The Skull Throne (28 page)

“Where is the dockmaster?” he demanded.

The guard spat at him, but his angle was wrong, and the spittle landed on his own naked belly. “Suck my cock you desert rat!”

Jayan nodded to Hasik, who gleefully kicked the man between the legs until his sandals were bloody and there was nothing left to suck.

“Where is the Dockmaster?” Jayan asked again, when his screams had turned to whimpers.

“Go to the Core!” the man squeaked.

Jayan sighed, putting his spear through the man’s chest. He turned to the next in line, and Hasik kicked this one onto his back as well. The man was weeping openly as Jayan stood over him. “Where is the dockmaster?”

The man groaned through his teeth, tears streaking his face. The boardwalk grew wet around him. Jayan leapt back in horrified disgust. “Pathetic dog!” he growled, drawing back his spear to thrust.

“ENOUGH!”

All eyes turned to the speaker. The woman in fine men’s clothing had broken away from the others to come forward a step. “I am Dockmaster Isadore.”

“Mistress, no!” one of the bound men cried. He tried to get to his feet, but a heavy kick put him back down.

Isadore?
Abban thought.

Jayan laughed. “You?! A
woman
?” He strode over and grabbed the woman by the throat. “Tell me where the dockmaster is, or I will crush the life from you.”

The woman seemed unfazed, meeting his savage stare. “I told you, I am the dockmaster, you ripping savage.”

Jayan snarled and began to squeeze. The woman kept her defiant stare a few moments longer, but then her face began to redden, and she pulled helplessly at Jayan’s arm.

“Sharum Ka!” Abban called.

All eyes turned to him, Jayan never losing his grip on the woman, supporting her by her throat as the strength left her legs. Khevat and Hasik especially watched him, ready to strike at the first sign of Jayan’s disfavor.

Abban was not beyond kneeling when it was called for, and quickly lowered himself, hands and eyes on the wooden boardwalk. “The ways of the greenlanders are strange, Most Honored Sharum Ka. I heard the dockmaster’s name as Isa. This woman, Isadore, may be telling the truth.”

He left unsaid the words he had hammered into the boy privately. The dockmaster was worth far more alive than dead.

Jayan gave the woman an appraising look, then released her. She fell purple-faced to the boardwalk, coughing and gasping for air. He pointed his spear at her.

“Are you Dockmaster Isa?” he demanded. “Know that if I find you have lied to me, I will put every man, woman, and child in this
chin
village to the spear.”

“Isa was my father,” the woman said, “dead six winters today. I am Isadore, and took his seat after the funeral barge was burned.”

Jayan stared at her, considering, but Abban, who had been watching the other prisoners as well, was already convinced.

“Sharum Ka,” he said. “You have taken Docktown for the Skull Throne. Is it not time to raise the flag?”

Jayan looked at him. This was a plan they had discussed in detail. “Yes,” he said at last.

Horns were blown, and the
Sharum
drove the captured
chin
villagers toward the docks at spearpoint to watch as Dockmaster Isadore was marched to the flagpole and made to lower the Laktonian flag—a great three-masted sailing vessel on a field of blue—and raise the Krasian standard, spears crossed before the setting sun.

It was a purely symbolic gesture, but an important one. Jayan could now spare the remainder of her entourage, and accede her status as a princess of the
chin
without appearing weak.

“A woman,” Jayan said again. “This changes everything.”

“Everything, and nothing, Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “Man or woman, the dockmaster has information and connections, and her treatment will influence those in power in the city on the lake. Let the powerful think they will keep their titles and holdings, and they will deliver their own people to us on a platter.”

“What is the point of taking the city, if I let the
chin
keep it?” Jayan asked.

“Taxes,” Khevat said.

Abban bowed in agreement. “Let the
chin
keep their boats and bend their backs to the fishing nets. But when they come to your dock, three of every ten fish will belong to you.”

Jayan shook his head. “This dockmistress can keep her title, but the fish will be mine. I will take her as
Jiwah Sen.
”

“Sharum Ka, these are savages!” Khevat cried. “Surely you cannot truly mean to taint your divine blood with the camel’s piss that runs in the veins of
chin.
”

Jayan shrugged. “I have a Kaji son and
Jiwah Ka
to carry on my blood. My father knew how to tame the
chin,
as he did with the tribes of Krasia. Become one with them. His mistake was in letting Mistress Leesha keep her title before she accepted, giving her liberty to refuse. I will not be so foolish.”

Abban coughed nervously. “Sharum Ka, I must agree with the great Dama Khevat, whose wisdom is known throughout all Krasia. Your father acknowledged Mistress Leesha’s title and gave her liberty, for a child’s claim to her power depended upon that legitimacy. If she only has the title you give her, then she has no title for you to claim.”

Jayan rolled his eyes. “Talk and worry, worry and talk. It’s all you old men do. Sharak Ka will be won with action.”

Abban turned his own eye roll away as Khevat took a turn.

“She is too old, in any event.” Khevat spoke as if the very words were foul upon his tongue. “Twice your age, or I’m a Majah.”

Jayan shrugged. “I have seen women older than her with child.” His eyes flicked to Asavi. “It can be done. Yes, Dama’ting?”

Abban’s eyes flicked to Asavi, waiting for the
dama’ting
put an end to this foolishness.

Instead, Asavi nodded. “Of course. The Sharum Ka is wise. There is no greater power than the blood. A child of your blood put upon the dockmistress will make the town yours.”

Abban hid his gape. It was terrible advice, and would add months at least to their siege of Lakton. What was the
dama’ting
playing at? Was she purposely undermining Jayan? Abban would not fault her for it. Everam, he would willingly help, but not without knowing the plan. He was used to being a player and not a pawn.

“At least let me negotiate the terms,” Abban said. “A short delay, for appearances’ sake. A month at most, and I can deliver …”

“There is nothing to negotiate and no need for delay,” Jayan said. “She and all her holdings will be my property. The contract will be signed tonight, or neither she nor her court will see the dawn.”

“This will inflame the
chin,
” Abban said.

Jayan laughed aloud. “What of it? These are
chin,
Abban. They do not fight.”

“I do.” Dockmaster Isadore wept as she said the words.

Abban’s spies had worked frantically, learning everything he could about the woman before the ceremony. Her husband had been among the men who fell protecting her. Abban had told this to Jayan in hope the fool boy would at least leave give her the seven days to grieve as prescribed in the Evejah.

But the Sharum Ka would hear no reason. He eyed the woman like a nightwolf eyeing the oldest sheep in the herd. He had warmed to the idea of taking her this very night, and would not be swayed. When he thought no one was watching him, he squeezed himself through his robes.

Ah, to be nineteen and stiff at the very
idea
of a woman,
Abban lamented.
I don’t even remember the feeling.

Isadore had children, as well. Two sons, both ship captains already bound for Lakton when Jayan’s forces struck. They would keep the line hard against the Krasians, knowing Jayan must kill them to assure title for his son—should he manage to get one on the aging woman with the aid of Asavi’s spells.

The two moved to the pitiful excuse for a contract. Krasian marriage contracts typically filled a long scroll. Those signed by Abban’s daughters were often several scrolls long, each page signed and witnessed.

Jayan and Isadore’s contract was barely a paragraph. As he promised, Jayan had negotiated nothing, taking all and offering Isadore only her title—and the lives of her people.

Isadore bent to dip the quill, and Jayan tilted his head to admire the curve of her back. He squeezed his robes again, and everyone, including Khevat himself, dropped their eyes, pretending to ignore it.

And in that moment, Isadore struck. Ink splashed across the parchment like
alagai
ichor as she spun and leapt at Jayan, burying the sharp quill in his eye.

“Stop moving, if you ever hope to see again,” Asavi snapped. It was a tone few would ever dare take with the young Sharum Ka, but his mother had instilled a deep fear of the
dama’ting
in Jayan, and Asavi was his aunt in all but blood.

Jayan nodded, gritting his teeth as Asavi used a delicate pair of silver tweezers to pull the last slivers of feather from his eye.

The Sharum Ka was soaked in blood, little of it his own. When Jayan at last turned from the altar, panting and growling like an animal, the feather that jutted from his eye bled remarkably little.

The same could not be said for Dockmaster Isadore. Abban never ceased to marvel at how much blood a human body could contain. It would be days before Khevat’s
nie’dama
servants could clean it sufficiently for Khevat to formally reconsecrate the temple as Everam’s and begin indoctrination of the
chin.

“I will take a thousand
chin
eyes, if I lose this one,” Jayan swore. He hissed as Asavi dug deep. “Even if not. There will not be a two-eyed fish man left before I am through.”

He glared at Abban, Qeran, and Khevat with his one good eye, daring them to argue. Daring them to even
hint
that this
might
be his own fault for not listening to their advice. He was like a dog looking for someone to bite, and everyone in the room knew it. They all kept their eyes down and mouths shut as Asavi worked.

This test is for you alone, Sharum Ka,
Abban thought.
It will temper you, or it will unleash you.

It was not difficult to lay odds on which it would be. If any were fool enough to take the bet, Abban would stake his fortune on the lake turning red in the spring.

“This would be easier if you would let me give you a sleeping potion,” Asavi said.

“NO!” Jayan shouted, but he shrank back from the glare Asavi gave in return. “No,” he said more calmly, regaining control. “I will embrace the pain, that I may remember it always.”

Asavi looked at him skeptically. Most
dama’ting
patients were not given a choice when
hora
magic was to be used, sedated heavily so they would remember nothing and not interfere with the delicate work.

But Jayan grew up in a palace where
hora
magic was used constantly, his father famous for his refusal of sedation while his injuries were tended.

“As you wish,” Asavi said, “but the sun is approaching. If we do not power the spell before then, you will lose the eye.”

The slivers removed, Asavi carefully cleansed the wound. Jayan’s hands and feet clenched, but his breathing was steady and he did not move. Asavi took a razor to his eyebrow, clearing a path for her wardings.

“Hang what remains of the
chin
whore’s body beneath the new flag at dawn,” Jayan said when the
dama’ting
turned to ready her brush and paint.

Qeran bowed. Jayan had made his father’s teacher one of his advisors, knowing it gave him further legitimacy in the eyes of the warriors. “It will be done, Sharum Ka.” He hesitated a moment as Asavi began her work. “I will prepare the men in case the
chin
find their spines and attack.” It was an old drillmaster’s trick, giving instructions to an inexperienced
kai
in the form of following assumed commands.

“What is to prepare?” Jayan snapped. “We will see their sails long before they get close enough to threaten us. The docks and shallows will run red.”

Asavi pinched Jayan’s face. “Every time you speak, you weaken a ward, and I do not have time to draw them again.”

Qeran remained in his bow. “It will be as the Sharum Ka says. I will send messengers to your brothers on the road, asking them to send reinforcements.”

“My brothers will be here in less than a month,” Jayan said. “I have taken the
chin’s
measure. I will go to the abyss if we cannot hold this tiny village that long against them.”

“May I at least install scorpions on the docks?” Qeran asked.

“Have them ready to poke those ships full of holes.” Jayan nodded.

“Nie’s black heart!” Asavi shouted, as his nod smeared her warding. “Everyone not missing an eye get out!”

Qeran dipped lower in his bow, using the steel of his leg to spring upright. Abban and Khevat were already moving for the door, but Qeran reached it in time to hold it for them.

Jayan refused sleep, pacing out the sunrise in front of the great window as his advisors watched nervously. Even Jurim and Hasik kept their distance.

The Sharum Ka’s eye was clouded white. He could see blurred shapes, as through a filthy window, but little more.

Twenty great Laktonian ships stood at anchor on the horizon, watching the town as the sun’s bright fingers reached for it.

No doubt their captains were looking through their distance lenses even now, seeing the dockmaster’s remains, wrapped in her merchant house colors, hanging beneath the crossed spears of Krasia’s flag. Horns were blown, and they set sail for the town. Out on the docks, the Mehnding Qeran had sent worked frantically to get scorpions in place.

“At last!” Jayan clenched a fist and ran for his spear.

“You should not be fighting,” Asavi said. “Your sight will try to trick you with only one eye. You will need to grow accustomed to it.”

“I would not have to, if you had healed it properly,” Jayan said acidly.