Isles of the Forsaken (29 page)

“I don’t know.”

“We’ve got to get the Adainas to stop this suicide. By hook or by net, we’ve got to make the problem go away.”

Joffrey thought her use of “we” was interesting. But she was right; it was in his interest, as well. “Do you have a plan?” he said.

She smiled at him slowly, and he saw the iron woman her opponents spoke of. “Why, Joffrey, we need to bait a dainty hook.”

By the time they finished talking, the rain had stopped. The night air was cool and misty when Joffrey left the carriage, and he stood watching it pull away and cross the rain-slick paving stones to enter the palace by the massive Gallowgate. He didn’t think he was going to report the conversation to Admiral Talley. There were some things the Innings were better off not knowing.

*

Dear Rachel,
(Nathaway wrote)

I’ve received nothing from you in four weeks, so I don’t know whether my letters are reaching you. Please write—you can’t imagine how it would lift my spirits to hear from you.

You can tell Mother and everyone else that I am perfectly safe, in good hands, and no one ought to be the least bit worried about me.

His hand jerked and smeared the ink as if it were rebelling at being forced to write such a blatant lie. The truth was, he was racked with uncertainty about his situation. The enforced inactivity was bad enough; the boredom was sheer torture; but worst was having no control, no way of altering anything. For the first time in his life he felt utterly insignificant.

I am comfortably lodged in an inn in Harbourdown—a different one than where they kept me at first, more centrally located. They tell me I am in better quarters than the other prisoners at the Redoubt, but truth to tell I would gladly give up some comforts in exchange for company. I am alone almost all the time, and even when people do come by to give me food and so forth, they have no interest in conversing. The only exception is Harg Ismol, who visits from time to time for a chat, and I have really grown to look forward to our conversations, since they are the only relief from the tedium.

I wish I could inform you about what is going on, but I really have no idea, since they are very secretive. By the time you receive this, you may well know more about it than I.

A thump and raised voices interrupted him from somewhere downstairs, and he strained to make out the words, with no luck. This went on all day: footsteps, orders, muffled conversations. Things were going on all around him, and he didn’t know what they were. He spent his time trying to string them together and form theories about what they meant. Now, he forced himself to return to his letter.

At every opportunity I advise them to bring this episode to a swift and peaceful conclusion. I think I have had some influence—at least on Harg, who listens carefully to what I have to say, and who seems to enjoy some credibility with these rough people. At least, they consult him on all matters concerning me.

I believe I’ve written about him before. Now I think I underestimated him at first, and assumed he was more unsophisticated than he is. It’s true, he is totally uneducated—can barely read a simple text. But he has a sharp, enquiring mind, and grasps a concept faster than most law students I know. He is quite curious about Inning custom and law, and I have now read him the whole of the law twice over, with commentary.

It has given me a little uneasiness, whether I ought to be informing him, or whether it could be construed as collaboration. But in thinking it over, I have decided that this is exactly why I was sent to the Forsakens: to instruct the Adaina about Inning law, and encourage them to solve their differences through peaceful and constructive means. The circumstances are unanticipated, but the obligation remains the same. Besides, it makes the time go faster.

Harg has been quite eloquent to me about the perceived injustices that have led to this revolt. It may surprise you to learn that they don’t, in fact, wish to throw off Inning rule; they simply wish to be accepted into our commonwealth with the same rights and autonomy that we have granted other territories. They wish to be independent from the Inner Chain, not ruled by the government in Tornabay. As soon as he understood that we are a government of laws, not of men, Harg asked why the Adaina could not have their own courts. It was an interesting question.

Nathaway stared at the wall, remembering the scene. Harg had been pacing restlessly, as if he found the small room intolerably claustrophobic. “You want to impose your law as if you could do our thinking for us,” he argued. “We want to work it out for ourselves. How can we do that unless you let us have Adaina courts, Adaina judges?”

“You intention’s admirable,” Nathaway had said, “but there can’t be separate courts for separate races. It undermines the whole concept, and isn’t even to your advantage.”

“Why not?” Harg said.

“If you define yourself as a separate group before the law, then you give others permission to define you that way as well, and to give you a different kind of treatment because of it. You must always think not ‘What is just for Adainas,’ but ‘What is just for everyone, including Adainas.’ Don’t settle for anything less than universal justice. That is the only way to achieve a world where we’re not cutting each other’s throats.”

At last Harg came to a halt, looking demandingly at Nathaway. “If we asked, would they grant us perfect equality under the law?”

“I don’t know. But you won’t get it if you
don’t
ask.”

Nathaway didn’t put that in his letter. When Harg was in the room, he found it hard not to see the situation from their perspective; as soon as he was alone, he always wondered if he had crossed the line.

He resumed writing.

In short, there is very little in their demands that could not be worked out if only some negotiations could be undertaken. There is a great deal about our system they simply don’t understand, but assume the worst from having experienced only the roughest side of it, administered by arrogant and self-interested parties. If we approached them with a spirit of enlightened compromise, and offered amnesty in exchange for a cessation of hostilities and release of prisoners, then I think this crisis would be short-lived.

There, he thought, perhaps that would do some good, considering who was sure to read it. At least it couldn’t do any harm. He was running out of paper, so he added some greetings to family and signed it. If Harg was as good as his word, it would get posted to Fluminos by the next available boat.

*

At that moment, Harg was sitting in the room directly below Nathaway’s, trying to keep himself from speaking up.

The twenty-odd people around the long table in the private meeting room of Rosenry’s tavern were supposed to be hammering out a set of demands for a delegation to present to the Innings in Tornabay. Out of necessity, most of the people in the room were Tornas. It wasn’t the Adaina way to debate or make demands, and few of them were willing to sit and wrangle with a tableful of Tornas. So the politics of this rebellion was going to be a Torna creation, and therefore accommodationist.

Up to now, Harg had not been taking part in the discussions. But the demands were taking so long he was losing patience, so he had decided to stop in and see what the problem was.

Now he knew. They had spent the entire morning arguing over a demand he considered a complete side issue, the release of the Heir of Gilgen. Until the last week, Harg hadn’t even known there was a living inheritor of that ancient title. Now, news of the man’s captivity was distracting everyone from more important issues. The discussion today hadn’t even touched on the demand Harg considered most critical, independent courts. The Tornas just couldn’t see the importance of it. But then, they hadn’t had the pleasure of being indoctrinated by the legal zealot in the upstairs bedroom.

The debate was lagging now. When Harg shifted restlessly in his seat, half a dozen people looked at him, hoping for something to energize the meeting.

Majlis Callow, the practical, middle-aged woman who usually spoke for the Torna merchants, said, “Harg, you’re the only one who hasn’t said anything. What’s the matter, do you think this won’t affect you?”

“It’s not my decision,” he forced himself to say. “You’re the ones doing the demands.”

“But we’re asking your opinion.”

He stared hard at the tabletop, then finally decided to give it to them, consequences be damned. “Well then, I say forget the Heir of Gilgen. Let them have him. We don’t need him.”

There was a silence. He had just confounded all their expectations; it was the Adainas who were supposed to care most about the traditional ways. At last Majlis said, “We can’t have an Ison without the Heir of Gilgen.”

“Then we won’t have an Ison,” Harg said. “We’ll do fine without. Why should we want a leader chosen and controlled by the Grey Folk, anyway? We don’t need the Lashnura meddling in our affairs.”

When the Adainas learned what he had said, they would be scandalized, he thought. Well, so be it. He stood up. “I’ve got to get some fresh air,” he said. “Go ahead, don’t wait for me.”

He passed out through the smoky common room of the tavern, which faced onto the Market Square. Out on the porch he paused, sheltered from the slow drizzle. He checked the harbour; Barko had not yet returned from his training run with the renamed
Industry
, now the
Ison Orin
. Harg wished he had gone with them in the
Pimpernel
. Out on the sea, it was just himself and his crew. The instant he stepped on shore, he was surrounded by expectations.

There was a story taking hold of everyone’s minds. They all thought they knew where events were leading: upward to glory and the recapture of ancient power and unity. They had all forgotten the last time they had followed that story, to conquest and execution.

We need a new story, Harg thought. We need to break out of this old one, and do something unexpected.

He became aware of a commotion in one of the side streets. Shouts and catcalls echoed from between the buildings. As he watched, a rowdy mob of pirates erupted into the square, dragging a protesting figure toward the dock. They had wrapped a noose around their victim’s neck, and were propelling him on at dagger point. They looked like they intended to string him up from the yard arm of one of the boats.

Exasperated, Harg left the shelter of the porch and set out after them. When he called out, they stopped. Harg had never seen the man they were harassing; he looked Torna, and his face was blanched with terror. His hands were tied behind him.

“What the fuck are you hoodlums doing?” Harg demanded.

“Executing a spy,” said the ringleader of the mob. The man holding the noose gave it a jerk, making the victim stumble.

“Stop that!” Harg ordered. “How do you know he’s a spy?”

“He came on a boat from Tornabay last night. He’s been nosing around ever since, asking questions. He was asking about you, Harg.”

On hearing Harg’s name, the Torna turned to him with a desperate look of hope. “I’m not a spy!” he cried. “Yes, I’m from Tornabay. I never denied it. If you’re Harg Ismol, I came here looking for you. But I’m not a Tiarch’s-man, I’ll swear it!”

“Give me that,” Harg said to the man holding the rope. He took the cord and loosened the noose, lifting it from around the man’s neck. “What are you, a pack of barbarians? Are you going to hang every foreigner who comes here? Blessed backside of Ashte, use your brains.”

Seizing the Torna by the arm, he propelled him forcefully across the square toward the customs house, away from the mob.

“Thank you, sir, thank you!” the man babbled in relief.

“Shut up,” Harg said. He didn’t think the pirates would follow them, but he wanted to get inside before it occurred to them.

They mounted the customs house steps and got through the door without further incident. Harg shoved the captive into the room he had been using as a headquarters and closed the door. It was sparsely furnished with a few chairs. He left the Torna standing with his hands still tied, and sat in a chair facing him. “Now convince me I didn’t just waste my time,” he said.

The stranger was utterly forgettable: small and pale, with a head of curly black hair and a little moustache. Harg watched as the realization crossed the man’s face that he wasn’t yet out of trouble. He looked around the room, a little jittery, and cleared his throat. “My name is Jobin Dugall. I came on the merchant cog
Fairweather Friend
, from Tornabay. It was two weeks ago we first heard what happened here—the attack on the warships and the fort, the capture of Inning prisoners. I work for a merchant firm that has interests in the South Chain—”

“Which one?” Harg interrupted.

“Sorrell and Sons. Mr. Sorrell sent me here to see if a mutually advantageous arrangement might be possible.”

Sorrell was well known as an importer of arms and munitions. Harg watched Jobin through narrowed eyes. “Your company would risk the Innings’ justice by dealing with us?” he said.

Nervously, Jobin wet his lips. “No,” he said. “The bargain we have in mind is to the Innings’ advantage; it’s just one they can’t approach you about themselves, at least not directly. We are acting in the capacity of an intermediary.”

“Do the Innings know you’re here?”

Hesitantly, Jobin replied, “Not yet.”

“All right,” Harg said. “What’s your offer?”

Jobin glanced at his bound hands. “Would you mind untying me?”

“Maybe. Tell me first how you knew my name.”

“It’s in all the reports, Harg Ismol is leader of the revolt.”

Not terribly pleased to hear this, Harg nevertheless got up and untied the man’s hands. Jobin rubbed his wrists and wriggled his fingers to restore the circulation. “Thank you,” he said. “They said you were more civilized than the rest.”

“Don’t bank on it,” Harg said.

Jobin looked up, studying him closely, so he turned his back and strolled behind his chair, finally turning around and leaning on its back. “Well?”

Drawing himself up straight, Jobin said, “You have some Inning prisoners.”