down the tavern stairs all sheepish like, with an eye as dark and as hollow as a whirlpool at night. Got a trickle of blood from his nose too, right down to his lip. So I says to him, “Sheps! Why the shiner, lad? Didn’t she take kindly to a fine bit of sailor?” ’

  Roiks paused to stifle a snicker of laughter. The others around him had heard this story before and yet they were still chortling behind loaded forks and calloused hands. Stories like that are like fine wines; they get better with age and air.

  ‘So then Sheps pauses at the bottom of the stair, all frosty-eyed, like I just pissed on his leg. Then, all of a sudden, he cracks a smile, bloodied as it is, and begins to laugh. “Boys!” he announces, all proud and beamy, “let’s just say that fine maiden was more of a sailor than I!” ’

  Roiks slapped the table then, sending his beaker tottering around his plate. The two nearest him began to guffaw with laughter. ‘Turns out the maiden that ole Sheps caught winking at him was naught other than a rather comely-looking blacksmith’s ‘prentice from Manesmark, and had a twitch of his eye no less, from the sparks and the soot, see? So imagine this poor lad’s surprise, when he begins to get tired, already cursed with a feminine face, and in a manly sort of profession to boot, been a long day at the forge-fire, his eye is causin’ him trouble, some sailor leering at him all night, he takes a wander up to his two-copper room for the night, snuffs the lantern, beds down, all comfy-like, only to suddenly find slithery ole Sheps sashayin’ into his very bedroom, pants already half ‘round his ankles, cock happy as a flagpole, and gibbering on about sending his vessel deep into port! He was lucky to only get a black eye and a bloodied nose by my reckoning!’

  The cabin crumpled into a wheezing, teary-eyed mess of laughter and smattered applause. Nuka was doubled up and red-faced. The rest of the crew were much the same. Even Lerel was in the tight grip of hysterics, coughing and spluttering, being the only one unfortunate enough to have boldly taken a mouthful of her supper right on the cusp of the punchline. Roiks laughed the hardest and longest, banging the butt-end of his knife against the fine tabletop over and over again, mouth wide and cackling, chest heaving with strangled air.

  ‘Dear me,’ gasped Nuka, face red. He turned around to the two men standing beside the door, smiles straying onto their lips. Even Farden’s. He quickly got to his feet in the presence of Tyrfing. As did every other man and woman at the table. ‘Please, Arkmage, Farden, sit.’ The captain gestured to a brace of empty chairs that sat on opposite sides of his table.

  The company at the table was comprised of the Waveblade’s officers. The first mate was a narrow man with a wine-reddened face and plenty of grin to share in his spade-like face. Hasterkin was his name. He was bald save for a stripe of red hair around the back of his skull. The second mate was of course Lerel, dressed in a smart shirt and ship’s trousers. She had wine in her cheeks too, and gave Farden a knowing smile as he sat down in the midst of the group. He hadn’t bothered to take off his cloak.

  The other five gathered around the captain’s table consisted of a middle-aged woman with hazy, wine-addled eyes, the ship’s healer by the looks of her robe; the captain of the soldiers and mages, a plain but muscular Colonel by the name of Tinbits; the third mate, Gabbant, a very tall and balding gentleman with a thin pair of spectacles balanced on the bridge of a protuberant nose; Roiks, utterly drunk; and Nuka’s own personal cook, a silent sort of fellow whose mind and eyes was far away and contemplating dirty dishes. The gods were nowhere to be seen.

  With a click of the captain’s fingers, the servants came forward with a pair of steaming plates. Showing his hunger, Farden seized his cutlery quickly. It was a stew of some sort. Thick, creamy, with chunks of shark, celery, and carrot. There was a pile of Paraian rice on the side, the orange sort, and a wedge of bread so thick and wide, Whiskers could have used it for a mattress. Farden tucked in with a will while Tyrfing nodded to Roiks.

  ‘Funny story, from what I caught.’

  Roiks bobbed his head up and down. ‘ ‘Pologies for the crudeness your Mage.’

  Tyrfing cracked a smile. ‘None needed, bosun. I was a soldier once, don’t forget. I’ve heard worse. Anyway, I’m in need of some laughter. As you can probably imagine, the magick council don’t tell many stories like that.’ There was a round of laughs from around the table, then a small silence as everyone went back to their food and half-empty glasses. The servants reappeared with more wine. Farden gulped at his. It was strong stuff. Ship-brewed. Salty sweet and with the kick of a mule. Farden found his stomach liking it a little too much. It was already creeping towards his head.

  Roiks waved a dirty fork at him. ‘Speaking o’ stories. Spotted you training with that white-haired mage today, Farden. Looks like these old stories we keep hearing about you might just be true.’

  Farden forced a smile. All he could think of was his room, his stark, lonely room. It was fine company at the table, but he simply wasn’t in the mood for people. The fatigue and the withdrawing nevermar were still pummelling him. ‘I wouldn’t know much about those,’ he said, between mouthfuls.

  ‘All those Written talk about is you,’ said Lerel.

  Farden forced another smile.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many mages in one place. It’s no wonder I’ve been having headaches, then,’ mumbled Gabbant, contemplatively.

  ‘You been havin’ headaches, mate, because you’re so much taller than the rest of us. Higher up. Thinner air,’ chuckled Roiks. Gabbant shrugged and smiled.

  ‘Gabbant’s got a point. Been getting many a complaint of headaches and nosebleeds. Many of the men aren’t sleeping right, either,’ said the healer, at the lower end of the table.

  ‘If that’s all they’re experiencing, Shia, then I’m happy,’ Nuka said around a mouthful of his food. ‘We aren’t about to start chucking mages overboard.’ He grinned.

  Tinbits rubbed his chin. He seemed the quiet and calculating sort. ‘I’ll have my mages suppress as much as they can.’

  Tyrfing nodded. ‘As will the Written. And so will I.’

  ‘So are we making good time?’ asked Farden, nipping at the heels of his uncle’s words. The table flinched at the sudden change of subject. Nuka nodded, but was too busy chewing to answer. Lerel did it for him.

  ‘She’s at top speed right now. Can’t you feel it?’

  Farden shook his head.

  ‘Course he can’t, Lerel, he’s a landstrider,’ chuckled Roiks.

  ‘How much longer until we reach Nelska then?’

  Done with his food, Nuka leant back and folded his hands over his ample belly. ‘We’ll strike coast in the morning,’ he said.

  Farden seemed pleased enough with that. He went back to his stew and attacked it viciously, leaving the others to joke and talk. Roiks launched into another story that had the cabin in stitches within minutes. Farden and Tyrfing couldn’t help but laugh along with them. The bosun was a born comedian.

  Once the tears were wiped and the smiles put away, the conversation once again turned serious. This time it was Colonel Tinbits who instigated it. ‘If I might ask a question, your Mage, why do we suppose the dragonriders have been silent these past few months?’

  Tyrfing covered his mouth with a napkin as he coughed again. ‘In all honesty, we do not know. Perhaps our hawks simply aren’t getting through. Storms. Wild wyrms. Anything.’

  ‘But it’s been months now.’

  Nuka nodded. ‘Well, we’ll see in the morning.’

  The talking died for a moment, leaving space for the sounds of chewing and sipping and the gurgling of busy stomachs.

  Roiks was drumming his fingernails against the edge of his plate. ‘So,’ he finally said, ‘what else does the north hold for us, besides saving the Undermage’s lady wife? The sailors have been talkin’, see. About those daemons that fell from the sky, so I ‘ear. And that girl too. They’re saying this voyage has got somethin’ to do with them and her.’ The chairs a
round the table creaked as the others leant a little closer to hear the answer. The ship had been alight with rumours and speculation. Word had it they were sailing to war. Nuka had been silent on the matter. The captain glanced at Tyrfing, and he nodded.

  ‘War, ladies and gentlemen, and plenty of it,’ announced Nuka, puffing out his barrel-like chest.

  ‘One ship for a war?’ asked Hasterkin.

  Gabbant mumbled something. It might have sounded like ‘Fool’s errand,’ but he was wise enough to keep it under his breath.

  ‘Against the girl?’

  ‘Against the girl,’ replied Tyrfing. Farden was still busy with his stew, stabbing at vegetables and stirring it into an angry swirl.

  There was a pregnant pause. ‘And the daemons?’ Roiks finally said it.

  Nuka nodded. ‘And the daemons.’ The bosun bit his lip.

  ‘Well,’ Gabbant said with a sigh, ‘that’ll be a story for the grandchildren. Should there be any.’

  Roiks saw his chance to lighten the mood. He chuckled drunkenly. ‘We all know you better than that, you ole git. Nobody at this table likes his wenches more than you do, save for me, that is.’ Hasterkin and Tinbits began to laugh. Roiks wagged a finger. ‘I’ll wager there’s more than a few little Gabbants runnin’ ‘round Krauslung, mark my words.’

  ‘Now there’s a sobering thought,’ snickered Lerel.

  Gabbant scratched his balding pate. ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Better get you two some more wine then. Here we go, ma’am!’ Roiks chortled, sliding a bottle towards Lerel. She grabbed it eagerly. Roiks took a sip of his own wine. ‘So who is she then? This girl?’

  Nuka flashed him a look, and Roiks realised he had pried too deeply. He was about to change the subject when Tyrfing answered.

  ‘She’s Vice’s master plan, Roiks. The one foretold by the Lost Song.’

  ‘The depressing old poem?’

  ‘None other.’

  ‘Knew I never liked that old dirge,’ Gabbant grumbled.

  Tyrfing nodded. ‘She was born to tear the stars out of the sky, and she can do exactly that. As Krauslung found out so very recently. “One to which the stars succumb, and bring Ragnarök upon the earth.” That’s her.’

  ‘Ragnawhat?’ Hasterkin asked.

  Shia the healer tutted. ‘Don’t you know your lore, man? The end of the gods. The end of Emaneska.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ growled Farden, around a steaming mouthful. He had been so silent they had almost forgotten he was there. They could barely see his face under his hood, which was still stubbornly pulled over his face.

  ‘But she’s just a girl,’ croaked Nuka’s cook. He had been as silent as Farden.

  Tinbits tapped his glass on the tabletop. ‘You should have seen her on the Manesmark hill. That’s no ordinary girl.’

  ‘Daemon, more like,’ muttered Lerel.

  There was a sharp squeaking noise as Farden shoved his chair back. ‘And she’ll die like the rest of them,’ the mage whispered as he made for the door, stew firmly in hand. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’ he began, but he didn’t finish. The sound of the door shutting was explanation enough.

  ‘My nephew is tired from a long day,’ Tyrfing elaborated, staring at his bowl. He coughed and put a fist to his mouth again.

  ‘Long day for all,’ Nuka replied gruffly. The others took their hint, and set about pouring drinks and fiddling with cutlery.

  If anybody could be trusted to lighten a mood, it was Roiks. He clapped his hands together and put his elbows on the table. ‘Now then,’ he began, a smile already beginning to curl, ‘did I ever tell you the tale of young master Gabbant here, and the stray donkey?’ Gabbant groaned, and Roiks slapped his hand on the table. ‘No? Well then, allow me to elaborate, gentlemen and lady.’

  It wasn’t long before he had the room wheezing and crying.

  Chapter 5

  “Politics - Can’t live without ‘em, and you can’t kill ‘em.”

  Skölgard proverb

  A bank of sea-fog dared to pour through the gap in the harbour wall. Its fingers tickled the ships and massaged the oily, lazy waters. Soon enough, the city was wrapped in its soft, dewy embrace, muffling the night sounds. It was a perfect evening for whispering.

  Down by the docks, the air was hazy enough with the belching of the tavern chimneys. With the sea-fog, the world had been turned into a blurred smear of orange and black, nothing quite solid, nothing quite real. A few people wandered to and fro, walking as if their eyes weren’t working properly, arms out straight and stiff, feeling for obstacles and edges. Their shadows made an odd sight indeed. Every now and again there would be a muffled thump, and a wail, or a curse. The fog smothered all.

  ‘By Njord, it’s cold tonight,’ whispered a figure, slouched against a corner. A green and black shield rested against his knee, glistening with dew. He seemed to be talking to himself, or perhaps to the fog, and for a long time nothing answered.

  ‘By any god, it is,’ finally came the reply, from a man with his back to the very same corner. There was no need for hoods, with the thick fog, but still this man insisted.

  ‘Have you got what I want?’ asked the first.

  There was a metallic thud as something heavy and wrapped in cloth landed next to the man’s shield. ‘Every last coin, as we agreed,’ replied the second. He leant closer to the edge of the corner. ‘And what of the men? Have you done what I asked?’

  ‘I have,’ came the reply. ‘They’re fed up. Low pay and poor futures will do that. Terrible combination. I could barely stop them from griping at me. I got twice the number of names you wanted. I should be asking for double.’

  ‘In that case, I shall count myself lucky.’

  ‘That you should.’

  ‘Careful, Colonel. Only a hot forge lies between a pile of coins and a blade. They are of the same stuff, after all.’

  There was a rustle. A knife was reached for. ‘You threatening me?’

  The subtle squelch of lips sliding over teeth. ‘Of course I am. Remember, that coin at your feet is not a bribe. It is compensation.’

  ‘Compensation? For what?’

  ‘For living the rest of your life knowing the Copse could have you excommunicated and executed for treachery, at any moment. You have friends in high places, Colonel. High, and very dangerous places. Dangerous friends.’

  There was a silence. The sort reserved for when cheeks drain, mouths hang agape, and hearts sink into places where only other organs tarry. The sound of realisation. ‘You couldn’t.’

  ‘Could I not? Think of where I will be in a few hours.’

  The colonel bit his tongue for a moment. Then, with the creaking of leather, he bent down and picked up the bag of coins. It was heavy indeed. He tucked it firmly under his jerkin before he lifted up his shield. He nodded in the direction of the sea. ‘Where have they gone?’

  The hooded man hummed. ‘North, so my ears tell me. After that girl, and her daemons too. Fool’s errand and a one-way voyage, if we are lucky.’

  ‘Hmph. And what, may I ask, happens if it’s not?’

  ‘Then you, Colonel Jarvins,’ said the man, ‘will be leading the army that greets them.’

  The man called Jarvins swore he heard a chuckle. ‘And what of Arkmage Durnus?’

  There was another silence. ‘Will you be… er, removing him?’

  Silence again. ‘Hello?’

  But no reply came. Colonel Jarvins peeked around the corner and found that his employer had faded into the fog. He spat, cursed, and promptly faded himself.

  Durnus gently let the book fall to a close with a thud and thumbed at his tired eyes. Strange, how his eyes were bereft of the luxury of sight, yet still managed to ache as if they had spent the whole day hard at work. Strange it was, and irritating.

  Durnus waved his hand to the servant standing by his side and dismissed him. The man bowed and scuttled away. He hadn’t understood a thing of what he had just witnessed, but no doubt it had bee
n very odd. Ghostly books and vanishing inks. Probably wasn’t natural in his eyes. No wonder he left as quickly as he could.

  As the door clicked softly shut behind him, Durnus got to his feet and began to feel his way to a cabinet. It wasn’t often he felt the need for wine, but tonight he did. With a sigh, he uncorked a bottle with square edges and felt for a glass. He listened to the wine gurgling. One. Two. Three. That will do. He tiled the wine back and set it on the side.

  Old habits die the hardest, and even despite fifteen years of being blind, Durnus’ was to wander to the windows and stare out at his city, imagining the slope of its countless roofs, its cobbled capillaries and veins. Occasionally he would even wander onto his balcony and lean over as if he were watching his people.

  As the old Arkmage pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window, he mentally churned his distant counterpart’s words over in his head. One stuck out like a thorn, snagging at him: No. Of all the words they had traded, that, and its punching stubbornness, was what made Durnus sad.

  Time, for immortals, can only be measured in what others lack of it. Disease and age held no sway over Durnus. The sun could set and rise again and it meant nothing. Another day in a sea of thousands. These days, time was only apparent to him when others were running out of it. Modren and Elessi, for example. The shortest of marriages, and now she lay in bed, swiftly running out of time. Tyrfing too, and his unwillingness to tell Farden the truth. Farden’s daughter and her surge to the north. Soon it would be all too late, and that is a strange thing for an immortal to feel. Only in these senses was he painfully aware of time, of every single second that inexorably slid past, slippery and elusive. For all his mastery of magick and mortality, it was painful how useless he was against time.

  Durnus drank his wine quickly, as though it were in danger of evaporating. Soon he found himself nudging noses with the bottom of the glass. He poured himself another and went back to the window.