Isles of the Forsaken (8 page)

“I cannot tell,” Goran shook his head. “After all, we have been hoping for six centuries now.”

By the time the guards arrived to escort the prisoner up to the palace, Joffrey was relieved to relinquish charge of his guest. He had learned less than he had hoped. The old man’s mind was a paradox, he told himself angrily as he poured a glass of wine to wash down breakfast. But the paradox that truly bothered him was in himself. Deep down, his mother’s primitive reverence still persisted. It made him feel ashamed.

He sat down at his desk to resume the delicate task that had been interrupted by the prisoner’s arrival—composing a letter to his commander, Admiral Talley. Joffrey had to strike just the right note: tell his superior enough about the curious situation in Tornabay to make him appreciate the skill it took to cope with it, but little enough that he didn’t feel compelled to arrive on the scene.

The offer of promotion to Commodore of the Fourth Fleet, the new name for the Native Navy, had come as a surprise to Joffrey, because his background was not in field command. He had been in military intelligence. His job had been to spy on the officers of the Inning Navy for Admiral Talley, and report back on their opinions, their loyalties, and their competence. It had led Joffrey into the intricacies of Inning politics, a subject for which he now had a deep appreciation. It was not until he had arrived in Tornabay that he had understood why Talley wanted someone of his background in the post.

During the war, the Northern Squadron, stationed in Tornabay, had grown lax and corrupt. Far from the fighting, it had become a haven for Inning officers who enjoyed the easy life as aristocracy of a provincial capital, and it had served as a trough of patronage for the worthless sons-in-law of wealthy Torna merchants. Joffrey had arrived to find the payroll packed with people who barely worked, and had no loyalty to anyone but Tiarch, the governor who had gotten them their jobs. In fact, the Northern Squadron had ceased to function as a navy, and more closely resembled a thuggish private security force owned by the merchants and the governor, with a few indolent Innings enjoying the kickbacks. It was a cozy little private party—Innings, Tiarch, and the merchants all in bed together, and Joffrey had been sent to break it up.

Which he had no intention of doing.

And therein lay his dilemma. His previous job had given him a vivid appreciation of how thin was the ice upon which the Talley family walked, with their crowd-pleasing penchant for reform. They were riding high now all right, but it would not take much to make the wind shift, and when it did Joffrey wanted to be in a position to trim his sails a new way. He could not afford to make enemies of the Tornabay cabal. Accommodate, adapt, accept the situation: that was how he had gotten ahead in the Native Navy. And at the moment that meant keeping the Admiral far away and in the dark.

He was almost relieved when his adjutant looked in to announce another visitor. But when he heard the name, Provost Minicleer, he gave an inward groan and steeled himself for the encounter.

When Minicleer strolled into the room, he looked perfectly at ease—as he should, since this pleasant office had been his until two weeks ago. He was one of the Inning officers who had resigned their commissions rather than serve on an equal footing with islanders; but unlike the others, he had not gone away. Instead, he had pulled strings to secure himself a civilian appointment in Tornabay, though what a provost did was a mystery to Joffrey. It apparently involved attending parties, gambling, and sleeping with a great many merchants’ daughters. No matter; Joffrey had to get along with the dissolute fellow, since there was nothing he could do about him.

“Joffrey, how are you?” Minicleer drawled pleasantly, looking down from his six-and-a-half-foot height at the compact Commodore. He had wavy, honey-coloured hair and a long face with prominent teeth and fleshy, sensual lips. Joffrey could not imagine what women saw in him; perhaps it was that he radiated an air of privilege.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, sir,” Joffrey said, managing to sound both gracious and respectful.

Tossing his hat on the table and sinking into the chair that Goran had recently vacated, Minicleer regarded Joffrey with the kind of fondness another man might have reserved for his dog. “You outlanders live in a state of primitive bliss, did you know that?”

“Indeed?”

“Your conflicts are at such an elementary level. Race hatred is refreshingly primal to a person accustomed to the complexities of the Court.”

“You must have received news from Fluminos,” Joffrey said.

“Yes,” Minicleer said, but then proceeded not to share it. “I have come to invite you to a celebration. There will be ladies present. It’s really unseemly for you not to couple with them, Joffrey. You know the rumours that get started about men in ships.”

“Give me a chance,” Joffrey said with a tense smile. “I’ve not been here long. What are we celebrating?”

“A great victory. My team won the tournament.”

“Congratulations, sir!” Joffrey said warmly. “Against some stiff opposition, too. And everyone said sacking the coach was the wrong move.”

Joffrey had learned to follow Innings sports once he had realized that the teams were all sponsored by various factions of the old aristocracy, who avidly followed them in place of the real power they had once wielded, and still craved.

Minicleer, protesting modestly, allowed himself to be praised and congratulated for five minutes, until he grew bored.

“Who was the man with the peculiar complexion being escorted up to the palace when I came in?” Minicleer spoke with stylish indolence, but his eyes were sharp.

For a moment Joffrey hesitated. “He was a man we feared might cause trouble in the outlands during the occupation. The Governor ordered him brought in, and I concurred.”

But Minicleer had caught the instant of hesitation, and it was enough to arouse his curiosity. “His name?”

“Goran,” Joffrey said, gambling that the Inning would not recognize it.

“He did not look like a rebel commander. What is his significance?”

Technically, Joffrey would not have had to answer; but he was not about to resist a direct question from an Inning. “He is the son of Onan Listor, who was involved in the last rebellion.”

This was something Minicleer could understand. “You think he would have made a bid for the crown of the Forsakens?”

The question was so impossibly wide of the mark that Joffrey could not think at first how to answer it. “There is no crown of the Forsakens,” he said at last. “Goran’s power lies . . . elsewhere.”

Misreading Joffrey’s hesitation, Minicleer said coldly, “I advise you not to withhold information from me.”

A chill of tension passed down Joffrey’s back at that tone, and he said, “The Heirs of Gilgen have a religious significance, sir. Ordinarily, there is no formal king or government. But in times of crisis, a leader will often arise. If the Heir of Gilgen endorses that leader’s righteousness, then he or she becomes the Ison of the Isles. Any cause that Goran backed would become a holy crusade.” It was a feeble way of describing it, but at least the Inning would understand.

“Well then,” Minicleer smiled, “get him to endorse our cause.”

“I am afraid he would not do that willingly.”

“There are ways of getting men to do things, even against their wills.” Minicleer’s smile had turned into a cruel smirk.

“I am afraid torture would be counterproductive with a Lashnura.”

“Perhaps you islanders are not as skilled at such things as we are. Or perhaps you fear supernatural vengeance. Is there a trace of superstition hiding even in you, Joffrey?”

Joffrey answered calmly, “No, sir. The man will do as we wish.”

“Good.” Minicleer strolled toward the east wall, where a mosaic map of the Inner Chain was inlaid in many-coloured woods. He looked as aimless as if he had never uttered a threat. “I never understood why the South Chain and Outer Chain were left off this wall. You will have to get them added.” Taking a sharp knife from the table, he gouged a rough line in the wood where the missing islands should be placed.

“I will hazard a prediction, my friend,” he continued. “Eyes in Fluminos will be turning north in the next few years. I think the Forsakens will be the place to achieve power and fortune in the years to come. And I intend to be here when the rewards are harvested.”

Not if Corbin Talley can help it
, Joffrey thought to himself. Aloud, he said, “I am glad to hear it.”

“How is the occupation proceeding, by the way?” the Inning asked suddenly.

“We are moving a bit cautiously at first,” Joffrey said. “I have sent out three ships to re-establish the old fort at Harbourdown, which appears to be a hotbed of piracy. Beyond that, we will have to wait for reinforcements from the Southern Squadron.”
Well-trained, experienced reinforcements
, he thought. Men who knew what discipline was.

“I see no reason to wait,” Minicleer said.

“We don’t want to stir up resistance.”

“Resistance?” the Inning asked sharply. “From Rothur?”

“Oh no, sir; from the islanders. The Adaina are a rebellious and intransigent race, you know. It does not take much to make them start talking of war. Nothing will ever civilize them, I sometimes think.”

“Don’t tell me about Adaina. I had to deal with the smelly little brownskins when I had your job. It was like commanding wild animals—barely even housebroken.”

“Yes,” Joffrey agreed ruefully. “Well, I have been ordered to promote some of them.”

Minicleer gave a venomous sneer. “Just the sort of order a Talley would give. The navy as social engineering project. Damn it, I did the right thing by getting out.” He fell silent, but the subject was still rankling. Joffrey knew that if he just waited, he would learn more. This was exactly the sort of thing he had been doing for the last four years.

“It’s this doctrine of individualism,” Minicleer went on. “It puts our most cherished institutions at risk, claiming the law applies to individuals without regard to race or class or family. The law shouldn’t be poking into the personal realms of family and household, setting child against parent, hirelings against their employers, men against their officers, giving them ‘rights’ to quarrel with one another. There ought to be a sacred barrier protecting traditional institutions against the usurpations of the law.”

“I know,” Joffrey murmured. It was the great debate in Inning.

“But the individualists want to spread their doctrine across the world,” Minicleer said. “These Talleys, you know, they aren’t an old family. They’re not even wealthy. All they’ve got is their wits.”

Joffrey reflected on the mindset of a world in which this could be construed as an insult.

Minicleer went on, “The grandfather was a tradesman, the father has seized the highest post in the land, the sons are poised to become our emperors and tyrants. If we don’t check them now, we’ll all be living in a world they created.”

“Mmm,” Joffrey said. “Especially us islanders.”

This had the desired effect. “You are a faithful friend, Joffrey,” Minicleer said. “I wish that more of your race were like you.”

It was not long before Minicleer left, and Joffrey could settle down again to his letter. The Provost’s visits always left him in a foul mood. When his secretary brought in a pile of papers he shuffled morosely through them, complaining bitterly about the hours he had to keep. Among the papers was a handwritten note saying only, “No. 2 reports all is well and full information to come soon.” Joffrey smiled grimly. Number 2 was the spy he had set on Minicleer. He hoped soon to know enough about the Inning to ruin him.

“Get a woodworker to see if that wall can be repaired,” Joffrey snapped at the waiting secretary, and immediately felt better.

*

Harg was no stranger to ships’ brigs. This one had the advantage of being empty of other occupants; it had the disadvantage of being overrun with cockroaches. Shortly after the marines dumped him into the dank and fetid hole, he discovered that if he stayed still the roaches would be on him in a ravenous swarm—crawling up his pants legs, down his collar, dropping into his hair. Once he managed to doze off, and woke up bitten all over, to find them feasting on his eyelashes.

Driven beyond endurance, he resorted to drastic measures. Focusing his disgust into an intense beacon, he sent out a prayer to any dark power listening. Praying had never worked in Inning, but here the circles ruled by the Mundua and Ashwin lay closer to the surface, and the boundaries could be crossed. For hours he concentrated, and that night he had a dream that a pinprick hole opened into one of the other circles and sucked the whole godforsaken swarm down into what he sincerely hoped was perdition. The next morning he woke unbitten. Some day, he knew, he would pay for having incurred a debt to supernatural forces; but at the moment no price seemed too high.

Over the next two days he waited. His mind was racing and jumpy, endlessly playing over old memories. When he slept, his dreams were haunted by horrific images. Over and over he started awake, thinking his clothes were stiff with caked blood. But it was only his own sweat. It was no better when he woke, because then the memories came attached to shame and second-guessing. Why had he decided to leave the navy? At least they knew how to deal with people like him, damaged men with ugly things hiding in their skulls. The Innings were the ones who had created him; let them deal with the problem. He never should have inflicted himself on Yora.

And yet, in moments when his exhausted mind fell still enough to let him hear the quiet lapping of water against the hull, he felt that if ever he were to be cured, it would be on Yora. There was a healing power here to filter everything Inning out of him. Here, he could hope to finally feel clean, inside and out. He could be alone and at peace with himself.

The marines came to get him on the third day. They led him without explanation up onto the deck, where he blinked like a cave bat in the sunlight. Some sort of ceremony seemed to be in preparation; they had stretched an awning over the poop deck, and a large delegation of Yorans was gathered, sitting cross-legged in the waist of the ship. On the break of the quarterdeck a table was set out with three chairs behind it, two of them occupied by the captain and lieutenant of the ship, the third by a lanky young Inning civilian dressed soberly in black. Harg instantly decided he did not care for the symbolism—the Tornas and Inning in chairs on the dais, the Adainas on the floor below.