Servant of a Dark God (50 page)

Argoth looked into his friend’s face, but found no deception. It was a risk to trust him. He hadn’t been proven properly. But then this wasn’t a proper situation either. Besides, Shim had revealed his character through years of friendship.

Argoth sucked his teeth to get the last morsels out; a cart with a load of fish passed them going up the hill. Argoth turned to see the dreadman following them and passed the weave back.

“You don’t need it?”

“No,” said Argoth. “But you will. What else did Grandfather pass down?”

“Almost nothing.”

“Then you and I are going to have a long talk when I get back.”

“You’re making me nervous,” said Shim. “The streets are choking with the Crab’s men. I don’t think we have that kind of time.”

“Such little faith,” said Argoth. “You worry about the tactics. I’ll worry about the strategy.”

Shim rolled his eyes. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Oh?”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but now’s not a time to protect your friends by keeping them in the dark.”

“Yes, it is. Especially if I don’t return.”

“Well, then let’s hope our blueberry Divine is as ineffectual as he seems.”

“Ineffectual?”

“You haven’t heard?”

Argoth shrugged.

Shim pointed at the Skir Master’s chaser. “Look.”

The chaser stood out from the other merchant ships and galleys like a doe amid a herd of goats. The
Ardent
was a special ship; she stretched twice as long as she was wide, fine-lined, and able to set an amazing amount of sail. Half a dozen sailors scrambled up the rigging of the two masts. And then Argoth saw it. “Why isn’t she rigged with square sails?” A Skir Master’s ship didn’t need fore and aft rigging to sail close to the wind. You didn’t tack in a skir ship. You ran on an acre of square canvas, rigged with wide studding sails on booms to both sides of each of the main sails. You ran like a dolphin in the wake of the creature’s wind.

“The old skir died on the voyage over.”

“Died?”

“That’s what’s been noising about. Took them two weeks longer than planned to get here.”

“Died,” said Argoth. That was good news indeed.

“And he couldn’t catch another,” said Shim. “Mokad has grown weak.”

They reached the bottom of the street and proceeded along the docks. Two porters rolled a fat barrel onto a loading pallet next to a merchant ship. Another tried to steady a nervous mule that powered the boom to move that pallet. In front of the next ship, an officer inspected a handcart loaded with wicker cages full of russet chickens. A whistle sounded, and a group of boys, young sailors who had been standing in a cluster on the wharf, strode to the gangplank. One of them lingered, letting a girl with dark hair tie a bright blue scarf about his neck. A gull standing on a post next to them squawked, then launched itself just over the tops of the crowds and wheeled past the
Ardent
.

Argoth pushed through the crowd and stood before the gangplank, the water slapping at the wood posts and the ship’s hull. The hull gleamed. It was said that the Skir Master had his slaves scrape and wax the hull between every voyage to keep her fast.

She was painted in a dull gray. There were no striped sails. A stealthy ship. The only bright colors were the blue, yellow, and red eyes painted on the prow and each of the oar paddles.

Such eyes, it was believed by sailors, helped a ship avoid shoals and sandbars. But they were also a sign of the Glory of Mokad. I can see you, those eyes said, I am with you, via my servants, even upon the waters and in far lands. To some this gave comfort. To others it was a warning.

A large crowd clustered about Argoth. Bosser, the Prime, and others stood among them.

Bosser smoothed his long mustache, watching the last of the fire lances swing aboard. “This is madness.”

“Indeed,” said Argoth. “I wish the Skir Master had come to stay. But I do what I am bid.”

“They are cutting us off,” said the Prime.

“But you have the new weaves.”

“Gah,” said Bosser. “It’s like giving a starving man one withered fig.”

They talked of business then: what manner of defense they could prepare along the rivers, and how long it would take to cast more fire lances. Then the captain had the mate call all aboard, and he bid the warlords farewell.

Argoth’s quarters lay in the stern under the aftercastle, but he did not inspect them. Instead he turned to those on the docks. A number of the men he commanded had joined the crowd. One fellow suggested that now perhaps was the time to strike a deal for one of Argoth’s daughters. Argoth shouted out that Serah would drive a much harder bargain than he. The crowd laughed, but Argoth worried, wondering if she’d left yet.

Then it all came to an end. The first mate called for the gangplank to be removed and the moorings untied. Then the oarsmen on the starboard side shoved the ship away from the dock. A twelve-man rowboat pulled them away from the dock. Then the captain called for the oars. The deck held benches for thirty oars, fifteen to a side, each with two men on them. A drummer, seated in the stern, played a short rhythm and the oarsmen in unison dipped their oars. The drummer played a different rhythm and the oarsmen set themselves. Another tap to the light drum, and the men pulled. The taps continued and the oarsmen pulled in time to them, the eyes dipping in and out of the water.

When they cleared the docks and turned the ship, the captain ordered the oars back and a number of the sails unfurled. The men climbed the rigging and dropped the canvas. It snapped in the wind, filled, then the
Ardent
leaned and leapt forward under his feet.

Argoth turned and looked back. The fortress standing upon the hill with the morning sun gleaming off its towers and walls, the temple on the second hill, the rows of buildings and the fine streets, the white cliffs behind—it was all beautiful. A glistening, rich land. He loved it like no other he’d ever lived in. And somewhere in those green hills and vales were his wife and children. All the Lions had left with him. Which meant Serah could slip away unseen.

A midshipman appeared at Argoth’s side and relayed that the Divine requested his presence up on the deck of the aftercastle.

Argoth nodded, took one last glance, then joined the Divine and captain on the upper deck.

The Skir Master wore dark blue trousers, a dark shirt, and a gray, close-fitting coat. About his wrist he wore a leather band that glinted with metal. Argoth assumed those metal bits were weaves. Some were probably escrum. The Skir Master did not appear feeble. Perhaps he lost his skir simply because those creatures too were susceptible to age and death.

The Skir Master looked directly at Argoth. “Don’t waste your time. Your future lies in front of you, not behind.”

“Master?” said Argoth.

“I’m not all blind, nor deaf. I know what my visit has meant to the lords of this land.”

Argoth said nothing.

“But in the end there must be priorities.”

“Yes, Great One,” said Argoth. Then he stood there in an uncomfortable silence watching the sailors move about their tasks below. The ship sailed out of the harbor and into the wide sea. After a time, Argoth spoke. “Great One, I need to check on the seafire below. It needs to breathe. Otherwise, the vapor can build up and crack the barrels.”

That was a lie, but none on this ship would know it. Those who had worked with the seafire might wonder, but before they could question him, they’d be dead. He sighed at that thought. They were good men. Good men caught in events beyond their control. Good men who did not deserve to die.

“Be quick,” said the Skir Master. “For I shall go fishing very soon. And I will want you here to observe.”

Fishing for skir. Argoth had never seen it done before. “Yes, Great One,” said Argoth. Then he left the Skir Master. On his way he surveyed the ship’s boats. There were three of them. The two larger ones had been turned over and stacked, the medium-sized one inside the larger, forward of the oars. Ropes bound them tightly to the deck. But the third, an eighteen-footer, hung by davits off the stern. If there was to be any escape, it would be in that boat.

Argoth descended the stair to the main deck and entered the doorway to the aft cabins. A narrow stair twisted down. Argoth descended this to the lower deck. He asked the cook where he might find a hatchet. Then, hatchet in hand, he walked past the goats, the water room, and barrels of hard bread.

This ruse was necessary. If he opened one of the foul-smelling things in the middle of the night, it would wake the whole crew, and he could not afford that. His plan required he avoid fighting as much as possible. So if he made regular visits through the day and into the night, closing one barrel and opening another, the crew would pay neither him nor the odor any mind.

He found the seafire stowed a little aft of center, a perfect spot for setting a fire. The twelve large barrels stood two high next to the fire lances. Thick ropes tied them all fast to the struts of the deck. Argoth glanced toward the bow of the ship. Ahead, under the forecastle was where the crew slept. They would probably shut the door to their quarters against this stink. And that would only make it easier for him should it come to this.

Argoth pried the bungs out of three of the barrels, releasing the strong, unhealthy vapors into the hold. He held his breath and wedged both the bungs and hatchet tightly between two crates. Then, with the first part of his plan executed, he returned to the Skir Master and fresh air.

They sailed until the New Lands disappeared behind the horizon, then the ship’s captain called for the crew to strike the sails.

The aftercastle swept back out over the water farther than any ship Argoth had ever seen. But it did so not to accommodate another mast. No, the Skir Master used that deck to work his magic.

Argoth climbed the stairs to that deck. Above him a team of four sailors stood in a row on a balance rope belaying the last of the sails to its yard. Others tied down the coils of rope: something he’d never seen done before. Soon the ship no longer leapt to the wind, but sat in the water, rolling gently with the waves.

In the middle of the aftercastle stood a railing like something you might put around a pulpit. A pace or so aft rose what looked like a huge bowl turned on its side; the mouth of the bowl faced the sea off the stern of the ship. The bowl stood taller than a man and was woven of stiff, bronze wire, but the weave wasn’t solid. It looked more like a large, dark lattice with gaps in the weave that would allow a man to slip an arm through. It glinted in the sunlight, and as Argoth approached he saw silver lines threading through the whole of it.

“Come,” said the Skir Master, standing next to the bowl. He pointed to a spot along the railing. “There is the best spot for viewing the catch.”

Argoth took a spot at the railing next to the captain. The massive Leaf stood close to the bowl to assist the Skir Master. Two of the crew stood by the other stair, holding a young boy between them.

“Captain,” said the Skir Master. “The bait.”

“Affix him,” the captain said to the two crewmen. They brought the boy to the bowl. He looked at Argoth and smiled, his eyes full of pleasure and lassitude.

He was drugged.

He stood in the trap, and when they bound him with hemp cords, he laughed in a high, little boy voice. Argoth thought of Nettle lying on the table in his workroom, his eyes brimming with tears. The sight of that boy pained him.

The Skir Master stood before the boy, poking and prodding him, inspecting him like livestock. Then he checked the bonds.

Argoth spoke aside to the captain. “I thought the practice was to use a goat or ram.”

The Skir Master answered. “Some fish fancy flies, others worms, others a bit of stinking gore. It all depends on what you’re trying to catch and what the beasts are biting.”

“Yes, Great One,” said Argoth.

The ship rolled with a large wave, and Argoth held to the rail.

An officer called to the captain from the main deck. “Everything secured, Zu.”

“Great One,” the captain said and bowed slightly to the Skir Master.

The Skir Master faced Argoth, his coat flapping in the breeze. He withdrew a large spike from his coat pocket and held it up. “Here is the spark. When I set it and quicken the weave, the bait’s essence will rise into the sky like a smoke. It will call to them like bloody chum calls to sharks.” Then he turned and inserted the spike into a slot. When it was set, he inserted a pin crossways through the end of the spike to secure it.

The boy in the bowl sagged.

In that moment Argoth told himself he was not like the Divines. There was a difference. But then the boy looked up through his drugged eyes and Argoth saw Nettle, drugged and lying on the table.

What had he done to his son?

“Can you hear it?” asked the Skir Master.

“Great One?”

“The singing.”

Argoth did not know what he meant.

He patted the great bowl. “The weave. It’s calling, singing. They all do, great and small. That is the Kain’s art—to weave the songs of power. You can hear this one if you listen carefully.”

Argoth knew that weaves thrummed when you quickened them. But singing? He closed his eyes and focused. He heard the waves slapping the hull, the creak of the rigging. Then he heard something else. Something very soft that he immediately lost. He focused, then caught it again—a chorus of winds, rising and falling in a pattern, with a deep rumble running through them. Then one voice rose above the rest. He opened his eyes in wonder.

“All living things sing,” said the Skir Master. Then he smiled, and the look in that smile was so malevolent it took Argoth aback. But as soon as it came the look was gone.

“I see,” said Argoth.

“No, you don’t.” The Skir Master gestured out over the sea. “Empty. Nothing but a few thin clouds, right?”

Argoth did not have an answer.

“It’s full,” said the Skir Master. “Teeming with life. The air, waters, heavens, and earth—teeming. The Creators let nothing go to waste. Humans see, smell, perceive almost nothing.”