‘I think so.’ In fact, he now wondered whether the fellow was of the worst kind. That the old man truly was a mage seemed to trouble the swordswoman, so Cartheron added, ‘At least he’s on our side.’
Shrift didn’t appear relieved. She slapped her side where her weapon usually rode. ‘I don’t understand why we don’t just storm over there and put everyone to the sword.’
‘Because then it would be war between us ’n’ all the locals – and guess who would win?’ Her tight mouth worked as she ground her teeth, but she subsided and leaned back on her stool. ‘Slow and steady,’ he told her, passing on.
He took a seat next to the fireplace and set to work building up the fire against the relentless damp. That accomplished, he leaned back to study his fellow crew on watch – Shrift and their tall lean archer, Tocaras. Neither looked happy sitting and staring out at the mist-cloaked streets.
Garrison duty, he reflected. Not our strength. No fighting man or woman’s, frankly. Surly would have to be careful. Loyalty was one thing, but frustration and a perceived lack of success or advancement could erode even the strongest allegiance. Something had to give. And while he had complete confidence it wouldn’t be any of them, still, he prayed, and hoped.
Chapter 5
Tattersail leaned her forearms on the gritty salt-stained stone of a battlement crenel and considered the island’s modest highlands to the north. Her loose hair blew about and she pushed it from her eyes. Overhead, gulls and cormorants hovered in the brisk wind, calling harshly. She watched their easy freedom for a time then lowered her gaze to the dun-brown hillocks of the Flint Plain. North, little more than a day’s journey beyond the last Malazan headland, lay the continent. So close, yet, as they said, so far.
Something needed to be done if she and Mock were to come into their titles. And if he were too … how should she put it … too content, then it must fall to her. The question then, was just what.
And the answer that came to her mind was an old-fashioned expedition. A raid upon the mainland such as used to be organized in Mock’s younger days and before. All in the honoured pirating tradition of Malaz.
That should remind them who controlled the seas, all their valuable shipping, and the entire coastline itself, and who was therefore owed the recognition and respect due to such a power. That would put the fear of gods into those quaking merchants in Cawn, the decadent aristocrats in Unta, and those damned snobbish Kanese.
She pressed a fist to the guano-streaked stone. Done. She’d settle it with Mock tonight.
A throat-clearing behind her brought her attention round to a guard. ‘Yes?’
‘A ship at the harbour mouth, m’lady.’
‘So?’
‘Lubben thought you’d be interested.’
Lubben – the hunchbacked castellan of the Hold. ‘Very well.’
She crossed to the nearest overlook. Guano dotted the ancient stones of the walk and Tattersail found herself hating the damned old heap of rock. How she looked forward to getting off this gods-forsaken backwater for a proper manor in a real city like Unta or Tali!
The vessel was anchored as far out as could be managed. It was long and low, two-masted, tiny in the distance, yet she knew it instantly for what it was without even needing to be sure of its blue-tinted sails. ‘What in all the seas is a Napan ship doing here?’ she asked aloud.
The guard nearby wisely judged her question to be rhetorical. ‘They’ve sent off a launch with a flag of truce,’ he observed.
What was there to talk about, she wondered. ‘Well, Lubben was right. I am interested. Keep an eye on them. Have a party ready as escort. I’ll go tell Mock.’
The guard bowed and she swept off for the main keep.
She found him in their sleeping quarters. Oddly, though it was mid-day, he was in a state of undress, flushed and struggling with the ties of his corset. She hurried over and slapped his hands away to take the ties. ‘What are you doing?’ She yanked, fiercely.
He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘The outfit simply was not right…’ He gasped as the breath was squeezed out of him.
‘So you’ve heard.’
‘Heard what, my love?’ She might have been mistaken, but his voice sounded slightly higher.
‘Napans! Here, in the harbour! It may be an official delegation.’
Mock kept his arms wide while Tattersail tightened the many ties of the corset. He stroked his long moustache, thinking. ‘A delegation … yes. This new king we’ve heard about. Official relations…’ His usually narrowed dark eyes now widened, ‘Or official recognition!’
He took her hands in his, urged her away. ‘Summon that new girl, Viv. You meet them in the audience hall. I must dress properly.’ He walked her to the door.
‘Well, if you think it best.’
‘Very good. This may be our first step towards all that we have wished for, my love.’ He gave her a hurried kiss and shut the door behind her.
As she descended the stairs it occurred to her that the bed was a mess – it hadn’t even been made yet! She would have to have stern words with Viv about that.
* * *
The delegation – and she assumed it was a delegation, as three was rather small for a raiding party – consisted of two men and a woman. One fellow was quite old, the emissary, she assumed, accompanied by two younger armoured guards. All three bore the bluish tinge to their skin that was the mark of natives of their isle. The emissary alone was allowed entrance to the hall.
Tattersail awaited him at the foot of Mock’s raised wooden seat at the head of the top table.
The emissary came walking up. His heels struck loudly on the stone flags. To Tattersail’s eyes the man did not look the part; too short, and pear-shaped. Inwardly she sighed, but they were dealing with Nap, after all. One mustn’t get one’s hopes up too high.
Halting at a respectful distance the emissary bowed, with a rather oily smirk. ‘Admiral Koreth, at your service.’
She answered the bow, thinking that if this rat of a fellow was a real admiral of Nap then the isle must be overrun with them. ‘Welcome, admiral. You honour us. Please accept our hospitality. For too long has our sister island been out of touch.’
The emissary stroked his goatee – which held streaks of grey – and nodded his grave agreement. ‘And whom,’ he began unctuously, ‘do I have the honour of addressing?’
Tattersail struggled to keep her expression pleasant while she mentally berated herself for her awkwardness. ‘My apologies, admiral. I am Tattersail, mistress of the Hold.’
The emissary’s brows rose in appreciation. ‘Ah! The formidable Tattersail. Your prowess is the talk of the entire southern seas.’ And he bowed once more.
It occurred to her that this clearly inoffensive fellow might not have been such a foolish choice after all. ‘You bring word from Tarel, the newly installed king of the Napan Isles?’
He bowed again. ‘Indeed. And are you to speak for Mock, the oh so long-standing Admiral of Malaz?’
Tattersail struggled once more to keep her expression light. Her initial judgement had been the right one. Admiral, is it? Fine. Be that way. No official exchanges with the mistress. She returned his bow. ‘He has been informed of your arrival and will be joining us soon.’
‘Excellent.’ The fellow made a show of studying his surroundings. ‘So this is the Hold’s main hall. It is so very … charmingly rustic.’
Fuck you too, you damned fat prick. She smiled, nodded her agreement. ‘My thanks. That means a great deal, as you in Nap must surely know what you are speaking of.’
The emissary answered her smile in kind.
Tattersail could not help but follow his gaze as he peered about, and the tapestry across the way caught her eye. Agayla’s new work. It was a portrait of the Hold, as seen from sea, at twilight. At least so it first appeared to her. Now, however, as she narrowed her gaze, the landscape seemed to darken. Ragged dark shapes like clouds threatened above. Their obscuring shadows seemed to crawl across the cliffs and the keep’s great seaward walls.