Ison of the Isles (5 page)

Nathaway lifted the pendant and looked at it; it seemed far too worn and ordinary for the exalted legend attached to it. “Is the information still there, do you think?” he asked.

“We must hope so,” Agave said.

“Could it teach us all the Altans knew?”

She shook her head. “If you mean could we learn to speak their language or rebuild their cities or do their computations, no. Perhaps that kind of knowledge is there, but inaccessible to us. The knowledge it conveys comes in another form. Every Lashnura on earth is driven by implanted instincts that ultimately derive from what is encoded in the Tablet.” She hesitated, as if the words came painfully. “If ever we are to be free, we must relearn enough to mend what has been broken.”

“Then why isn’t the Tablet kept locked away safely?”

“As I said, we can’t read it any more. That is what the Heirs of Gilgen are for—to interpret it for us. It does not speak to them in words or knowledge, but through instinct and unconscious acts. They are our only, imperfect access to what lies in the Tablet. Their ultimate purpose, like ours, is to lead the world back to its ancient symmetry. When that has happened, the Grey Folk will have served their purpose and our suffering will no longer be necessary to set the scales right.”

Nathaway was silent. He could understand her mythic beliefs, but he could not share them. It seemed as if these dignified people, in their desperation, had resorted to a magical faith. He felt compassion for them, and some admiration, but their eschatology was a delusion.

Misreading him, Agave said, “We are as puzzled as you. But ultimately, you are the only one who can answer the question of why you have it. We want you to stay here and let us help you learn more.”

At this, he looked at her hopefully. “Really?” he said. “We could stay here?”

“We would be very pleased at that,” Auster said.

It was a priceless opportunity to delve into the knowledge of the Lashnura. Everything about this place intrigued him. The archives alone might solve a thousand mysteries. He looked at Spaeth, scarcely able to conceal his eagerness. She gave him a wan smile.

“I would be honoured to stay,” he said. “I’ve wanted to learn about your people all along. I want to know your history, and your teachings. If you’ll have me, I would love to be a student of your ways.”

“Good,” Agave said, smiling; but it was a smile tinged with pain. Impulsively she reached out and took his hand. “Nathaway,” she said, and her yearning for his welfare was plain to see. She took Spaeth’s hand then, and placed it in his, enclosing both their hands in hers. “Both of you need to know that there is no power in the Lashnura way. Power is what the Mundua and Ashwin have. For us, there is only surrender and acquiescence. Can you learn that?”

Nathaway and Spaeth looked at each other, and neither of them wanted to answer yes. “I don’t know,” Nathaway said.

“Well, at least I haven’t lied to you,” Agave said.

At that moment, the sound of a distant explosion came from outside, rattling the glass in the window. It was soon answered with an even more thundering roar. All of them rose to go to the window and see what was going on. The noise seemed to be coming from the harbour.

“Auster dear, run down and find out what is going on,” Agave said.

He turned to the door, but even before he could reach it there was a nervous rap on it. When he opened it, a girl stood there—the first Lashnura child Nathaway had ever seen.

“Namenda Agave,” she said, “there is an officer here to see you.”

“An officer?” she said sharply.

“Yes, in a uniform.”

“Well, show him in.”

Nathaway said quickly, “It would be better if Spaeth and I left. We are not particularly anxious for the Navy to know where we are.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Agave said severely. “You are under the protection of the Pavilion now. The Pavilion is inviolate. No one would dare harm you while you are here.”

He did not share her sense of invulnerability, and might have argued, except that at that moment, the door opened and Joffrey stepped through it.

He was resplendent in a Native Navy officer’s dress uniform, booted and braided with authority, carrying his hat under his arm. Nathaway had never seen him in uniform before; he had known Joffrey only as Tiarch’s clandestine agent among the rebels. They had last met when Joffrey had arranged for Nathaway’s escape from the
Ripplewill
in Tornabay. The instant he entered the room Joffrey saw Nathaway, and froze.

“Justice Talley,” he said tensely. He glanced around, his mind clearly scrambling to account for Nathaway’s presence. “Are you here on your brother’s behalf?”

“No,” Nathaway said. Then, since they were being honest, “Are you?”

“No,” Joffrey said. “I am here on Tiarch’s behalf.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not any more,” Joffrey said.

Only then did Nathaway remember what he had overheard in the hallways of the palace, that there had been a break between Tiarch and the Inning authority. The chaos it had caused was the main reason he and Spaeth had been able to escape.

Joffrey had turned to Agave, and now pressed his hands together before him with the index fingertips touching, and bowed. “Ehir,” he said. “Pardon me, my message is from Tiarch to you, Namenda Agave. May we speak privately?”

“Whatever Tiarch has to say is of concern to everyone here,” Agave said regally.

Joffrey looked around the room as if memorizing every face. Then he held out a sealed letter to her. “This conveys Tiarch’s greetings to you and your revered institution,” he said.

Agave took it and broke the seal. “What is going on? What is this firing in the harbour?”

“Don’t be concerned about that. It was just our ship saluting the Governor’s arrival. I had intended to be here before this, in order to inform you, but I was delayed.”

There was a pause while Agave read the letter. At the end she looked up at him. “Are you Vice-Admiral Joffrey?”

He bowed. “Any questions or concerns you may have, I am ready to address. We are eager to have cordial relations with the Pavilion while we are in Lashnish.”

“So her letter says. It doesn’t say why she has come to Lashnish.”

Joffrey smiled thinly. “The answer to that question lies with this gentleman’s brother. Ten days ago, Tiarch was removed from office by the Inning authority she had served so long and loyally. What they didn’t reckon with was that the militia and much of the Northern Squadron was more loyal to her than to Inning, and they rallied round her. She has come here to make Lashnish her headquarters while she appeals her dismissal to Fluminos.”

“Why Lashnish?” Agave said tensely. “What are her intentions?”

Unspoken, but obvious to everyone in the room, was the question,
Has she come here to claim dhota-nur?

“At the moment, her intentions are to set up an administrative base for her government, the legitimate government of the Forsakens,” Joffrey said. “Lashnish is a central location, since Tornabay is now off limits to us.”

He hadn’t answered the real question, but his bland expression told them he didn’t intend to.

Nathaway was still trying to grasp the situation. “The Navy mutinied?” he said, barely believing it.

Turning to him, Joffrey said coolly, “That is doubtless the construction certain parties will put on it. We prefer to think that the Navy stayed loyal when given an illegal order.”

So the Navy that had just arrived was not the Navy that Nathaway had been fearing, but a renegade force bent on making Lashnish yet another rebel stronghold. This was all going very badly for Corbin. But by now, Nathaway didn’t care. He wanted nothing to do with any of it, and felt some alarm that trouble seemed to be doggedly following his scent. The refuge he had just managed to find was to be plunged into the midst of things. He turned to Agave. “Agave, pardon me for speaking, but you need to stay neutral in this. If you have any power, don’t throw it to one side or another; it’ll only make you a target.”

“The Pavilion never makes judgments,” she said, “until we are approached in the proper way. Then we will play our part as we always have done.” She turned to Joffrey. “You may tell that to Tiarch.”

He inclined his head respectfully. “I will do so. She will doubtless wish to visit you herself, once she is settled here.”

“She will be welcome, as are all,” Agave said.

Joffrey nodded, then looked appraisingly one last time at Nathaway, and left.

When he was gone there was silence in the room. Outside the window, down by the waterfront, they could hear distant shouts and some celebratory gunfire. It seemed very far away, up here.

Agave turned to look at Auster. Silently, he moved to her side and took her hand. “It is all happening so fast,” she said. “We have no time. Just listen to them out there, Auster. Our city is waking.”

Just off the rocky coast of Thimish, Harg Ismol was sitting in a place uncomfortably familiar to him, on the horns of a dilemma.

The aft cabin of the warship
Smoke
was still lavishly furnished with the belongings of its absent captain, who had—either through choice or chance—ended up on the Inning side in the mad scramble when Tiarch had sailed from Embo with her navy. When Harg had first inherited the cabin, the sight of the man’s perfect mahogany shaving stand, his wine chest, his silver service, and curtains had said only one thing—that this was a warship that had never fired a gun in war. Harg had occupied his share of captains’ quarters during his time in the Native Navy, but that had been in the Southern Squadron, a mean and stripped-down fighting force often thrown into the midst of battle. Nothing could have brought home to him how pampered the Northern Squadron had been in comparison like seeing how their captains lived.

But it had not taken him long to detect the symbolism behind all the captain’s luxuries, and the indispensable role they played in enhancing authority among the Torna officers. And that was where his dilemma lay. He was trying to figure out what to wear for his triumphal return to Harbourdown. If he appeared in the spectacular Vice-Admiral’s uniform hanging before him, as he had every right to do, it would alienate the Adaina companions he had left behind less than a month before. All that official lace and plumery would say only one thing to them—Tiarch’s-man. It would look as if he had crossed over, become co-opted by the enemy.

On the other hand, if he didn’t wear it, it would have an effect on the Torna officers of the three warships that comprised his little squadron. Despite his rock-solid Navy credentials, they regarded him with scepticism, still convinced he had been promoted over them solely for being Adaina. They followed him in obedience to Tiarch’s orders, but every second he was being appraised.

So he left on the civilian trousers and white shirt he was wearing, and put on the uniform jacket over them, leaving off the waistcoat and stock, but keeping the crimson sash. He hesitated over the epaulettes, but kept them in the end to remind the Tornas of his rank. He pulled on the boots, but under his trousers. The hat was far too showy, out of the question, so he left it off. In the end he tipped the shaving mirror to try and survey whether he had produced the proper look of deliberate informality.

There was a knock on the door, and Harg called, “Come in.” When he turned, Captain Jearl was standing there in full dress, every detail precisely according to regulation. When he saw Harg, he stepped in and closed the door.

“Is that how you’re going to appear?” Jearl said, his voice noncommittal.

Inwardly, Harg winced, but he said, “Trust me, Jearl, it’s necessary. You’ll understand when we get there.” He had to make it seem to Harbourdown like he was bringing in the three warships, not like they were bringing him in.

Jearl said nothing, as usual. The thin, grey-haired officer had the useful gift of reticence. He thus avoided offending, but as a result Harg never knew quite where he stood. The man had been a commander under Tiarch for twelve years, and knew more of Inning naval tactics and training than anyone in the fleet. If he resented having an Adaina upstart put over him, he had never shown a flicker of it; but then, he had not shown much of anything but reserved courtesy.

“Shall we go up on deck?” Harg said.

“If you please, Admiral.” Jearl held the door open for him.

The oddness of Harg’s position was the result of a week of hurried bargaining aboard Tiarch’s flagship, as her fleet had retreated from Tornabay. Considering that he had brought nothing to the table but the promise of Adaina alliance, he had come off surprisingly well. To give him the authority he wanted, she had appointed him one of two Vice-Admirals over her fleet, the other one being Joffrey. Harg’s promotion had supplanted dozens of Torna officers who had served her for decades, and she had given him the power to promote Adaina officers to any ships he was able to capture. Now all he had to do was persuade the Adaina that the deal was to their advantage as well as his.

While they were bargaining, Tiarch had argued that, whatever his formal rank, his command ought to be limited to the ships already captured by the Adaina at Harbourdown. But then the news had come in about Holby Dorn.

The messenger had arrived as he was sitting down to dine at Tiarch’s table along with four or five of her top captains. The conversation had turned to grave silence as the messenger related the story. Dorn and his pirate fleet had sailed north to brazenly raid the prosperous town of Torbert, southernmost port of the Inner Chain. But this time the Adaina marauders had not contented themselves with plunder. With an organized ferocity they had never shown before, they had gone house to house, rounding up male Torna inhabitants and herding them into a warehouse on the wharf. Then they had surrounded the makeshift prison with gunmen, and set it on fire.

Harg had been the only Adaina at the table as the news was delivered, and he saw the Torna faces around him hardening with hatred. It was exactly the effect Dorn had wanted to provoke: to divide the races and prevent any such alliance as the one Harg had been labouring to achieve. At that moment, there was nothing he could do but express revulsion and outrage as loudly as anyone in the room. But all the while he was aware, as they appeared not to be, that Tiarch and her navy were the very people who had driven the Adaina to the brink of such vicious retribution. At the same time, he had felt the horrible truth that it was now his problem to solve.

When he had been able to get Tiarch alone, he had made the case that she needed to let the Adaina take care of Dorn. Otherwise, he argued, it would devolve into an endless revenge cycle, Torna against Adaina. “The Innings are the enemy,” he had said. “We can’t get distracted killing each other.” She had accepted the argument, and that was when he had gotten the three ships to command, with the understanding that his first mission was to pacify his own people.

Before they could appear on deck, Harg and Jearl had to wait for the deck officer to initiate a ceremony involving whistles, bells, parades, and commands. Jearl was a stickler for propriety, and all the naval rituals were punctiliously performed on his ship. It struck Harg as a little antiquated; the Northern Squadron was still mimicking a pre-war Inning Navy, before the transformations wrought on it by Admiral Talley. But he said nothing. The formality was important to them, and not to be meddled with lightly.

Once on deck, they found that the squadron was nearing the entry to Harbourdown Bay, with the
Smoke
in the lead. “You sent the cutter ahead?” Harg asked. He had not wanted his own people to mistake the warships for an enemy and sail out to attack.

“Yes, sir,” Jearl answered.

“Shall we give them a salute?”

“I had anticipated that.”

Jearl gave the order for the gunnery crews to assemble, and Harg watched from the quarterdeck as they cast loose their cannons and took up their tompions, admiring their organization and training. The common sailors were mostly Adaina, but they obeyed their Torna gun captains with a willing efficiency that gave Harg hope for the blended Navy he wanted to create. “They’re very well trained,” he said to Jearl.

Jearl’s deep-lined face didn’t move at the compliment. “They’re on their best behaviour because you’re watching,” he said. It was the first intimation Harg had had that Jearl noticed the effect an Adaina admiral had on an Adaina crew.

As they cleared the headland, the bay and town became visible, and Harg scanned the ships at anchor. All four of the captured Navy vessels were there—
Windemon
,
Pimpernel
,
Spinneret
, and the majestic
Ison Orin
. With surprise, he recognized a fifth one as the armed sloop from Yora. Barko had been out collecting, it seemed. The thought of being able to confront a captured Captain Quintock filled Harg with evil glee.

As the
Smoke
entered the bay, she fired a rolling salvo, magnificently precise in its timing, that echoed back from the cliffs and the dark walls of the Redoubt above the town. In answer, the ships at anchor began to fire—a chaotic, haphazard barrage that made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in discipline. Jearl made no comment, for which Harg was grateful.

A six-oared skiff set out from the
Ison Orin
even before the
Smoke
cast anchor, with Barko Durban perched in the stern, grinning hideously enough to scare the fish away. Harg waved to him from the quarterdeck, even if it was beneath the dignity of an admiral. As the skiff pulled up beneath the warship’s side, catching onto the main chains with a boathook, Barko yelled up, “Hey Harg! Can’t you go anywhere without warships following you home? Keep this up, and we’ll need a bigger harbour!”

Soon he was up on deck, looking more piratical than ever, having acquired a gold earring to add to his raptor nose and predatory squint. When Harg introduced him to Captain Jearl, there was a moment when he felt the discontinuities were beyond ironing out; but Jearl took it in stride, or at least with no more than the usual reserve.

“The townsfolk have prepared a little welcome for you all,” Barko told them, “but they’re wondering if the sailors are all going to have shore leave at once.”

Harg said, “Jearl, get together with the other captains and work out a schedule for leave, one ship at a time. The town’s too small for all of them.”

Jearl merely nodded, but Barko gave Harg a sideways glance, reacting to the easy way he issued orders to a man whose power over them would have been absolute three months ago.

“I was hoping the
Ripplewill
might have made it back,” Harg said.

Barko shook his head. “We thought you might know something of her.”

“We got separated in Tornabay. So you haven’t heard anything from Torr? Calpe? Gill?”

“Nothing.”

“I see the
Vagabond
’s not here either,” Harg said, having scanned the harbour for Holby Dorn’s boat.

“I gave Dorn to understand that he wasn’t very welcome here any more,” Barko said.

“You’ve heard what he’s been up to?”

“Yes.” Barko, to his credit, looked uncomfortable. “I need to talk to you about that, Harg.”

So there was more to the story. Harg wanted to hear it, but the subject was too grim for the moment. “When we get ashore. Jearl, pass the word to the other captains. We’ll meet on the town dock as soon as they can get there.” He turned to leave in Barko’s skiff, but was delayed by a short leave-taking ceremony, approvingly observed by the Adaina seamen on deck.

“Vice-Admiral, eh?” Barko said to him when they were in the skiff alone.

Not sure of his footing, Harg said, “I needed some public acknowledgment from Tiarch that she was with us.”

“So who’s the admiral?”

Trust Barko to get right to the point. He knew perfectly well that the only admiral over Tiarch’s navy was Tiarch herself. Which meant, technically, that Harg was following her orders. “We need them, Barko,” Harg said. “The chance was too good to pass up. It was like a navy was being handed to me, free.”

“Well, the Tornas in town are happy about it,” Barko said.

“What about the Adainas?”

“Depends on who you ask. You need to step carefully, Harg.”

For a moment, Harg felt miles out of his depth in these treacherous political waters. Blowing things up he was an expert at. Putting things together was infinitely harder.

The feeling of inadequacy faded when he stepped onto the town dock and saw the crowd assembled in the market square. A huge cheer went up as he waved at them. The Adaina captains of the other captured ships were already assembled, and he touched hands all around and got the story of how they had captured the sloop from Yora—the handiwork of the fierce young captain of the
Windemon
, a woman named Katri.

A decorated open carriage rolled into the square and pulled up at the end of the dock, but Harg wouldn’t budge toward it until the three Torna captains joined them. This event was accompanied by an impressive amount of pomp and regalia. Harg introduced the captains all around—the Tornas dignified and official in their uniforms, the Adainas with an air of rebel outlawry about them. Together they walked down the dock to the waiting carriage, a pasted-together coalition of opposites with the seams already showing.

But that seemed not to matter to the crowd. As the officers climbed into the carriage and set out on a slow circuit around the square, all the bells in town began to ring. Big, deep bells tolled; bright brass bells jangled; boat bells, harbour bells, and hand bells clanged. The music cascaded down from the roofs and windows, washing over them all. Then the big guns far up in the fort joined in, booming in joy, a thundering bass to the treble of the bells. The cheers sounded like breakers on the shore.

Harg felt utterly engulfed in love. It was like sunlight soaking into his limbs, warming him, making him light and buoyant. He wanted to stretch his arms out wide enough to embrace all of Harbourdown, to give them back what they were giving him.

The carriage circled the market square once, then set out down some of the nearby streets, and returned at last to the square, pulling up at Rosenry’s, the tavern that had become the improvised assembly-house of the rebellion. On the steps, Majlis Callow and the other prominent merchants of the town were waiting to welcome them all. After some short speeches, they all went in to the back room, where a feast was waiting. Tankards and lobster broke the ice, and soon Tiarch’s officers, insurgent leaders, and merchants were all laughing and drinking together.

As Harg looked around the room in a golden haze of beer and conviviality, the problems seemed surmountable. The Tornas officers’ protectiveness of their rules and status, the Adainas’ lack of training, the differences in custom, all of it seemed resolvable. He found Barko and Jearl standing on either side of him, and said, “You see, this is what we need. A navy that’s a genuine combination. We’ve got to show the Innings we can collaborate, all of us together.”