Songs of the Earth (14 page)

The
Rose
stopped for half a day in Yelda to take on two wooden crates which Skeff lashed to the foredeck. The crates were branded on the outside with a sigil above a design of crossed swords.

‘The mark of a master armourer,’ said Alderan. He pointed beyond the city’s jumbled rooftops, where smoke stained the sky. ‘See over there? That’s the smelters. Some of the finest steel in the world comes out of those furnaces, and the craftsmen of Yelda turn it into swords. About the only place that makes better is Gimrael.’

He offered his belt knife to Gair. It was halfway between dagger and poniard, with a slightly curved hilt and a tapering blade.

Gair tested the edge with his thumb and almost cut himself. He whistled in appreciation.

‘It’s an absolute bugger to sharpen, but I don’t have to do it very often because it holds an edge like nothing else. I’ve even used it as a razor once or twice, when there was nothing better to hand.’ Alderan tucked it back into its sheath. ‘I always wanted a
qatan
, but I had to make do with this.’

‘The Master of Swords had a
qatan
. He ran rings around us in the yard with it.’ Selenas could flick that blade through a student’s guard like a striking adder when he chose. It had taken quick wrists and quicker feet to match it.

‘Soul-swords, the Gimraelis call them. The craftsmanship is breathtaking – those swords are possibly the most beautiful made things I have ever seen. The curve of the blade is supposed to fit the outside of a woman’s thigh.’ Alderan’s fingers sketched a graceful arc in the air and his expression grew distant. Then his hand dropped back into his lap.

‘The Gimraelis have a tradition that a sword, once blooded, represents a warrior’s honour. If it breaks, their honour is diminished and they have to perform some great feat in order to restore it and earn a new
qatan
from their chief. They will die before giving the sword up. It’s a subject they get quite passionate about.’

‘Have you been there?’

‘A few times. It’s a desolate, desolate place, the deep desert especially, but it’s also beautiful – seductive, even – and dangerous as a snake.’

Gair watched the stone jetties of Yelda’s docks slipping past, the bustle of the city giving way to rich farmland. He imagined rolling dunes, a searing silver-blue sky and robed warriors with deadly curved swords. ‘I think I’d like to see Gimrael one day.’

‘Don’t let the poetry fool you, my lad, all silk tents and sloe-eyed girls in veils,’ Alderan said. ‘Once, maybe, when al-Jofar was writing his songs of gardens in the wilderness. These days, the desert is full of fundamentalists.’

‘I thought Eadorians were respectful of other faiths?’

‘When it comes to them I’m prepared to make an exception. The Cult is utterly convinced that the Sun God gave them Eadorians for kindling, and they like nothing better than a big bonfire.’

‘That’s appalling!’

‘Isn’t it, though? And they seemed like such a nice people when we converted them, too. You mark my words, there’ll be another desert war, and soon. Kierim’s a good man, and loyal to the Emperor, but there’re clans out there in the deep desert near the Sardauki border that he has only a fingernail’s hold on, and that’s where the Cult is strongest.’

Alderan stretched, eyeing the slow-moving river. Clouds of tiny brown flies danced above the surface, which every now and then broke into a pattern of spreading rings.

‘Anyway, haven’t you got a sword to practise with? I’m getting tired of bacon again.’

After a week afloat, even on an old barge, the stout cobbles of the White Havens’ deepwater dock bobbed and swayed alarmingly under Gair’s feet. If he closed his eyes and stood still, the sensation lessened, but standing still on the wharf invited being bundled aboard the next ship as cargo, so he wove a careful path through the teams of stevedores, the weighty saddlebags over his shoulder growing heavier by the minute, and wished he could find a place in the shade to sit down.

Saints, it was hot. His clothes stuck to him as if he had taken a bath in them. If Alderan was lucky and found a ship quickly, they could be away on the evening tide, which was due about supper-time. If he wasn’t, they would have to find somewhere to spend the night, and the sullen thunder-heads building along the inland horizon promised that it would not be a comfortable one.

They had parted company with Skeff that morning at the northside docks and hired a waterman to ferry them through the Havens’ maze of canals to the bustling deepwater wharves on the south side of the city to begin the final leg of their journey to the Isles. The White Havens had acquired its name not from the colour of the rock walls of the harbour, which were the same rusty red as the earth, but from the buildings, for every structure from the meanest waterfront tavern to the Governor’s mansion was covered in a thick white plaster that reflected the mid-afternoon sun with painful intensity.

Against this dazzling backdrop the city itself was a riot of colour. Gaily painted shutters and doors clashed cheerfully with the rainbow-coloured flowers spilling from every window box. Equally
gaudy was the populace, who to a man had a magpie’s taste for things that shone or sparkled. Even the canal-boats were decorated with scraps of bronze and glass; it looked as if the whole place was decked out in its feast-day best. It was enough to give a man a headache.

Gair hitched the saddlebags higher onto his shoulder and wondered how much longer Alderan would be. His boots felt a size too small for his throbbing feet, his eyes ached from squinting and his forehead was sunburned. The Havens was the busiest port on the north shore of the Inner Sea and from the number of times he had been barged into, trodden on and cursed he had begun to feel like flotsam on the tide of commerce.
Saints
, it was hot.

A hand clapped Gair between the shoulder-blades. He turned, and there was Alderan, still looking as if his shirt was fresh from the press. How did he manage it?

‘We’re in luck,’ the old man announced. ‘The
Kittiwake
’s in and she sails tonight. Captain Dail is an old friend of mine; he assures me we’ll be in Pencruik by the end of next week.’

‘Is there anyone in the world that you don’t know?’

‘I’ve covered a lot of miles over the years, that’s all, and I remember my friends.’ Alderan began to walk along the dock, Gair trudging after him. ‘Come on, she’s tied up at the next wharf.’

‘Does that mean we can finally get out of the sun? My feet are melting!’

‘Can’t you take the heat?’

‘I’m a northman, I’m not used to it. Where I come from, there’s snow on the mountains all year long.’ Gair pulled a face. ‘I miss the snow.’

‘It’ll be cooler once we’re away from land, you’ll see.’

‘I hope so. I’m getting blisters on my blisters.’

The
Kittiwake
turned out to be rather larger than her name suggested. She was smartly painted in blue and white, and sported three masts and a short row of portholes, which suggested she regularly carried paying passengers as well as cargo. Dockside
cranes swung back and forth with nets and barrels, teams of seamen guiding them down through the gaping deck hatches. In the bows the bosun was supervising the repair of a worn sail, and aft on the small quarterdeck a sturdy brown man was haggling with the harbour-master.

Alderan strode up the gangway, one arm raised. ‘Ahoy, Captain Dail! Two to come aboard!’

The man on the quarterdeck waved his acknowledgement, then turned back to the portly harbour-master. A purse changed hands, a receipt was signed and the harbour-master was escorted to the dockside.

With his business concluded, the captain strode over to greet his passengers. He had the easy, rolling gait of a lifetime spent at sea, and ruddy, weatherbeaten features in which pale blue eyes gleamed like eggs in a nest of fine lines.

Alderan made the introductions, naming Gair as a new student for the library.

Dail looked him up and down as if to assess the set of his rigging, and then stuck out a hand. ‘Have you sailed before, lad?’ he asked. His accent was broad Syfrian and his grip that of a bear-trap.

‘A bit. Up and down the coast from Leahaven.’

‘Then you’ll have few problems. ’Tis like a millpond, this time of year.’ Whistling one of the sailors over, he pointed to the ladder leading below decks. ‘Get your gear squared away – any cabin you like. We sail on the tide.’

Below decks a short, panelled passageway ran aft to the stern cabin, with three doors either side for passenger accommodations. All were empty, so they had a cabin apiece. The bunks built against the bulkheads were made for men shorter than Gair, but the mattress felt comfortable enough. After he’d stowed his baggage in the under-bunk lockers he climbed back up on deck to rejoin Alderan, just in time to hear Dail calling for the sailors to
cast off. Within the hour the
Kittiwake
had slipped away from the Havens.

As the coast of Syfria disappeared behind them, Gair and Alderan dined with the captain. Dail had a fund of sea-stories to while away the evening, accompanied by quantities of rich red port. Gair had not much taste for the drink and drowsed over a brandy whilst the others reminisced and the level in the decanter sank. He was jolted awake by a change in the ship’s motion as it started to pitch more steeply.

Dail cocked an eye at the deck planking overhead. ‘Wind’s freshening,’ he said. ‘Might have a bit of a blow later.’ He drained his glass and set it down.

‘I thought you said it was like a millpond at this time of year,’ Gair mumbled, hiding a yawn in his hand.

‘It is, don’t you fret. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just have a word with the bosun before I turn in.’

Gair bid Alderan good night and followed the captain out, then made his way to his own bunk. As he tumbled into his blankets, his last coherent thought was that sea air always did this to him.

He was woken later by the ship’s motion when it threw him halfway out of his bunk. He didn’t need to be a sailor to realise that all was not well; he had to brace his feet against the bulkhead and his elbows against the cot sides to keep from being pitched fully onto the deck.
Kittiwake
was no longer rolling easily over the waves. Now she lurched down from one crest and staggered up to the next with her timbers groaning in protest. Above all that came the sound of someone pounding on the door.

‘I’m coming!’ He kicked off his blankets and struggled to his feet. Almost at once he was flung back across the bunk. By the time he had found his boots in the dark he had bounced off what felt like every exposed beam and jutting corner in the cabin. Somewhere above an alarm bell clanged, three quick strokes, a
pause for a beat, and then repeated. Shouts were sharp over the rising wind and feet pounded across the deck.

Alderan waited in the passageway, brawny arms braced against the panelled walls as seawater smashed its way aft and sluiced around, seeking a way over the high door-sills. The old man’s clothing was drenched dark and clung to his skin, and he had a long line tied around his waist. With his dripping beard and streaming hair, illuminated by a solitary lantern swinging crazily in its gimbals overhead, he resembled a sea-god from a Nordman saga. His face was grim. ‘Come on, lad, I need you!’

‘How bad is it?’

‘Bad enough.’

The
Kittiwake
heaved up the side of the next wave, forcing Gair to pull himself along the steepening passage by the handrails. Then with a sickening roll she pitched over and he and Alderan were flung against the companionway ladder. Each wave was the same, a staggering ascent, followed by a wild corkscrewing down into the following trough. Cold salt water was dumped down the ladder every few seconds and by the time he scrambled onto the deck after Alderan Gair was soaked through.