The Iron Ship (6 page)

“They had better not be, Goodfellow Gorwyn!”

Goodfellow Gorwyn. A noble’s clothes and a noble’s name and title. Nothing was sacred any more.

Mansanio’s eyes narrowed, alert for any signs of derision. The men looked at her with amusement, at her mannish clothes and unfeminine manner. He tensed.

“She don’t need you protecting her,” Astred said, far too close to him.

“The world is cruel,” he said. His hands clenched, scraping grains of sand from the salt-worn stone.

Astred laughed derisorily. “You’re a stiff one, that’s for sure. The world is cruel, aye, but she can look out for herself can our countess. Our Lucinia was beaten out of tough iron.”

Mansanio gave a sour smile. “That’s precisely what I am trying to protect
the countess
from. A lady should not be so openly disagreeable, even to them that give her offence. And I do not approve of your over-familiarity.”

Astred snorted and wiped her hands on her pinafore. Such meaty hands, pasty and flabby, like those of a fat youth. Her arms were blotched, her face piggy. She smelled vinegary.

“Where are they to go then? The hall or the barracks?”

“Please,” said Mansanio. “Put them in the barracks. Give them ale, but not too much. Anything to keep them away from the donjon and the hall. I do not want them bothering the lady.”

“Yes, Master Mansanio,” she said.

“Not the hall!” he called after her. He returned his attention to the courtyard.

The workmen had finally removed the loads from the wagons. Pairs of them were unsteadily carrying them on poles into the main part of Mogawn. They were landsmen through and through, unsure on their feet though the rocking was subsiding, and the bloody dogs would not stop barking.

Only the major swell of a Great Tide could perturb such a massive chunk of floatstone. Once afloat, it sat out all but the worst storms with implacable patience, its twenty-seven anchor chains keeping it from drifting. The citadel occupied three quarters of the island’s surface, a single ward surrounded by a curtain wall that in these years served as protection from waves and anguillons, never men. A tall donjon was set into the wall atop the island’s tallest point. The island had not moved for centuries, and so it stayed at the north. The west tower was the second greatest. Rickety workshops and barns jostled the hall and temple, crowding the ward.

Mogawn was more a village than a fortress. A lesser tower made the southern corner of the walls’ bent diamond. To the east, facing the coast, was the gatehouse. Set in an outcurving of the curtain wall, it was half the height of the donjon, slightly lower than the west tower, and sported four round turrets of its own. Two sets of gates framed a lesser bailey, now little more than a subsidiary courtyard lined with junk. The outer gate opened onto a road that wound down through the innards of the island. The original fortifications had been adapted to comfort. Large windows had been knocked in the walls, crenellations removed or gone into disrepair. Chimneys sprouted from bedrooms that once housed only warriors and weapons. These conversions had been luxurious when completed; executed at the height of the Count of Mogawn’s power. They had begun their slip into decay long before Mansanio’s day.

Mansanio wondered how the garrison had kept their blades free of rust in less peaceful times. When most other foes had gone, the salt of the sea remained a relentless adversary.

And yet in its dotage Mogawn was still formidable. With the causeway to the mainland covered by even the lowest of tides, the sea had ever been the castle’s most impregnable defence. There was no altering that for convenience. When Mansanio first saw Mogawn, he had thought it the most marvellous place in the world. Nearly thirty years later his opinion had not changed, and that was after becoming intimately acquainted with the many inconveniences of living upon an isolated, wind-blasted, freezing piece of buoyant rock that was surrounded by stinking marsh two thirds of the time and monster-choked ocean the rest. Occasionally, if it felt too much, he would climb to the topmost turret of the donjon where the lady had her glass, and with it spy out the fumes that hung on windless days over the twin valleys of distant Karsa City. Then he would be glad, and wish that the stews of the capital were more distant still.

These visits to the small observatory were one of his few vices, furtively indulged, and he never asked to use to the telescope. Of course the countess would not object, she probably would not care that he had not asked. He suspected she would mock him for his lack of knowledge, then teach him what she knew without complaint. But that would not do, a servant should not request to use the possessions of his mistress, nor aspire to her station in any way. Except...

No, there were no exceptions. None. Never.

The courtyard had emptied. Mansanio hurried off to watch over his countess. The banished gods alone knew how they were taunting her.

Mansanio picked his way across the muddy ward, holding his robes of office daintily out of the muck. The months of Gannever and Seventh had been very fine, bringing a belated summer to Karsa and the isles, but on balance the year had been a wet one, and the rains had returned halfway through Takcrop almost as soon as the harvest was over. Mud and sand were ever present in the yard, washed in by the highest tides, and blown in at the lowest. No matter that the courtyard was paved. The unspeakable slurry came back almost as fast as it was cleared. He sidestepped a wide puddle, keeping a wary eye on the dray dogs as he did. They looked back at him with brown eyes that contrived to be simultaneously intelligent and empty. One stretched its long neck out, arched its back and stretched from its back legs. It eyes were half closed, nose snuffling frantically at him. Mansanio was suspicious of its motives; he had never liked dogs.

The donjon’s door was halfway up the side, narrow stairs leading to it with a tight turn at the top. A defensive feature turned huge inconvenience. The door banged wide, workmen emerged, laughing and joking. He heard the countess shouting in a friendly manner, one that quickened his pace. He entered in a cold fury, and faced the workmen down with an imperious stare. Their laughter choked off. They tugged their caps and cleared their throats.

The reception hall of the donjon was crowded with large wooden crates, some open and spilling straw and packing rags onto the floor. As he feared, the countess was attempting to curry favour with the lower orders, swapping bawdy, workman’s wit with the last pair of stragglers, if wit was the appropriate word for such filthy badinage. It was imperative he got them away from her.

He clapped his hands as he entered. “Your quarters are prepared, goodmen. You are to be entertained in our barracks. Our guards will see to you. We have provided a barrel of beer in thanks for your labours.”

The men looked from Mansanio to the countess. She winked. “Listen to my servant, goodfellows!”

Mansanio shuddered inwardly at the honorific’s misapplication.

“I thank you for your efforts,” she continued speaking to the men. “I’ve waited so long for this machine, you have made me very happy. Enjoy your stay, but be warned you will not spend it in idleness. You will be trapped here with me until the tide recedes, late Martday morning. I may call on you tomorrow, for my equipment is complicated, and heavy. It may require a man’s touch,” she said, with outrageous innuendo.

“Yes, yes!” said Mansanio letting his annoyance show. “Please, goodmen, to your quarters where all is waiting.”

“Good night, my lady,” said the remaining two men. They all looked the same to Mansanio in their draymen’s work clothes, all equally dirty, all so terribly common. He supposed these two to be the underforemen. Gorwyn was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t like the way one of them was looking at the countess. “And thank you for the additional funds. Most appreciated.”

They bowed and doffed their caps all the way to the door. Additional funds? How much extra she had given them? He glared at them as if he would push them out of the donjon hall with his stare.

“If you had but waited two days, then we would not be suffering this minor inconvenience, my lady,” Mansanio said when they had gone.

She looked at him in disbelief. “Wait for this? When I have waited for six months already?”

“Two extra nights does not seem excessive when you put it in those terms, my lady.”

She went back to her crates. “A minor inconvenience. Minor,” she said. “They’re glad of the extra pay. Why put them in the barracks? They’re not very comfortable. When was the last time anyone stayed there. Probably before Iapetus’s time.”

“You know that is not true, my lady. Guests are often quartered there. There are many of the draymen. We would not wish them to ruin the linens of the hall. There is an issue of status here, and your finances, my lady, are not infinite...”

“Unlike your patience, I suppose, eh, Mansanio? My finances are robust enough to withstand a little extra beer and ten silver thalers! Mansanio, I had to have it! Don’t look like that! If you’re worried about the money, get Holless to set up a shankey game. He’ll fleece them blind.”

“We will not have the money still,” he pointed out.

“No, but Holless will, and he spends most of it when he goes ashore in the Mogawn-by-Land’s taverns.”

“Which are mainly owned by you. Of course, my lady.”

“Oh, don’t be so... so... unctuous about it! You bloody Ellosantins think you are so full of charm and understanding. And attractive too, no doubt, with your dusky skin and big brown eyes. Well it won’t wash here in Karsa, do you hear? Oily, the lot of you. That’s what I think. Put them in the hall!”

“As you have mentioned, my lady.” Mansanio bore her prejudices without complaint. No matter that her father was his countryman, and had brought Mansanio to the isles with him.

“And you’re going grey, and you’re getting wrinkles. You’re losing some of your filthy foreign allure.”

Mansanio’s even expression got a little stonier.

“Oh do stop standing around like an extra poker by the fire. Come and give me some help, damn you. And don’t you pull a face at me! I’ll make sure you don’t get your precious hands too dirty.” She gave him a fierce smile. She loved to bate him. He, for the love of her, allowed her to do so. Only her.

“And,” she said, as he reluctantly rolled his sleeves up, “I do wish you’d stop referring to Ardwynion and his sons as the ‘guard’. He’s half blind and the boys, sweet as they are, are only slightly more fearsome than you. And another thing. You never responded to my telling you to put them in the hall. I know you well, you old devil. If you don’t acknowledge my orders, you think it doesn’t count.”

“My ears are not so young, my lady.”

“Put them in the bloody hall!”

“The barracks are the appropriate place for men of their station,” said Mansanio.

“Really now? So you didn’t put them there to keep them away from me, or should I say, me away from them.” She had a most lubricious way of smiling that affected Mansanio in many conflicting ways.

“There are standards, my lady.”

“Are there? In our brave new world?” she waved a hand. Mansanio noted with dismay that it was filthy, and her fingernails bitten down to the quick. “Rot etiquette, rot standards I say. If I want a tumble with a dog handler than I’ll bloody well have one, do you hear? I don’t give a shit for what should be or should not be done!” Her ears were colouring at the tips. Provided the flush stayed off her face, he should be able to salvage the situation.

“It is my duty to ensure standards are met, my lady, that is all.”

She gave a crooked grin, her eyes blazing with malicious amusement. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Mansanio was mortified.

“Oh do stop being such the mother hen, Mansanio. I am teasing you. How many years have I been doing that? Twenty? Ever since I could talk. And still you get flustered. You really are quite inflexible. I scandalise you, but I can assure you that I am not yet in the habit of screwing the lower orders. It looks to me like you are starting to believe the rumours.” She chuckled at that, but Mansanio could see the hurt. And she did not know the half of what was said about her. Nothing riled him more than when he heard her referred to by her nickname; nothing upset her more either, he was sure, although she went to great lengths to pretend she did not care. More, she went to great lengths to provoke it, so she could publicly display her lack of concern.

They called her the Hag of Mogawn. It was ludicrously unfair. Countess Lucinia was no Maceriyan ideal of beauty. She was, if he were entirely honest, plain, a state she did little to alleviate by the manner of her dress and behaviour. A heavy nose, weak chin, a brow that could kindly be described as strong but might better be said to be furious. She looked far too much like her father and not enough like any one of her female relatives. She was unkempt, dirty in habit and mind, foul-mouthed, libidinous. She smoked, and was prone to drink, but she was brilliant, truly, truly brilliant. What man could not love a mind like hers? That she remained alone pained him as much as if she had taken a husband. Mansanio could never rid himself of the hope that one day she might reciprocate his feelings.

She did not know how close she had come to the truth. Mansanio was jealous, and he was also guilty. In attempting to shield her from the rumours, he’d become to half believe them himself.

He was just as adept at hiding his feelings as she was, however.

“Gorwyn is a noble, of the Gorwyn family. Don’t look so bloody surprised man! Times change. Some of us are having to work,” she stressed the last word gleefully, with a wicked expression. “What does that do to your notions of status? By your own rules you should put him in the hall.”

“The barracks—”

“Put him in the fucking hall, Mansanio!”

“As you wish.” He looked at the crates dubiously. “What do I do to help?”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Get a crowbar, you outland fool! Then use it to prise the lids off! You do know how to use a crowbar, don’t you?”

“Yes, mistress. Of course.”

“Then get to it!”