‘I will slay you too, you damned interfering old bastard!’ Kallor was yelling now, hoarse. ‘Sister!’ he called, ‘I will find you again! And when I do I will destroy you! I, Kallor, do so swear!’
The seamed, sun-darkened old fisherman pushed then, with his hands, and the skiff surged out into the surf, rising and falling as it crested waves, diminishing into the distance.
The fisherman took his pipe from his mouth. ‘You are not welcome here, Kallor Eiderann Tes’thesula,’ he called to the surf. ‘Each time you rise so too shall you fall.’ And he set the pipe back into his mouth, nodding to himself, and came up the shore to where Nightchill lay in Nedurian’s arms.
All this was astounding enough to him, but to top it all off Agayla then knelt to one knee before the old man, saying, ‘We are sorry, Fisher. We did not mean to disturb you.’
The old man waved her apology aside, his pale sky-blue eyes actually amused. ‘It is an old feud. And a stubborn one.’ He bent over Nightchill. ‘Ach, Sister. You are gravely wounded. It will not heal, will it?’
Nighchill seemed to recognize him and she whispered, ‘Fisher now, is it?’
He set a finger to her bloody lips. ‘Hush. Lucky for you m’lady is with me. She’ll sing you whole, she will.’
He picked her up quite easily for such an old fellow.
‘I’m honoured,’ she murmured.
‘Think nothing of it,’ he said, and headed off.
Nedurian moved to follow but Agayla held him back by gripping his arm. ‘She is in good hands,’ she said.
‘Who was that?’
‘Don’t you think we ought to be heading back?’ Agayla brushed her sleeves as if removing dust.
‘Agayla … who?’
She motioned aside as if inviting him to walk with her. ‘You’re not going to leave me to go alone, are you?’
He rolled his eyes and started off. ‘Fine. Don’t tell me.’
‘Some things,’ she said, taking his arm, ‘aren’t meant to be known.’
‘So I gather. But what about – what’s his name – that Kallor?’
She shook her head, her thick mane of dark hair blowing in the gusting winds. ‘I don’t believe we’ll be seeing him again.’
* * *
Dawn’s pink and golden light came slanting across the town to limn the man still standing guard on Stonemason’s Bridge. Lee also stood a vigil of a sort; leaning up against a wall, watching him. Half her lads and lasses had wandered off. A few lay in the alleyway, asleep.
But not Lee. She’d seen something she’d never ever expected to see in her lifetime. Perfection. Or at least the pursuit of it. None of this wretched slouching along she’d seen so much of everywhere. No, not that. Expertise. Mastery. And she recognized it as something she’d wanted and looked for all her life.
She peered down at a snoring Two-ton and kicked him awake. He snorted, fumbling, then blinked up at her. ‘Wha’?’
‘I’m quitting.’
He frowned, pulling a hand down his face. ‘Wha’?’
‘You boys and girls can decide who’s in charge, okay?’
He smacked his lips, screwed up one eye. ‘Quittin’? Really?’
‘Yeah.’
He pushed himself up on to one elbow. ‘Well … whatcha gonna do?’
She nodded towards the bridge. ‘We’ll see.’
He eyed the bridge. ‘Gonna throw in with them?’
She lifted her shoulders. ‘We’ll see.’
He pushed himself up all the way, brushed dirt from his trousers. ‘I’m with ya.’
She scowled up at him. ‘No … you don’t have to be.’
He crossed his arms, resolute. ‘I’m with ya, lass.’
She pressed a hand to her forehead, shook her head. ‘Gods. Fine! Whatever.’ She waved to the others. ‘Send them off.’
‘Right.’
Two-ton urged the rest of the gang back to the Gyrfalcon, then they set out towards the bridge. The swordsman calmly watched their approach. The stone arch was clear now; a crew from the Napan ship had come and collected the wounded and all the bodies. All that was left was scattered broken equipment and a lot of drying blood and other fluids staining the cobbles. He stood at ease, his sword sheathed. Crusted blood splashed his tunic and trousers. His sleeves were fairly stiff with it. Stopping a short distance off, she regarded him in turn. Dark, he was, with the curly kinky hair that suggested Dal Hon blood. Tall and wiry, handsome in a lean and hungry sort of way. His eyes appeared dark blue and they held an eerie distance in them, almost a kind of sadness. How the girls must sigh at that melancholy gaze, she admitted. But not her. That was not what she wanted from him.
She knelt to one knee and bowed her head. Gathering her resolve, she said forcefully, ‘I would serve … if you would have me.’
After a short silence, he said, ‘Stand.’ She rose. He regarded her, then his eyes switched to the lumbering Two-ton. She looked to him as well, a touch irked by his intrusion.
The giant of a fellow pushed a knuckle to his brow. ‘Two-ton, sor,’ he rumbled. ‘In your service – if you please.’
The swordsman nodded. ‘Dassem.’ He peered past them, towards the waterfront. ‘The Napan vessel?’
‘Withdrawn,’ Lee answered.
He raised a hand as if signalling a pause. ‘I warn you, it is not to me you should swear allegiance. It is my…’ He paused for some time, obviously searching for the correct term. Finally, he settled on ‘employer’.
‘The knifer Dancer?’
He inclined his head in assent. ‘If that troubles you, you may go. I would quite understand.’
She shook her head. ‘No. That doesn’t bother me.’
The man raised a brow, obviously quite surprised. ‘Very well. This way,’ and he turned round and headed back over the bridge.
* * *
Dancer walked the streets in the early morning light; or, more accurately, he tottered, paused, staggered, and dragged himself along. Early risers out on the streets to inspect the damage from the overnight storm took one look at him, gaped, and ran in the opposite direction.
He found the door to Smiley’s ajar, the common room a mess of overturned tables, chairs, and broken glassware. Surly sat on a tall stool at the bar, an old man bent at her bared arm, sewing up a long ugly-looking gash.
Seeing him, the Napan crew, Choss, Urko and Tocaras, all lurched to their feet, swearing, and came forward to help. He waved them off and eased himself down in a chair at a table next to the door. Choss came round with a tiny shot glass that he filled from some foreign-looking decanter. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged behind horses.’ He also draped a blanket over his shoulders.
‘Feel like it too,’ he answered, and tossed back the shot – only to hiss and wince when the alcohol stung his gashed lip. Blood now caked the glass from his smeared hands and he realized he badly needed to clean up.
‘Who’s after you?’ he asked of Surly.
The churgeon peered over and looked him up and down. ‘I’m good, but I’m not that good.’
‘I’ll take whatever you got,’ Dancer answered. He looked to Choss. ‘So. What happened?’
The burly mariner leaned forward on to his elbows, scowling. ‘We lost Hawl and Grinner. Shrift tried to throw in for Tarel an’ Crust is sore wounded.’
‘What of the locals – what was his name … Dujek?’
Urko jerked a thumb to the kitchen. ‘Him ’n’ Jack are making breakfast. We sent the rest of the troops off to rest.’
Dancer nodded at that. ‘Sounds good. I need that – and a bath.’
‘Don’t look at us,’ Tocaras told him.
The old churgeon looked round again and pointed down the street. ‘Try old lady Carragan. Runs a boarding house. She has a bath.’
Dancer tipped his head. ‘Many thanks.’ He tried to rise, then found he’d have to try harder if he wished to succeed.
The door opened and in strode a blood-splashed Dassem.