The Axe and the Throne (32 page)

“I do not remember asking your permission.” The king glowered at his son with wide eyes. “Should you find your separation with your traitorous wife too much to bear, I can arrange for you to stay with her. Indefinitely.”

“You will regret this,” said Alther, pointing at his father. He turned and began to storm down the lengthy entryway, provoking the guards to bar the path.

“Let him go,” said the king.

Once the clanging of the doors closing behind Alther died, all that could be heard was the scratching of quill on parchment. The old bookkeep almost wore a grin as he finished the meeting's transcription, and when Derudin fixed his gaze on Cassen, he could see Larimar was not alone in that veiled expression.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cassen stopped and looked at his reflection in the calm waters below his feet. He barely recognized what he saw.

Staring back at him was a man—a healthy-looking man not unlike those who littered the docks, scurrying about carrying crates that would have slowed most men to a crawl. He had donned his disguise in a carriage, without the aid of any silvered glass large enough to see himself in full. Trying to distinguish what it was in his appearance that gave him such a feeling of youth and power, he turned his attention to the others dressed in kind. Timeworn muslin vests covered white shirts with long loose sleeves, their trousers were a thick weave of tan cotton, and all had a bandana of some sort protecting heads of thinning hair from the Dawnstar's rays. Perhaps it was his own bandana which covered his short-cropped hair. It was an ugly sight, he had to admit, cut that way with the intention of one day wearing a wig, an idea he'd determined to have been excessive. Then he saw it.
I have a waist
, he noticed with a smirk, checking the surface of the water once more to confirm.

“You simple? I said get in the fecking boat,” commanded a gravel-voiced man. Cassen was quick to comply.

Several hours into their southerly voyage, all that could be seen were the specks of other ships to the north. Cassen found himself wishing they had let him row. He grew restless in his seat at the bow.

Cassen's common deckhand attire might have been comfortable if not for the cold. Even as far south as they were, the combination of sea spray, harsh winds, and the onset of winter produced a rather frigid condition. His billowy sleeves, designed to flap in the wind to cool the wearer, were doing their job too well, and the moisture of his damp wooden seat was beginning to creep through to his skin.

“How much longer?” Cassen asked.

None of the men who rowed, assisting the small-sailed skiff in propulsion, turned to face him, and the man at the rudder, wiry, shirtless, and tanned, merely scowled.
A testament to my disguise and a reminder of the importance of power and influence.

To these men, Cassen was just some lowborn their captain wished to speak to—at best an emissary of someone of wealth. Had they known he was arguably the second most powerful man in the kingdom, he would have expected a more satisfactory response. And perhaps to be offered a drink. He was parched.

The journey dragged on, forcing Cassen to focus on the forward horizon and continuously chew his candied ginger to curtail his creeping nausea. The stare from the man at the stern burned at Cassen's back. His occasional glances rearward had been greeted by increasingly menacing glares.

“You heave into the boat,” the man finally said. Cassen turned around to face him, hoping for an explanation. “Or you get thrown over with it when they come.” His thick Spicelander accent somehow added to the sincerity of the threat.

When who comes?
Cassen knew better than to ask. Sailors were a superstitious lot, and whatever it was this man feared may be attracted by vomit was not like to be something he wished to name aloud. The prospect troubled Cassen—not the idea of sea monsters, but how close he had unknowingly come to being thrown overboard on previous voyages.

After having been resigned to the idea that he'd be making a fool of himself retching into the boat, Cassen saw the merciful outline of a ship in the distance. Five tall, heavily-slanted sails gave it the appearance of the gills of a shark, though its captain would say the boat was far more ill-tempered. Sacarat, or the Satyr, as he was known by some due to his mixed breeding and evil reputation, claimed the
Maiden's Thief
was the fastest in the realm. Though he believed it to be a boast, Cassen did not actually know of any faster.

Having an object in the distance to focus upon helped, but probably not so much as simply knowing the trip was nearing its end. His nausea subsided to the point of him no longer noticing its presence by the time he was climbing the rope netting on the side of the great ship.
No disguise would be needed should anyone who knew me in Adeltia see me climbing as such. Even dressed in my normal clothes, they would insist it was merely someone making a spectacle.

He exerted himself as he pushed to climb faster, surprised with the strength he'd retained. These trips to meet with Sacarat, he had to admit, were as invigorating as they were critically strategic.

“Cass, my rival, how good it is to see you.” The man's accent was most peculiar, though Cassen had come to find it comforting. He did not speak like the men of his crew, for they were all Spicerats—a name given by Adeltian merchants. On the sea there was no worse group of men to have board your ship.

“And you, Sacarat.”

Cassen was sure never to address him as friend. “A man who calls you a friend that you have not known from childhood is most assuredly your enemy,” the Satyr was known to say. Cassen's philosophy was similar but somewhat simpler.
All men are assuredly my enemies
, he reminded himself, yet Cassen found himself trusting this sea scoundrel more than most.

“How do you find the life of piracy treating you as of late?” Cassen asked.

Sacarat crinkled his brow as if offended. He had the look of a man whose frown threatened true danger, a look Cassen imagined all of his people shared. Whereas the Spicerats were typically Spicelanders with mixed breeding from many foreign lands, the Satyr was half Spicerat and half Sacaran, making him mostly Sacaran in truth. Born a bastard prince to Queen Linota of Sacara, his native tongue was that of his native land, as were his loyalties.

“As good as any,” replied Sacarat, lifting his frown to move forward and embrace Cassen, along with a few solid strikes on the back.

Cassen took pleasure in seeing the confused looks upon the faces of the men who had brought him, clearly not expecting him to receive such a warm welcome. But they went on with their business with a few shrugs. For a band of sea brigands, the Satyr's crew was impressively disciplined. He may have only been a prince, but on the
Maiden's Thief
, Sacarat was king and his authority unquestioned—not by Cassen and certainly not by any of his crew.

“If anything, it has become too easy,” said Sacarat.

“Is that so?”

Though he was a duchess in Adeltia, here Cassen was every bit the duke. All traces of flamboyance and femininity were gone, at least by his own perception. Sacarans were not tolerant of such behavior, and Cassen had known it would be foolish, if not dangerous, to have maintained his normal demeanor upon first meeting the Satyr years prior. That did not mean Sacarat was ignorant to what Cassen was believed to be in Adeltia; he was just convinced it was a façade. Furthermore, he enjoyed teasing Cassen about it—something that a pureblooded Sacaran would never do, but Sacarat was neither pureblooded nor a typical Sacaran. Cassen thought the man may even respect him more because he believed Cassen to have so thoroughly deceived all those in Adeltia.

“I should like to know how stealing both lives and fortunes can be so effortless,” Cassen went on. “Does a man facing death not fight with all his strength?”

Sacarat himself was no stranger to the benefits provided by a thick guise of cloth. His own costume was almost farcical, consisting of a wide headband, a gaudy ornamental necklace with matching brass bracers, a woven oxhide sash that left his chest mostly bare, and a heavy sea shawl about his shoulders. It had the desired effect, however. He looked a Spicerat through and through, with the exception of his pronounced nose, a gift from his Sacaran breeding no doubt.

“The crew of the last ship we boarded,” said Sacarat as he guided Cassen below decks, “threw us lines. Those of them who were still alive, that is.”

They passed through a room with two long tables that served as the ship's galley. Light peeked through small windows as they made their way to the stern.

“Those still alive?” Cassen asked.

It was always shocking to Cassen when he first set foot into the Satyr's quarters. Any doubts that this man was a prince were snuffed upon seeing the ridiculous amount of wealth that had been crammed into the cabin of moderate size. Chests overflowing with gold and silver were stacked atop each other, secured with ropes to the walls as not to tip. A collection of goblets and steins were tightly packed within glass cupboards, brilliant in their gold, silver, and pearl, engraved with the most intricate patterns. And in the corner was a simple cotton hammock. Cassen could not help but feel a certain camaraderie with the man.

The Satyr chuckled. “Their men turned on one another as soon as they saw our sails.”

Cassen just looked at him, confused.

“They know by now that we won't leave enough water for them all to survive. Those smart enough have begun to kill each other before they lose their strength.”

The mention of water reminded Cassen of his own desperate need. “Why is it you leave them any water at all?”

The Satyr made a sound of disgust. “All this,” he waved toward his stacks of gold-laden chests. “It means little. What is gold compared with glory? And who would tell the tales if none lived to return to land?”

“Ah, yes. And tall tales they tell. Some have begun to believe demon ships sail from the Devil's Mouth. It seems there is no other explanation for how the short trip to Westport has become so much more perilous than to my eastern ports.” Cassen beamed his thanks as they sat at a small table covered in maps.

“Tell me, how did you take the message which was delivered?” asked Sacarat. “Near as pleased as I, I'll wager, given the smile you wore upon boarding. Or were you merely elated to be once again in my presence?”

“Ah, yes. ‘The winds blow north.' Rather cryptic,” said Cassen. “I was indeed pleased to hear it, and it is well timed with my own schemes, all of which, of course, serve both our benefits.”

“I am sure, I am sure. I believe you in that, but I doubt you can truly grasp what a moment it will be for my people, a moment for which they have waited over one thousand years. It is true—though I find it hard to accept—your people do not even recollect those events past? Ah, but it will make it all the sweeter.”

The Satyr spoke of the previous glory of the Sacaran Empire afforded by their total supremacy at sea. It was all but forgotten by the Adeltians and took Cassen a great deal of searching through ancient annals, but he'd finally found some record of the event. It had taken place before the years were recorded as they now were, further lending credence to the Satyr's claim of the time in which it occurred. A great storm was said to have come, so massive that it ripped trees by the roots, heaved rocks from the ground, and pulled fish from the sea. It would stand to reason that such a storm would wipe out any and all ships in its wake, which was said to be all-encompassing. The Sacaran influence would have been all but extinguished.

“That they do not. They have seen what I assume must be your peoples' ships to the south, but they are yet to make the connection, nor to perceive a threat. They are also convinced that your square sails cannot tack into the wind. Which raises the question, how is it that you can predict the direction of the winds, if it is you can?”

“Predict the wind?” The Satyr snorted. “If only I had such powers. I assure you, however, that the sails of our warships, though they do not share the grace of those of the
Maiden's Thief
, will take our armies to the shores of Adeltia no matter the wind's preference. When properly rigged they can cross the wind. Just not so well as I, of course.”

Knowing that the Satyr had no claim of controlling or predicting the elements put Cassen's mind at ease. “I suppose you would like to know how it is I intend to help with your conquest so that my rewards, should you see fit to give them, are justified?”

“You have the tongue of a snake, Cass. I like that in you, for a snake's tongue points in two directions, and one knows the truth must lie somewhere in between. But I do not need to know your every plan, just that you have chosen our side, the side of victory. You have given me much in the way of knowledge, but I assure you this: nothing could stop that which is now in motion. An army of a scale your people have never seen will descend on your shores to reclaim our honor. And you will sit atop the throne of your choosing when it is done, as I have no desire to remain a slave to a chair. But we will both command wealth and respect, that much is known, in witness of the now-hiding Gods.”