Tempest (5 page)

Chapter Four

It turned out that Colm had vastly underestimated the size of Caithmor in his mind. The last night of their journey, they all slept beneath the wagons in the side streets of Bellyn, the city that came before Caithmor on the main road, and as raucous and rowdy as it was, it had nothing on the capitol itself. There was no sea to see, too many buildings and streets crowded with people and horses and occasional filth. The noise was never-ending, a blurry mix of accents all at high volume, and above it all were two tall buildings: the Ardeaglais, the white cathedral dedicated to the Four and their worship, with services running all day and all night, and the other a square stone tower that was part of the castle of the King, Iarra Westward.

The sight of Fergus's camels was generally greeted with cheers in the merchant quarter, and they settled in and started unloading quickly. Those who'd joined the caravan for the ride made their final farewells and, in some cases, payments to Fergus or Marley before going their ways. Colm stayed and helped them unload the heavy cases of stoneware, the furs and spices and rough iron pendants from the north, and Fergus whirled and wheeled and struck deals right and left, laughing one moment and raging the next as he hobbled around. His energy was a sight to behold, a welcome change from the lethargy that had taken him for a few days after his injury and revelation. Marley had taken Colm aside one afternoon and firmly explained to him exactly what he would do to Colm if he spilled Fergus's secret.

It had been a slightly frightening experience, and one that also left Colm with a strange longing in his chest. He had never had a friend like that, one who would stand by him and help him through anything, curses and weary miles and whirlwinds of mood that seemed to change at a moment's notice. Baylee was always on his side, but her presence was a familial one, her fervency in part defined by their blood relationship. She hadn't chosen him because she hadn't needed to. Colm thought that it must be nice to be chosen.

Caithmor was divided into districts, loose and sloppy though they were, and once Colm realized that between the merchant's district and the waterfront were the church grounds
and
the naval yards, he was more than grateful to wait for an escort. Marley ended up providing this service, since Fergus wasn't mobile enough to march over the cobbled streets for as long as it would take to get to the Cove, and, as he put it, “Someone has to stay and take care of the camels.”

“It was a pleasure to ride with you, Weathercliff,” Fergus told him, shaking his hand firmly. “Seek me out the next time you need passage somewhere. If I'm not going there myself, I'll know someone who is. My home is here, just beyond the Golden Lion. It's where I while the winters away.” He pointed over his shoulder at the closest inn. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get these beasts settled and the wagons squared before I can go visit my lovesick wife.”

Marley rolled his eyes. “Lovesick indeed,” he muttered as he turned and led Colm down a side street. “More like heartsick now that that great idiot is back. Geneve is my least favorite of his wives. She has little tolerance for his presence beyond the money he brings home every trip. Still, she runs his business here in Caithmor and does a good job of it.”

“Why aren't you married?” Colm asked, nimbly dodging a mule that had decided to stop in the middle of the road for no reason. Its owner cursed it creatively as they walked by.

Marley shrugged. “I never had a mind to marry. Keeping a wife happy takes too much work. Besides, Fergus has always had more than enough appetite for women for the both of us.” He sped up after that, effectively ending Colm's nascent attempt at conversation. That was fine with Colm. His head was full of his surroundings, trying to make sense of buildings that stretched into the sky, of people wearing colors he'd only seen in nature before, rich blues and purples, reds and oranges so vibrant they could have been snatched from a sunset. The air was both enticing and revolting, smelling simultaneously of sewage and effluvia, hot cooking food and the
sea
, so close and yet somehow farther than ever, separated from Colm by a never-ending flow of people and animals, merchants and priests and soldiers and sailors.

Eventually, they made their way into the waterside district, where the masts of tall ships jutted into the air like a forest of bobbing, leafless trees. Now Colm could, technically, see the water, but it was dark and filthy and coated with refuse. He felt…disappointed. This was the vaunted sea? This cesspit of humanity, transported from land to water? Marley asked an old man mending a net about the Cove, and they were pointed to a smallish inn at the far side of the long expanse of docks. Marley left him in front of it.

“Best of luck to you,” was all he said before turning around and darting back into the crowd. Colm watched him go and bit back the shameful urge to call out, like a child. He would be fine. He squared his shoulders, retrieved Desandre's letter from his pack and headed into the inn.

The Cove was a double-level structure, with a large, well-lit taproom below and bedrooms above. It likely couldn't house more than twenty guests, but far more than that were eating and drinking at the long, communal tables that covered the floor. Girls wearing aprons flitted back and forth, carrying food and drink to the tables, and a man with a tattooed face tended the bar. There was no one Colm could see who looked old enough to be Desandre's aunt.

“Welcome to the Cove,” a slim young woman said as she sidled up. Her hair was tied back in a kerchief, and her arms were bare and strong. “Here for a meal or here to stay? It's a busy night, and there's but one room left, so it'll be a bit dear, I'm afraid, unless you've a mind to share it.”

“Actually, I…” Colm fumbled for his letter. “I've a…this is for…I'm looking for Meggyn Searunner.” He handed the girl the thin folded parchment. She took it and looked at it dubiously.

“Bringing her mail?”

“Among other things,” he said, his chest gone taut and breathless.

“Well, I'll take it to her and see what she says. Meantime, settle yourself at the bar to pass the time.”

“Oh, I don't drink,” slipped out from Colm's mouth, and the girl looked at him for a moment before laughing.

“You don't! Not a priest, are ye?” She looked him up and down speculatively. “You don't have the look of a priest.”

“I'm not a priest,” Colm assured her. “I just…it doesn't tend to agree with me.”

“Some small beer,” the girl insisted, leading him over to the bar. There was an empty stool at the end, and she pressed him down into it. “Just some small beer. It's good for you. Eases your pains after a long day but doesn't cloud your mind. Vernon!” she called out to the barkeep. “A pint of small beer for…” She looked at him again. “What's your name?”

“Colm Weathercliff,” he said, giving up on fighting it as the tattooed man set a mug down in front of him with a
thunk
. He would just drink it…slowly. Very slowly.

“Weathercliff! And here I took you for a country lad.”

“I am a country lad,” Colm told her with a smile. “My father came from the coast, but this is my first time here.”

“Well, welcome,” she said. “I'm Idra. Let me go give this to Mistress Megg and we'll see what she has to say.” Idra walked around the bar into the back room, and Colm bravely took a sip of his small beer. It was…honestly, it tasted closer to water than alcohol, nothing like the spirits he'd consumed on the road. He took a more generous sip, and Vernon nodded at him approvingly.

“Thank you,” Colm said to him. Vernon knocked once on the table.

Col wondered if this was some sort of Caithmor custom he'd have to get used to. He knocked as well, and Vernon suddenly grinned, then shook his head.

“No, I shouldn't knock?” Colm asked him. Vernon didn't say anything. Had Colm somehow offended him?

“He can't speak back,” Idra said, reappearing at Colm's side. “Vernon's mute. Had his tongue cut out a dozen years ago. One knock either means ‘yes', ‘thank you' or ‘you're welcome' depending on the question. Two knocks means ‘no' or ‘watch your mouth', and after that, all the knocks are against foolish heads, so it's best to keep it to one.” She winked mischievously at Vernon, then said, “Mistress Megg wants to see you. Follow me back.”

Colm set his mug down hastily and followed Idra into the kitchen. Two more women stood at a counter, putting together plates of food when they weren't moving from oven to skillet to hob, and at the very back of the room, a wizened old woman, hunched and skinny, bent over what smelled like a rum cake as she cut very thin slices of it and laid them on a plate. She looked up as Idra and Colm approached, and her wrinkles stretched wide as she smiled a welcome.

“This is Desandre's boy, then!” Megg proclaimed, setting the sharp knife she'd been cutting with down and coming around the table. “Colm Weathercliff, look at you! I've been hearing about you in letters for years now, but I'd never imagined you would be so tall! And just as handsome as my niece told me.” She pulled Colm down into a tight embrace, and his heart shuddered with pure relief at the warmth of his welcome. “Welcome to Caithmor, welcome to the Cove, welcome!”

“Thank you,” Colm said, his voice a bit husky. Megg let him go, and he cleared his throat and tried again. “Thank you very much. I don't know exactly what my stepmother said to you in her letter, but—”

“That you've your poor dad's ashes with ye, in need of a proper burial at sea,” Megg broke in, nodding decisively. “Of course he wouldn't rest easy in some mountain village, not a proper sea-loving lad. We'll take care of that as soon as we can, my boy. Desandre says you want to try your hand at city life, and I think it a fine idea. There's always room for another good fisherman here, and she says you're the best.”

“Thank you,” Colm repeated, a little overwhelmed.

“And ye'll be stayin' here at the Cove, o' course,” she continued. “Back in the family quarters. I'll put you in with my grandson, Nichol. It'll be a bit tight for two lads in his room, but it'll do for the short term.”

“Oh.” Colm's voice finally caught up to his racing thoughts. “That's very kind of you. I'll pay you, naturally.”

“I wouldn't dream of it!” Megg exclaimed, sounding scandalized. “Pay to stay with your own family, what nonsense! Ye'll catch me fish and ye'll help around the inn, and I'll be glad for the company, Colm. I almost never see Nichol these days, he's so busy with the Sea Guard.

“Idra,” she said, changing targets, “finish up this cake for me and hand it out to the dinner guests. I'm going to show Colm the family quarters and get him settled for the night. Keep back a plate with some of the chowder and fresh bread for him, won't you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Idra said, moving in to keep cutting the cake. Megg laced her arm through Colm's and led him out the back door into a small courtyard. The top of her head barely came to the middle of his chest, but her presence seemed much larger than that.

“The stable's on the other side of that wall there next to the well, and there's servants quarters set back here for my keepers. It's just Vernon right now. Idra goes home to her mum after the evening's done. The family quarters are back here, nice and snug.” She led Colm to a heavy wooden door and pushed it open. A blue-black cat with two tails emerged from the dark and immediately wound itself through their ankles. “Sari! You cheeky little mouser, get out of the way!” To Colm, she said, “Sari was a wedding gift from my husband, and she's a right bit of luck usually, but she can make a nuisance of herself sometimes.”

“A wedding present?” Colm didn't know much about cats, but he was pretty sure they weren't meant to live for as long ago as Megg must have gotten married, even with nine lives.

“Oh, she's a spirit cat, love. It took a special spell and a lot of help from a priest to manifest her. She'll last me as long as my own heart beats, though, and be my guardian and friend. She was a very grand present for a new bride, but then my Rory always did believe in grand gestures.” Megg pointed out a smaller door on the ground level of the small, dark building. “The pot's on that side, and my room's just back there, so don't hesitate to come and get me if you need something.”

“Thank you,” Colm said, silently resolving not to bother Megg in her own room unless the inn was burning down.

“You'll be up here.” Megg led the way up a creaky staircase. It was hard to see where they were going, the light was almost completely gone from the sky outside, and the few windows in this part of the building were tiny. Colm could barely make out the pale smudge of Megg's hand against the dark wood. She pushed the door open, and suddenly Colm could see again.

The room at the top of the stairs was definitely small. Colm thought if he lay down flat that his head and feet would brush against opposite sides. There was a cot against the right wall, while the left was taken up by a sea chest and a bar set into the wall with clothes hanging from it. A small table next to the cot held a candle and scattered sheets of parchment and ink, and the whole place smelled faintly of mildew.

The ceiling was much higher than Colm had expected, though, and in its apex was a surprisingly large pane of glass that let in the light, and from the looks of it could be swung open in its frame as well. There was a lovely sketch of a tri-master cutting through the waves on the wall above the cot, and a pair of clogs lay abandoned next to the door, slightly muddy and scuffed and looking like they still carried the haste of whoever had abandoned them.

“My grandson tends to fill whatever space he's given,” Megg said with a resigned air. “But he'll not mind makin' room for you. We can make you up a nice cozy pallet along the wall so the lad doesn't barrel into you when he gets home, and see about getting you something better tomorrow.”