Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

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Chapter 5

He awoke to a smell more foul than even the sewers of Linesh. Something wet and rough scraped over his face and he became aware of a crushing weight on his chest.

“Get off him you filthy brute!” Sister Gilma’s stern command made his eyes flutter open, finding himself face to face with Scratch, the slave-hound giving a happy rasp of greeting.

“Hello, you daft dog,” Vaelin groaned in response.

“OFF!” Sister Gilma’s shout sent Scratch skulking from the bed, slinking into a corner with a petulant whine. He had always treated the sister with a wary respect, perhaps because she had never shown the slightest fear of him.

Vaelin scanned the room finding it mostly bare of furniture save for the bed and a table where Sister Gilma had arranged the variety of vials and boxes that held her curatives. From the open window came the keening of gulls and a breeze tinged with the combined odours of salt and fish.

“Brother Caenis commandeered the old offices of the Linesh Merchants Guild,” Sister Gilma explained, pressing a hand to his forehead and feeling for the pulse in his wrist. “All roads in the city led to the docks and the building was standing empty so it seemed a good choice for a headquarters. Your dog was frantic until we let it in the room. He’s been here the whole time.”

Vaelin grunted and licked at his dry lips. “How long?”

Her bright blue eyes regarded him with a moment’s wariness before she went to the table, pouring a greenish liquid into a cup and mixing in a pale white powder. “Five days,” she said without turning. “You lost a lot of blood. More than I thought a man could lose and still live, in fact.” She gave a wry chuckle, the inevitable bright smile on her lips when she turned back, holding the cup to his lips. “Drink this.”

The mixture had a bitter but not unpleasant taste and he felt his weariness receding almost immediately. Five days. He had no sense of it, no lingering memory of dreams or delusions. Five days lost. To what? The voice, the other blood-song, he could still hear it, a faint but persistent call. His own song answering, the vision of the marble block and chisel vivid in his mind. Sella’s words in the Fallen City becoming clearer. There are others, older and wiser with the same gift. They can guide you.

“I have to…” He raised himself up, trying to draw back the covers.

“No!” Gilma’s tone brooked no argument, her plump hand pushing him back into the softness of the bed. He found he didn’t have the strength to resist. “Absolutely not. You will lie there and rest, brother.” She pulled the covers up and secured them firmly under his chin. “The city is quiet. Brother Caenis has things well in hand. There is nothing requiring your attention.”

She drew back, for once her face was entirely serious. “Brother, do you have any idea what happened to you?”

“Never seen the like, eh?”

She shook her head. “No, I never have. When someone bleeds there has to be an injury, a cut, a lesion, something. You show no sign of any injury. A swelling in your brain that could cause you to bleed like that would have killed you, yet here you are. There was some wild talk amongst the men about Governor Aruan trying to kill you with a Dark curse or some such. Caenis had to put a guard on his mansion and hand out a few floggings before they calmed down.”

Floggings? he thought. I never have to flog them. “I don’t know, sister,” he told her honestly. “I don’t know why it happened.” I just know what caused it.

It was another two days before Sister Gilma released him, albeit with stern warnings about over-exerting himself and making sure he drank at least two pints of water a day. He convened a council of captains atop the gatehouse from where they could observe the progress of the defences. A thick pall of dust was rising from the workings as men toiled to deepen the ditch surrounding the city and make good the decades long neglect of the walls.

“It’ll be fifteen feet deep when completed,” Caenis said of the ditch. “We’re down to nine feet so far. Work on the walls is slower, not too many skilled masons in this little army.”

Vaelin spat dust from his parched throat and took a gulp of water from his canteen. “How long?” he asked, hating the croak in his voice. He knew his appearance was not one to inspire great confidence, his eyes deeply shadowed with fatigue and his pallor pale and clammy. He could see the concern in the eyes of his brothers and the uncertainty of Count Marven and the other captains. They wonder if I’m fit to command, he decided. Perhaps with good reason.

“At least two more weeks,” Caenis replied. “It would go quicker if we could conscript labour from the town.”

“No.” Vaelin’s tone was emphatic. “We have to win the confidence of these people if we are to rule this place. Pushing a shovel into their hands and forcing them to back-breaking toil will hardly do that.”

“My men came here to fight, my lord,” Count Marven said, his tone light but Vaelin could see the calculation in his gaze. “Digging is hardly a soldier’s work.”

“I’d say it’s most certainly a soldier’s work, my lord,” Vaelin replied. “As for fighting, they’ll get plenty of that before long. Tell any grumblers they have my leave to depart, it’s only sixty miles of desert to Untesh. Perhaps they’ll find a ship home from there.”

A wave of weariness swept through him and he rested against a battlement to disguise the unsteadiness of his legs. He was finding the burden of command, with all the petty concerns of both allies and subordinates, increasingly irksome. His irritation was made more acute by the insistence of the blood-song calling him to the voice and the marble block he knew lay somewhere in the city.

“Are you unwell, my lord?” Count Marven asked pointedly.

Vaelin resisted the urge to punch the Nilsaelin squarely in the face and turned to Bren Antesh, the stocky archer who commanded the Cumbraelin bowmen. He was the most taciturn of the captains, barely speaking in meetings and the first to leave when Vaelin called a halt. His expression was perpetually guarded and it was plain he neither wanted or needed their approval or acceptance, although any resentment he may have felt over serving under a man the Cumbraelins still referred to as the Darkblade was kept well hidden. “And your men, Captain?” he asked him. “Any complaints about the workload?”

Antesh’s expression remained unchanged as he replied with what Vaelin suspected was a quote from the Ten Books, “Honest labour brings us closer to the love of the World Father.”

Vaelin grunted and turned to Frentis. “Anything from the patrols?”

Frentis shook his head. “Nothing, brother. All approaches remain clear. No scouts or spies in the hills.”

“Perhaps they’re making for Marbellis after all,” offered Lord Al Cordlin, commander of the Thirteenth Regiment of Foot, known as the Blue Jays for the azure feathers painted on their breastplates. He was a sturdily built but somewhat nervous man, his arm still rested in a sling after being broken at the Bloody Hill where he had lost a third of his men in the fierce fighting on the right flank. Vaelin suspected he had little appetite for the coming battle and was unable to blame him.

He turned to Caenis. “How goes it with the governor?”

“He’s cooperative, but hardly pleased about it. He’s kept the people quiet so far, made speeches to the merchant’s guild and the civic council pleading with them to stay calm. He tells me the courts and the tax collectors are operating as well as can be expected in the circumstances. Trade is down, of course. Most of the Alpiran ships put to sea when news spread we had taken the city, the remainder refuse to sail and threaten to fire their ships if we try to seize them. The Volarians and Meldeneans seem keen to take advantage of the opportunity though. Prices for spice and silk have risen considerably, which means they’ve probably doubled back in the Realm.”

Lord Al Trendil, commander of the Sixteenth Regiment, gave a suppressed huff of annoyance. Vaelin had forbidden the army to have any part in the local trade for fear of accusations of corruption, severely disappointing the few nobles in his command with money to spend and an eye for profit.

“What about the food stores?” Vaelin asked, choosing to ignore Al Trendil.

“Full to the brim,” Caenis assured him. “Enough for two months of siege at least, more if it’s carefully rationed. The city’s water supply comes primarily from wells and springs within the walls so we’re unlikely to run short.”

“Provided the city folk don’t poison them,” Bren Antesh said.

“A good point, captain.” Vaelin nodded at Caenis. “Put a guard on the main wells.” He straightened, finding his dizziness had subsided. “We’ll meet again in three days. Thank you for your attention.”

The captains departed leaving Caenis and Vaelin alone the battlements. “Are you all right, brother?” Caenis asked.

“A little tired is all.” He gazed out at the trackless desert, the horizon wavering in the midday haze. He knew he would one day look out at this scene and behold the spectacle of an Alpiran host. The only question was how long it would take them to arrive. Would they leave him enough time to accomplish his task?

“Do you think Al Cordlin could be right?” Caenis ventured. “The Battle Lord will have Marbellis under siege by now, it is the largest city on the northern coast.”

“The Hope Killer isn’t in Marbellis,” Vaelin said. “The Battle Lord drew his plans well, he’ll have a free hand at Marbellis whilst the emperor’s army deals with us. We should have no illusions.”

“We’ll hold them,” Caenis said with flat certainty.

“Your optimism does you credit, brother.”

“The King requires this city to fulfil his plans. We are taking but the first step on a glorious journey towards a Greater Unified Realm. In time the lands we have secured will become the fifth fief of the Realm, united under the protection and guidance of King Janus and his descendants, free from the ignorance of their superstitions and the oppression of lives lived at the whim of an emperor. We have to hold.”

Vaelin tried to discern some irony in Caenis’s words but could detect only the familiar blind loyalty to the king. Not for the first time he was tempted to give his brother a full account of his meetings with Janus, wondering whether his devotion to the old man would survive knowledge of his true nature, but he held back as always. Caenis was defined by his loyalty, he cloaked himself in it as protection against the many uncertainties and lies that abounded in their service to the Faith. Quite why Caenis was so devoted Vaelin had never been able to divine but was loath to rob him of his cloak, delusion though it may be.

“Of course we’ll hold,” he assured Caenis with a grim smile, thinking, Whether it makes a thimble-worth of difference to anything is another matter.

He moved to the stairway at the rear of the battlement. “I think I’ll take a tour of the town, barely seen it yet.”

“I’ll fetch some guards, you shouldn’t walk the streets alone.”

Vaelin shook his head. “Worry not, brother. Not so weakened that I can’t defend myself.”

Caenis was still unsure but gave a reluctant nod. “As you wish. Oh,” he said as Vaelin began to descend the stairs. “The governor requested we send a healer to his house. Apparently his daughter’s taken ill and the local physicians lack the skills to help her. I sent Sister Gilma this morning. Perhaps she can foster some good will.”

“Well if anyone can, it’s her. Assure the governor of my best wishes for his daughter will you?”

“Of course brother.”

The woman who answered the door to the stonemason’s shop regarded him with naked hostility, her smooth brow set in a frown and her dark eyes narrowed as she listened to his greeting. She seemed a year or so shy of thirty, with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a dust stained leather apron covering her slender form. From behind her came the rhythmic thud of metal on stone.

“Good day, madam,” he said. “Please forgive the intrusion.”

She folded her arms and gave a curt reply in Alpiran. From her tone he assumed she wasn’t welcoming him inside with an offer of iced tea.

“I… was told to come here,” he went on, her stern gaze giving no insight as to her understanding, her mouth fixed in a hard line, offering nothing.

Vaelin glanced around at the mostly empty street, wondering if he could have misread the vision somehow. But the blood-song had been so implacable, its tone so certain, compelling his course through the streets, only subsiding when he happened upon this door beneath the sign of a chisel and hammer. He resisted an impulse to push his way inside and forced a smile. “I have business to discuss.”

Her frown deepened and she spoke in heavily accented but unmistakable words, “No business here for northmen.”

Vaelin felt a faint murmur from the blood-song and the hammering from the interior of the shop fell silent. A male voice called out in Alpiran and the woman gave a grimace of annoyance before glaring at Vaelin and stepping aside. “Sacred things here,” she said as he entered. “Gods curse you if you steal.”

The interior of the shop was cavernous, the ceiling high and the marble-tile floor covering thirty paces square. Sunlight streamed through opened skylights, illuminating a space filled with statuary. Their size varied, some a foot or two in height, others life sized, one was at least ten feet tall of an impossibly well-muscled man wrestling a lion. Vaelin was struck by the vitality of the form, the precision with which it had been carved, seemingly freezing the giant and the lion at the moment of greatest violence. There was another smaller statue nearby, a life size woman of arresting beauty, her arms outstretched in supplication and her fine features frozen in an expression of depthless sorrow.

“Herlia, goddess of justice, weeping as she passes her first judgement.” On hearing the voice, the blood-song rose in pitch, not in warning but in welcome. The man stood with his hands on his hips, a chisel and hammer hanging from the pockets of his apron. He was short but well built, his bare arms knotted with muscle. His face was angular with high cheekbones, almond shaped eyes, and the parts of his skin not covered in dust had a faint golden sheen.

“You are not Alpiran,” Vaelin said.

“Neither are you,” the man replied with a laugh. “Yet here we both are.” He turned to the woman and said something in Alpiran. She gave Vaelin a parting glare and disappeared into the rear of the shop.

Vaelin nodded at the statue. “Why is she so sad?”

“She fell in love with a mortal man, but his passion for her drove him to commit a terrible crime and so she judged him, consigning him to the depths of the earth, chained to a rock where his flesh is eternally eaten by vermin.”

“It must have been quite a crime.”

“Indeed, he stole a magic sword and with it slew a god thinking him a rival for her affections. In fact he was her brother, Ixtus, god of dreams. Now, whenever we suffer nightmares it is the shade of the fallen god taking his revenge on mortal kind.”

“A god is a lie. But it’s a good story.” He held out his hand. “Vaelin Al Sorna…”

“Brother of the Sixth Order, Sword of the Unified Realm and now commander of the foreign army occupying our city. An interesting fellow indeed, but us Singers usually are. The song leads us down so many paths.” The man shook his hand. “Ahm Lin, humble stonemason, at your service.”

“All your work?” Vaelin asked, gesturing at the array of statuary.

“In a manner of speaking.” Ahm Lin turned and moved deeper into the workshop, Vaelin following, his gaze drinking in the carnival of fantastic shapes, the seemingly endless variety of form and tableaux. “Are they all gods?” he asked.

“Not all. Here,” Ahm Lin paused next to a bust of a grave faced man with a hooknose and heavy, deeply furrowed brows. “Emperor Cammuran, the first man to sit on the throne of the Alpiran empire.”

“He seems troubled.”

“He had good reason. His son tried to kill him when he realised he wasn’t going to be the next emperor. The idea of choosing a successor from amongst the people, with the gods’ help of course, was a dramatic break with tradition.”

“What happened to the son?”

“The emperor stripped him of his wealth, had his tongue cut out and his eyes blinded, then sent him forth to live out his days as a beggar. Most Alpirans think he was being unduly lenient. They are a fine people, courteous and generous to a fault, but unforgiving when roused. You should remember that, brother.” He gave Vaelin a sidelong glance when he failed to reply. “I must say I’m surprised your song led you here. You must know this invasion is doomed.”

“My song has been… inconsistent of late. It has told me little for a long time. Until I heard your voice, it had been silent for over a year.”

“Silent.” Ahm Lin seemed shocked, his gaze becoming curious. “What was it like?” He sounded almost envious.

“Like losing a limb,” Vaelin replied honestly, realising for the first time the depth of loss he had felt when his song fell silent. It was only now it had returned that he accepted the truth, the song was not an affliction. Sella had been right; it was a gift, and he had grown to cherish it.

“Here we are,” Ahm Lin spread his arms wide as they arrived at the rear of the workshop where a large bench was covered in a bewildering array of neatly arranged tools, hammers, chisels and oddly shaped implements Vaelin couldn’t name. Nearby a ladder was propped against a large block of marble from which a partly completed statue emerged from the stone. Vaelin drew up in shock at the sight of it. The snout, the ears, the finely carved fur, and the eyes, those unmistakable eyes. His song was singing a clear and warm note of recognition. The wolf. The wolf that had saved him in the Urlish. The wolf that had howled its warning outside the house of the Fifth Order when Sister Henna came to kill him. The wolf that had restrained him from murder in the Martishe.

“Ah…” Ahm Lin’s rubbed at his temples, his expression pained. “Your song is strong indeed, brother.”

“Sorry.” Vaelin concentrated, trying to calm the song, but it was a few seconds before it subsided. “Is it a god?” he asked Ahm Lin, gazing up at the wolf.

“Not quite. One of what the Alpirans call the Nameless, spirits of the mysteries. The wolf features in many of the named gods’ stories, as guide, protector, warrior or spirit of vengeance. But it is never named. It is only ever just the wolf, feared and respected in equal measure.” He regarded Vaelin with an intent gaze. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? And not captive in stone.”

Vaelin was momentarily wary of disclosing too much to this man, a stranger with a song that had nearly killed him after all. But the warmth of his own song’s welcome overcame his distrust. “It saved me. Twice from death, once from something worse.”

Ahm Lin’s expression showed a brief flicker of something close to fear but he quickly forced a smile. “Interesting seems an inadequate term for you, brother. This is for you.” He gestured to a nearby work bench where a block of marble rested, a chisel sitting atop it. The block was a perfect cube of white marble, the same block from his vision when Ahm Lin’s song had laid him low, its surface smooth under Vaelin’s fingers.

“You obtained this for me?” he asked.

“Many years ago. My song was most emphatic. Whatever rests inside has been waiting a long time for you to set it free.”

Waiting… Vaelin flattened his palm against the stone, feeling a surge from the blood-song, the tune a mix of warning and certainty. The one who waits.

He lifted the chisel, touching the blade tentatively to the stone. “I’ve never done this,” he told Ahm Lin. “Can’t even carve a decent walking stick.”

“Your song will guide your hands, as mine guides me. These statues are as much the work of my song as my skill.”

He was right, the song was building, strong and clear, guiding the chisel over the stone. He hefted a mallet from the bench and tapped the butt of the chisel, chipping a small piece of marble from the edge of the cube. The song surged and his hands moved, Ahm Lin and the workshop fading as the work consumed him. There were no thoughts in his head, no distractions, there was just the song and the stone. He had no sense of time, no perception of the world beyond the song and it was only a rough shake to the shoulder that brought him back.

“Vaelin!” Barkus shook him again when he didn’t respond. “What are you doing?”

Vaelin looked at the tools in his dust caked hands, noting his cloak and weapons laying nearby and having no memory of removing them. The stone was radically altered, the top half now a roughly hewn dome with two shallow indentations in the centre and the ghost of a chin forming at the base.

“Standing here hammering away with no weapons and no guard,” Barkus sounded more shocked than angry. “Any passing Alpiran could have stuck you without breaking sweat.”

“I… ” Vaelin blinked at him in confusion. “I was…” He trailed off realising any explanation was pointless.

Ahm Lin and the woman who had answered the door were standing nearby, the woman glaring at the two soldiers Barkus had brought with him. Ahm Lin was more relaxed, idly guiding a whetstone over the tip of one of his chisels, favouring Vaelin with a slight smile of what might have been admiration.

Barkus’s gaze shifted to the stone then back to Vaelin, a frown creasing his heavy brows. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Vaelin reached for a piece of linen and draped it over the stone. “What do you want, brother?” He was unable to keep the irritation from his tone.

“Sister Gilma needs you. At the Governor’s mansion.”

Vaelin shook his head impatiently, reaching again for his tools. “Caenis deals with the Governor. Send him.”

“He has been sent for. She needs you as well.”

“I’m sure it can wait…” Barkus’s hand was tight on his wrist, putting his lips close to Vaelin’s ear and whispering two words which made him drop his tools and reach for his cloak and weapons without further demur, despite the immediate howl of protest from the blood-song.

“The Red Hand.” Sister Gilma stood on the other side of the mansion gate, having forbidden them from coming any closer. For once there was no trace of mirth in her tone or bearing. Her face was pale, her usually bright eyes dimmed with fear. “Just the governor’s daughter for now, but there’ll be others.”

“You’re certain?” Vaelin asked her.

“Every member of my order is taught to look for the signs from the moment we join. There’s no doubt, brother.”

“You examined the girl? You touched her?”

Gilma nodded wordlessly.

Vaelin fought down the sorrow clutching at his chest. No time for weakness now. “What do you need?”

“The mansion must be sealed and guarded. No-one can be allowed in or out. You must be watchful for any more victims in the city at large. My orderlies know what to look for. Any found to have the sickness must be brought here, by force if necessary. Masks and gloves must be worn when dealing with them. You must also seal the city, no ships can sail, no caravans can leave.”

“There’ll be panic,” Caenis warned. “The Red Hand killed as many Alpirans as Realm folk in its time. When word spreads they’ll be desperate to flee.”

“Then you’ll have to stop them,” Sister Gilma said flatly. “We cannot allow this plague loose again.” She fixed her gaze on Vaelin. “You understand, brother? You must do whatever is required.”

“I understand, sister.” Through his sorrow a dim memory began to surface, Sherin at the High Keep. He tended to avoid thinking of that time, the sense of loss was too great, but now he fought to recall her words that morning after the death of Hentes Mustor. The Usurper’s followers had trapped her with a false report of an outbreak of the Red Hand in Warnsclave. I had been working on a cure…

“Sister Sherin,” he said. “She told me once she had a cure for the sickness.”

“A possible cure, brother,” Gilma replied. “Based on theory only and beyond my skills to formulate in any case.”

“Where is Sister Sherin stationed these days?” Vaelin persisted.

“At the Order House, last I heard. She is Mistress of curatives now.”

“Twenty days sailing with a good wind,” Caenis said. “And twenty days back.”

“For an Alpiran or Realm vessel,” Vaelin mused softly. He turned back to Gilma. “Sister, ask the Governor to write a proclamation confirming your measures and ordering the city-folk to cooperate. Brother Caenis will have it copied and distributed about the city.” He turned to Caenis. “Brother see to the guarding of the gates and the mansion. Double the guard on the walls. Use our men only where possible.” He glanced back at Sister Gilma and forced an encouraging smile. “What is hope, sister?”

“Hope is the heart of the Faith. Abandonment of hope is a denial of the Faith.” Her own smile was faint. “I have certain instruments and curatives in my quarters. I should like them brought to me.”

“I’ll see to it,” Caenis assured her.

Vaelin turned to go, hurrying along the stone-paved path. “What about the docks?” Caenis called after him.

Vaelin didn’t look back. “I’ll see to the docks.”

The Meldenean captain was compact and wiry, sitting across the table from Vaelin with his lean features drawn in a suspicious glare. He wore gloves of soft leather, his hands clasped in a double fist on the table. They were in the map room of the old Merchant’s Guild building, alone save for Frentis who guarded the door. Outside, night was drawing on quickly and the city would soon be sleeping, still blissfully unaware of the crisis that would greet them in the morning. If the captain had any complaints about how he and his crew had been hauled from their bunks, forced to strip and submit to an inspection by Sister Gilma’s orderlies before being brought here, he clearly felt it best to keep them to himself.

“You are Carval Nurin?” Vaelin asked him. “Captain of the Red Falcon?”

The man gave a slow nod. His eyes flickered continually between Vaelin and Frentis, occasionally lingering on their swords. Vaelin felt no desire to alleviate the man’s unease, it suited his purpose to keep him scared.

“Your ship is reputed to be the fastest vessel to sail from this port,” Vaelin went on. “Finest lines of any hull ever crafted in the Meldenean yards, so they say.”

Carval Nurin inclined his head but remained silent.

“You have no reputation for piracy or dishonesty, unusual for a captain from your islands.”

“What do you want?” The man’s voice was harsh, rasping and Vaelin noticed the pale edge of a scar protruding from the black silk scarf he wore around his throat. Pirate or not, he had seen his share of trouble on the seas.

“To engage your services,” Vaelin replied mildly. “How fast can you get to Varinshold?”

The captain’s unease lessened but suspicion still clouded his face. “Done it in fifteen days before. Udonor was kind with the northerlies.”

Udonor, Vaelin knew, was one of the Meldenean gods said to have dominion over the winds. “Can it be done quicker?”

Nurin shrugged. “Maybe. With an empty hold and a few more hands to run the rigging. And two goats for Udonor, of course.”

It was common practice for Meldeneans to sacrifice animals to their favoured gods before a hazardous voyage. Vaelin had been witness to a mass slaughter of livestock before their invasion fleet left port, the blood had flowed so freely the harbour waters turned red.

“We’ll provide the goats,” he said and gestured for Frentis to come forward. “Brother Frentis and two of my men will be your passengers. You will carry him to Varinshold where he will collect another passenger. You will then return here. The whole voyage cannot take more than twenty-five days. Is it possible?”

Nurin considered for a moment and nodded. “Possible, yes. But not for my ship.”

“Why not?”

Nurin unclasped his hands and slowly removed his gloves, revealing mottled and discoloured skin from fingers to wrist. “Tell me, land-bound,” he said, holding his hands up for Vaelin’s inspection, the lamplight gleamed on the waxy, misshapen flesh, “have you ever beaten at flames with your bare hands whilst your sister and mother burn to death?” A grim smile twisted the Meldenean’s lips. “No, my ship will not sail in your service. The Alpirans call you the Hope Killer, to me you are the spawn of the City Burner. The Ship Lords may have whored themselves to your king but I will not. Whatever threats or torments you employ will make no – ”

The bluestone made a soft thud as Vaelin placed it on the table, spinning it around, lamplight flickering on the silver veined surface. Carval Nurin stared at it in astonished and unbridled greed.

“I’m sorry about your mother and your sister,” Vaelin said. “And your hands. It must have been very painful.” He continued to spin the bluestone. Nurin’s eyes never left it. “But I sense you are, above all, a man of business, and sentiment is hardly profitable.”

Nurin swallowed, his scarred hands twitching. “How much do I get?”

“If you return within twenty-five days, all of it.”

“You lie!”

“On occasion, but not right now.”

Nurin’s eyes finally shifted from the bluestone, meeting Vaelin’s. “What surety do I have?”

“My word, as a brother of the Sixth Order.”

“Pox take your word and your Order. Your ghost-worshipping nonsense means nothing to me.” Nurin pulled his gloves on, frowning in calculation. “I want a signed assurance, witnessed by the governor.”

“The governor is… indisposed. But I’m sure the Grand Master of the Merchant’s Guild will be happy to oblige. Good enough?”

The Red Falcon differed markedly from any other ship Vaelin had seen. She was smaller than most, with a narrow hull and three masts instead of the usual two. There were only two decks and she carried a crew of just twenty men.

“Built for the tea trade,” Carval Nurin explained gruffly when Vaelin remarked on the unusual design. “Fresher it is the more profit you make. Small cargo of fresh tea makes three times the price of the stuff shipped in bulk. Quicker you get from one port to another, the more money you make.”