The Righteous Blade Read online

  On the eighth or ninth day of the voyage, or possibly some time during its second century, the overseer’s deputies came for Kinsel. They deposited him, blinking and half naked, on the freezing deck. Most of the crew seemed to be there, watchful and expectant. A fellow convict was present too, looking cowed and bearing signs of a thrashing.

  ‘Here he is,’ the overseer mocked, ‘the man who wouldn’t lift a hand to defend his country!’ There were jeers from the onlookers. ‘A man who’d stand idle as our homes were razed and our women defiled, and call it honour!’ He made it sound like a curse. ‘Who dresses his cowardice as virtue and his treachery as an ideal!’ They were booing. ‘Did I say a man? He’s not deserving of the name!’ He approached Kinsel. ‘But I’m going to give you the chance to be one.’ The overseer pointed at the other galley slave. ‘That one broke the code, and I’ve a mind to mix punishment with a bit of entertainment.’ The crew cheered and clapped. ‘Here’s the bargain. You’ll settle this for us. You fight or I’ll kill him,’ he told Kinsel. Then he turned to the other man. ‘You kill this…peace-lover, and you live. And if you reckon you can get out of it by neither of you fighting, think again. I’ll have you both put to death.’

  Kinsel was numb. He raised his eyes to the man he was expected to fight. His name wasn’t known to him; because the rowers were forbidden to speak, none were. But Kinsel recognised him as someone he’d managed to pass a few drops of his water to, when he was parched in the night and near choking. Perhaps that had been noticed, and was why the overseer matched them. The man looked as wretched and unfit as Kinsel himself, and no more willing.

  An order was barked and the chains were struck off Kinsel and his would-be opponent.

  The overseer thrust a sword at Kinsel, hilt first. ‘Take it. Take it!’

  He had only ever held a sword once or twice before. He didn’t even like to have one on stage as a prop. It was heavy, and its metal handgrip was cold. He had no idea how to use it, but supposed that would add to his persecutors’ amusement.

  The man he was supposed to fight looked as though he’d handled a sword in the past. But he seemed to find his just as weighty, probably from pure fatigue.

  Sluggish as Kinsel’s mind was, a succession of thoughts rapidly went through it. The first was to use the blade on himself, but he knew they wouldn’t allow that. He thought that perhaps he might merely wound the man. But they’d insist on him finishing the job, and in any event it assumed a skill he didn’t have. It occurred to him to turn the blade on the overseer. That he instantly dismissed as an absurd notion. The only feasible choice was to let the other man kill him and end it here.

  He was roughly shoved forward, and so was his opponent. The crowd began to roar and egg them on.

  Kinsel threw down his sword.

  It was illogical, but totally instinctive. He simply couldn’t face someone while holding a weapon in his hand. The other man just stood with his mouth open, the tip of his sword resting on the deck.

  The onlookers were incensed, and howled their frustration. But no more so than the overseer. He gave in to an apocalyptic fury.

  ‘You bastard! Pick it up! Pick it up, I say!’ The order was emphasised with a wild swipe of his coiled whip across Kinsel’s chest.

  He flinched and swayed, but didn’t move.

  The overseer struck him with the whip again, even harder, and its barbs bit. ‘Pick it up and fight, you swine!’

  Kinsel felt as though a score of white-hot pokers had scoured his flesh. But still he refused to obey.

  ‘To hell with it!’ the overseer raged. ‘Kill ’em both!’

  Rough hands were laid upon Kinsel, and the man he’d refused to fight was similarly grabbed. Ropes and whips were produced.

  Somebody was shouting, loudly. The words couldn’t be made out above the commotion.

  ‘Quiet!’ the overseer bellowed. ‘Quiet! Shut up, you scum!’

  The mob fell silent. Save one shrill voice. ‘Ahoy! To the west! The west!’

  All eyes went up to the lookout’s nest, then over to the direction in which he was frantically pointing.

  A ship was coming at them, bow on, moving with speed. It was at least as big as the galley, and its sails were full to bursting.

  ‘Gods!’ the overseer cried. ‘We neglected the watch! Battle stations! Put on speed!’

  He laid about the crew with his whip and boot, yelling orders.

  There was chaos. Men ran in all directions to hoist ropes, break out weapons and a dozen more chores in defence of the ship. Several of the overseer’s deputies pounded below decks to whip the rowers. A frantic drum beat started up.

  Kinsel and the other slave were forgotten. Men who seconds before had been intent on killing them, let go and scattered. The convict and Kinsel held each other’s gaze for a moment, incredulous. Then the convict picked up his sword and was swallowed by the confusion. Kinsel left his where it was.

  He looked west and saw that the ship heading their way had moved much nearer. Its speed was such that it could only be a matter of minutes before it reached them. Kinsel estimated that it would narrowly cut across their path, or possibly strike the prow. He made for the stern, ignored by everyone and hobbling painfully.

  The galley began to move forwards, but lazily, from its almost standing start. It might have been better if it hadn’t. Whereas there was a chance before that the oncoming ship would miss them, now they were putting themselves directly in its path.

  Kinsel got to the rear of the galley. He glanced out to sea. The attacking ship was a stone’s throw away and he could see a host of men crowded at its bow.

  Then it rammed the galley, hitting amidships with a tremendous impact. Kinsel was knocked from his feet. He heard the oars on the injured side splintering and breaking apart. The lookout, halfway down the rigging, was dislodged and fell screaming into the ocean. All around, men were shouting and running with blades in their hands.

  He started to get up, then flattened again when a shower of arrows homed in. Several embedded themselves in the deck close by. Others found living targets, felling crewmen not ten paces distant. He crawled, keeping low, looking for a place to hide. Almost bumping into a great coil of rope, thick as his arm, he wriggled behind it.

  Kinsel didn’t know how long he crouched there, listening to the yells and screams, and the clashing of steel. Not being able to see was worse than knowing exactly what was going on.

  But when he heard a terrible chorus of shrieks from below deck, and knew they could only be coming from the rowers, chained and at the mercy of their attackers, he had little doubt which way the wind blew.

  After a while, the sounds of fighting began to fade. Then they ceased all together and silence descended. In a way, that was worse still. The only noises he heard now were creaks that he prayed were the natural movement of the galley’s timbers. He dared to nurture the hope that their attackers had fled and left the ship drifting.

  That hope was dashed.

  Suddenly, rough pairs of hands seized him and he was hoisted to his feet. The men surrounding him weren’t from the galley. He expected no more than death. With luck, swiftly.

  ‘We’ve got another one!’ somebody shouted.

  They dragged him, laughing, to the front of the ship. Short as the journey was, he passed an awful lot of corpses on the way. The vast majority were galley crew, including the rower the overseer had wanted him to fight.

  He was thrown on his knees near a man who couldn’t have been anything but their commander. Tall and large of frame, he had black curly hair and a full beard. His face was rugged, weather-beaten and pock-marked. He wore a blue frock-coat that reached his ankles, thick breeches and scuffed black boots that came to his thighs and still had turned-over flaps of soft leather a foot long. There was more gold on the man than Kinsel had ever seen any one person wearing. Every finger, and even his thumbs, bore at least one ring. Not content with a single chain about his neck, he had several, at least two of them with fat pendan
ts. He sported gold bracelets, an ostentatious brooch, and a belt buckle large enough to tether a horse with.

  But the captain, as Kinsel took him to be, had his attention elsewhere at that moment.

  He was staring at the overseer, who stood bound between two smirking captors. Kinsel saw something in the overseer’s eyes he hadn’t seen before, and which he had so fervently wished for. Fear.

  ‘I do not appreciate resistance,’ the captain was telling him, ‘but have considerably less respect for a man who hides and lets others fight for him.’

  Even in his terror, Kinsel appreciated the black irony of it. But as he himself had been found quaking like a craven deserter, he didn’t think his prospects good.

  The captain snapped his fingers. ‘Bring brandy,’ he ordered. ‘The good stuff.’ A subordinate trotted off to obey.

  Kinsel was puzzled. Was he going to toast the overseer?

  Soon, the minion returned with a full bottle, pausing only to draw its cork with his teeth.

  The captain approached the trembling overseer, bottle in hand. ‘Your health,’ he saluted, and took a generous swig. Then he poured the rest over the man’s head, shoulders and body, liberally soaking him. The drenched overseer spluttered. His expression alternated between outraged, bewildered and frightened.

  Another snap of the captain’s fingers had a lackey producing something from his pocket. The overseer saw what it was before Kinsel did, and set to wailing and struggling in his bonds.

  The captain struck flint, or perhaps it was a glamour brand, and there was a tiny flame in his hand. He touched it casually to the writhing overseer’s jerkin, then stepped back. Flames immediately engulfed the man. His whole body became a roaring fireball. The two men guarding him had moved away too, leaving the overseer to burn. He shrieked, staggering about the deck. His skin began to sear and peel, and the sickly smell of roasting flesh was given off. Blundering in agony, the desperate overseer tottered to the rail, swayed for a second and plunged over, screaming. There was a distant splash. He’d ignited a little fire on the rail where he’d touched it. One of the men took off his hat and absently beat it out.

  ‘Who can doubt my generosity?’ the captain said. ‘I even provide cooked food for the sharks.’

  His men doubled with mirth.

  ‘What about him?’ he mouthed, waving a hand Kinsel’s way but not really looking at him.

  ‘Just one of the rowers, captain,’ someone explained.

  ‘Be done with it. But don’t waste any more brandy on him.’

  Firm hands forced Kinsel forwards so that his neck was stretched. A sword was drawn and raised high.

  ‘Wait!’ The captain strolled over, foppishly brandishing a gold-embossed dagger. ‘I believe I know him.’ He put the flat of the knife under Kinsel’s chin and lifted his face for a proper look. ‘My word. Up!’

  They hauled Kinsel to his feet.

  ‘I’m Kingdom Vance,’ the captain announced, ‘merchant adventurer. Are you by any chance Kinsel Rukanis?’

  Kinsel was too horrified to speak. He could only manage a stiff nod.

  ‘Of course, I could be wrong,’ Vance reflected. ‘And you, naturally, could be grasping at a straw. If you’re the man I think you are, and want to keep your head, there’s one way to settle the issue. All you have to do is prove it.’ His dark eyes bored into Kinsel’s.

  ‘Sing,’ he said.

  The voyage had been more than long enough for Caldason, and he was anxious for dry land again. That, the skipper told him, would appear any time now.

  The cramped conditions on the brig hadn’t done much to improve anyone’s temper. Darrok’s way of weathering the trip was simply to stay in his cabin for long stretches. Caldason couldn’t help noticing, as everyone did, that Darrok’s redheaded female bodyguard spent most of her time in there with him.

  At the moment, with landfall imminent, most people crowded the decks, anxious for sight of their destination. Caldason stood with the skipper and Darrok, who had parked his disk on a capstan to conserve the magic that powered it. The trio were talking about nothing in particular, and their eyes were more often on the sea than each other.

  ‘Look at that,’ the skipper said.

  ‘What?’ Darrok asked, scanning the horizon.

  ‘There.’ The skipper pointed skyward.

  A bird was flapping their way. It moved rapidly, and the nearer it got the more obvious it was that it was big. Eventually it reached the ship and circled overhead. It was white, with enormously long wings and a hooked beak.

  ‘Well, I’ll be…’ the skipper exclaimed.

  ‘What is it?’ Caldason said.

  But before he got an answer the bird descended and landed on the rail close by. It was so large it hardly had room to perch. Caldason noted that some of the crew viewed the creature anxiously.

  ‘Just a minute,’ the skipper said, and slowly made his way to it.

  They watched as he spent a minute in the bird’s company. Then he returned.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he told Caldason.

  Reeth walked along the deck, stopped by the huge bird and seemed to engage it in conversation.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Darrok wanted to know.

  ‘It seems Dulian Karr has a twisted sense of humour,’ the skipper replied. ‘That or a total ignorance of the ways of the sea. It has to be one or the other to send a messenger glamour in the form of an albatross.’

  A couple of minutes later the ungainly bird took off again. Once more it circled above, then headed back the way it had come. Caldason watched it go, then rejoined them.

  ‘It looks as though I’m going to be on the Diamond Isle longer than I thought,’ he said and seemed contented at the prospect.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re going to like it here,’ the skipper came back, ‘because there it is.’

  On the horizon, between sea and sky, a thin, dark strip of land had appeared.

  26

  ‘I suppose this place is technically yours now,’ Darrok said.

  ‘Not mine personally,’ Caldason replied, ‘and more than just technically. Now the last of the gold’s been delivered, the island belongs to the alliance of interests Karr heads.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Caldason. Talking like a legal advocate hardly suits you. Be honest. You mean the so-called Resistance.’

  The Qalochian didn’t answer.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Darrok returned in his distinctive rasp. ‘I don’t give a damn personally, now I’ve got the gold.’

  ‘It’s true what they say about you, then? That riches are your only motivation.’

  ‘Is it true what they say about you, too? That revenge and bloodletting is all that drives you? Things are rarely what they at first seem, my friend. You of all people should know that. And if money was all I cared about, I’d turn you in for the reward the paladins have put on your head. Didn’t know about that, did you?’

  ‘It comes as no surprise. Aren’t you tempted?’

  ‘No. And the bounty’s big.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Very. Though nowhere near as much as the money I’m getting for this island. I’m not entirely driven by a lust for riches, Caldason, despite what people think. That gold represents my retirement and future security. Not only mine; quite a few other people rely on me for their livelihoods.’

  ‘I had no idea you were a benefactor,’ Caldason came back dryly.

  ‘I am in a way, given that I see money as just a means to an end.’

  ‘Doesn’t everybody?’

  ‘Most use it less wisely than I do.’

  ‘What, for feeding their families, that kind of thing?’

  ‘I feed a lot of families. More than you ever have, I’d wager.’ He offered the wine flask. ‘Sure you won’t have a drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. It’s an excellent vintage.’ He sipped from his glass appreciatively.

  They sat in one of the many rooms in Darrok’s spacious, beautifully appointed hillsi
de mansion. His hovering disk was lodged in a hollow on a specially made, reinforced chair that meant he was at the same height as guests. A large window stood close to where they talked, and through it the landscaped grounds could be seen.

  ‘Impressive house, isn’t it?’ Darrok said. ‘Don’t get the impression the whole island is like this, though. I’m afraid most of the rest is rather run down. It’s just my bit that’s so agreeable. I say mine. The house is yours too now, isn’t it? Sorry, Karr’s alliance of interests’. The deal was the island and everything on it, after all. I expect you could live here yourself if you asked nicely enough. They must owe you a favour.’

  ‘It’s not my style. I never did go for overblown ostentation. I think it reveals a bit too much about the insecurities of its owner. Sorry, ex-owner.’

  Darrok ignored that. ‘I’ll miss this place. I won’t miss the island; it’s been a thorn in my side for too long. But I’ll be sad to see the back of this house. I’ve put a lot of work into it.’

  Caldason scanned the special furniture, extra wide door frames without the doors, and a dozen other refinements. ‘I can see it’s been designed for a man lacking legs.’

  ‘Originally, yes. Then later I had it adapted some more when I got the disk.’ He affectionately patted the side of his seat-cum-transporter.

  ‘It must cost you a fortune to run that thing.’

  ‘I can afford it.’

  ‘Darrok, how did you lose your legs? You said it was Kingdom Vance, but you didn’t explain how. Or is it something you prefer not to talk about?’

  ‘You’ll find there are few things I’m not prepared to talk about, Caldason. Yes, it was Vance.’

  ‘You survived one of his raids?’

  ‘Not exactly. It was more in the way of a falling out with him.’

  ‘A falling out? You mean you were…’

  ‘A pirate, yes. Though I preferred to think of myself as being on a slightly higher level than mere crew. As his partner, in fact. But in the event he saw it differently.’

  ‘What happened?’