A Draw of Kings

28

RETURN





ERROL STOOD ON THE DECK as the Penance creaked and groaned with the smallest of swells, its ribs loose and complaining after a second trip through the maelstrom. Errol chafed at the slower speed, but Tek refused to add more sail.

“She be bruised and battered, lad,” the sea captain said. “Adding to her pain would be poor gratitude for her service.” He shrugged. “Besides, I do not think we be wanting to swim in these waters.”

They had traveled for weeks without a Merakhi ship in sight, but now as they sailed toward Illustra’s western coast, the ocean current swept them east toward the Forbidden Strait between the kingdom and Merakh. Nervous, Errol pulled a pair of blanks and his reader’s knife to cast for the presence of Merakhi ships.


“You needn’t bother,” Merodach said. The watchman’s eyes held confidence but a hint of perplexity as well. “The closest Merakhi ships are just offshore of Bota in Basquon.” He flexed his hands. “It took me a dozen casts to pinpoint their location.”

Errol rolled his shoulders, shedding a burden he hadn’t realized he carried until that moment. “The way is open. We can go home.” He prayed Adora would be there waiting for him. They wouldn’t have much time together before . . .

“I think we should find the reason behind this, lad.” Rale chewed his lower lip in thought for a moment. “Good news in wartime makes me suspicious.”

Merodach nodded.

Errol sighed his disappointment as he pulled a pair of blanks from his pocket to test the safest choice, but a sudden diffidence overtook him. How long had it been since he’d cast? He bounced one of the blanks in his palm, felt the open grain of the pine against his fingertips, before he returned it to its place inside his cloak. If Deas meant him to die, why bother casting for choices?

“Let’s see what lies inside the strait, Captain Tek.”

“Aye, lad.” Tek spun the wheel, and the ship hauled over to starboard, the sails clapping with the direction change. “Hands forward on arms,” Tek said. The mate relayed the order in his brazen-throated yell, and every man left on the ship came forward to man crossbows and longbows.

They anchored that night a mere five leagues from the strait, Captain Tek unwilling to brave the narrow entry in the dark. At dawn the next morning, they crept eastward, every man tense by his weapon.

“You know, lad,” Tek said, “if we be spotted by Merakhi, we will have to make for the kingdom side of the strait.”

Errol looked north toward the cliffs that towered over them, weather-smoothed rock running vertically until it ended in churning surf below. “How close is the nearest Illustran port?”

Tek’s mouth pulled to one side. “Too far to be of any use.”

A cry from the crow’s nest startled him, and he jumped, his hands gripping the metal staff that never left his side.

“Masts ahead.”

Merodach nodded as if he expected no less. “Unless casting no longer works, they’ll be kingdom ships, such as we have.”

Rale’s brows lowered at that and his eyes grew dark. “It’s a shame that death has put Weir beyond our reach. I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to kill him myself.”

The forest of masts grew closer until Errol could make out the composition of Illustra’s navy. A more mismatched collection of ships would have been hard to find. Nearest to them, a single cog, the largest ship in sight, held its position just outside the mouth of the strait.

“That would be the flagship, lad,” Tek said. “It be the fastest ship of the lot. Having it on the outside of the strait do not bode well for what be going on.”

“What do you mean?” Errol asked.

Tek’s gaze ran back and forth over the odd collection of ships. “They be hailing us. I think we better swing alongside and find out how bad things be.”

The first mate relayed Tek’s orders as the captain swung the wheel, and they slowed to a crawl and sailed to within a half dozen paces of the flagship. Sailors dressed in the red livery of Illustra’s royal house used grappling hooks to bring the ships together, their movements crisp with discipline, but they didn’t wear the look of men hopeful of victory.

The first mate of the other ship beckoned them aboard. “Welcome to the Fearless, my lords. We were told to watch for your passing. Captain Mederi awaits you in his cabin.”

Tek winced at the name.

Errol judged the Fearless to be roughly one and a half times as big as Tek’s ship, the forward and aft decks large and high enough to make a longship think twice about attacking. In addition, the masts were heavier and taller, capable of nearly twice the sail.

“Last resort,” Rale said as he surveyed the vessel. At Errol’s bidding he continued. “Weir spent decades consolidating the naval and shipping power of Illustra in his own hands. Without his ships the best the kingdom can hope for is to keep the Merakhi bottled up in the strait. Deas help us if they break through and sail up the western coast. Instead of fighting a two-front war, it’ll be three, and that last one will be at our backs.”

Captain Mederi’s cabin was nearly twice the size of Tek’s. Trestle tables nailed to the floor and covered with a pile of charts filled the space. Mederi, a gangly Talian with a large hooked nose and thinning black hair, rose to greet them with quick, jerky motions.

He shook hands with each of them, but at the sight of Tek, his face darkened. “I see you survived the mission to Ongol. Pity.”

Rale’s mouth pulled to one side. “You two know each other?”

Tek coughed into his hand. “It’s an old misunderstanding.”

Errol stepped forward, drawing Mederi’s attention. “We don’t have time to settle scores, Captain.” He gestured toward the charts. “What’s happening here?”

Mederi sagged as if his anger had been the source of his fortitude. “We’re outmatched, but we knew that going in. The kingdom’s aim is not so much to win the strait, but to keep the Merakhi from leaving it. We’re only a league from Bota, the narrowest point.” He pointed to an oversized chart showing the Basquon port and the portion of the strait they now occupied. “The longships have a shallower draft, so they can sail closer to the coast, but we’ve installed trebuchets on the cliffs to hurl anything we can find at them.” He traced a finger between Illustra and Merakh. “What cogs we have fill the strait, driving the longships close to our shore, where the siege engines can pick them off.”

“They’ll catch on sooner or later,” Tek said. He leaned over the map engrossed in the layout of the two navies. “Then they’ll come at you in force or try to slip your blockade at night.”

“Aye.” Mederi gave Tek a grudging nod. “They started as much a few nights ago as soon as the moon became too dim to light the water. We barely held. They nearly sank two of the cogs. Fortunately, they had to withdraw, but we don’t have replacements.” His chest rose as he pulled the sea air into his lungs. “We can hold them once, maybe twice more. Then they’ll be through and headed up the coast.”

Tek nodded, his eyes intent on the chart. Small numbers next to sinuous lines indicated the depth in fathoms at the bottleneck. “There’s only one thing you can do.”

Mederi’s face chilled. “They’re not as honorable as you, Tek. They don’t leave their prisoners on some Deas-forsaken island to wait for rescue. They kill them.”

Instead of growing angry, Tek laughed. “You misunderstand me, Mederi. There be no surrender to the Merakhi. You’ll have to let them sink your ships.” He paused to run a hand across his grizzled chin. “And if they won’t do it, you’ll have to.”

Mederi inhaled, his face thunderous. Then he caught sight of Tek tapping the chart and leaned over it. “Blast me, it might work.”

“What might work?” Errol asked.

Mederi tore himself from the chart. “Narrowing the strait even more. If we sink the ships too damaged to be of use to us, the longships will be limited to the center of the strait.” He turned back to Tek. “We still can’t hold forever.”


“No, Captain Mederi, you can’t,” Tek said. “But you might buy Illustra enough time for a miracle.” He glanced at Errol.

Errol tried to ignore the implication of that look, but a small voice reminded him of who Tek was. The little sea captain didn’t flaunt it, but he was solis. Errol didn’t want to think of himself as a miracle—it meant death.

Rale leaned in. “What news do the ships bring from Erinon?”

Mederi waved an arm toward the strait. “The people on the Green Isle are no better off than we are here. Each vessel brings different tidings, but they all say the Judica is desperate. They’ve ordered the conclave to work without ceasing until the soteregia is found. The thunder of hundreds of casts fills the halls, but every one fails.”

Mederi shook his head. “The latest news is the worst. The archbenefice is ill.”

“How ill?” Rale demanded.

“He suffered a stroke. Bertrand Canon lies near death if he has not passed over already. I have withheld the news from my command.” He spread his hands. “Our battle is hopeless enough.”

Rale and Tek groaned, but Merodach stiffened and his eyes grew moist. Deep within Errol’s chest, the smoldering hope for the kingdom’s unlikely victory guttered and blew out. Without Bertrand Canon to head the Judica and advise the council of nobles, Illustra was bereft.

“A ship without a rudder finds the shoals,” Tek said.

“A double succession,” Rale said. He shook his head. “Who rules?”

Mederi’s shoulders lifted then settled before he answered. “Duke Escarion’s voice carries the most weight with the nobles, and most of his orders get carried out. Primus Sten still heads the conclave. The last report stated that he continues to seek the soteregia, despite the failure of their craft.”

Merodach shook his head. “It’s not the craft that’s failed, Captain. It’s the question.”

“How can that be? There is either a soteregia or there isn’t.”

Rale waved a hand dismissing the rest of the discussion. “We can’t stay here, Captain. We need the fastest ship you can spare to get us back to the isle.”

“I can’t give you anything. If we intend to clog the shallows with wreckage, it’ll take everything I have.”

“We do be willing to trade,” Tek said. “My ship be not so big as your cogs, but its larger than what the watchmen require to speed back to Erinon.”

A lump in Errol’s throat made it difficult to swallow. “You’re going to scuttle your own ship?”

Tek rested a hand on Errol’s shoulder. “She’s been a fair vessel, lad, and more faithful than most, but even with dry dock she’ll never be right again. This be the best service she can offer.” He turned to Mederi. “I’ll throw myself in as well, if you’ll have me.”

Mederi’s face flashed from shock to grudging admiration. “I’d rather have you with me than against me, pirate though you are.”

Tek laughed. “Reformed pirate.”

Mederi inked a command to release one of his ships back to Erinon, and then he and Tek turned their attention back to the charts as Errol and the rest left the cabin.

They stepped aboard the Waverider an hour later, the smell of tar and naptha strong in Errol’s nose. Scorch marks covered the topmost deck of the ship near the catapult fastened ahead of the foremast. In the distance, Illustran ships made for the shallow parts of the strait as smoke stained the early spring sky.



Two weeks later they slipped into Erinon’s western port. As they entered the harbor, they passed ships headed the other way, ships that were hardly more than fishing vessels capable of offering little more than token resistance to the fleet of longships Merakh sent against them.

Errol pointed at one. “Can they hold?”

Rale’s eyes reflected the gray-green of the sea. “If any man can wring victory from the strait, Amos Tek can.” He blinked twice. “But no, they cannot hold. At best they can make the cost in lives and time too high for the Merakhi to be willing to pay.”

“The malus don’t have a price,” Errol said. “We’re going to lose.”

Rale nodded, still looking across the harbor toward the docks of the city. “It seems to me we had this conversation once before, Errol. The only battle that’s been lost is the one that’s already been fought.”

Errol’s chest ached to ask Rale what he thought about the soteregia, but he was too afraid of the answer to voice the question. Deep within, surrounded by layers of distraction and denial, lay the conviction he must die. He didn’t want to hear it confirmed by any of his friends.

As they glided to the pier, the sound of bells, deep and melancholy, drifted across the water. Errol didn’t ask, and neither Rale nor Merodach offered an interpretation, but he knew the meaning.

A sparse collection of dockhands, remnants of a thriving concern, tied their ship to the pier and they disembarked. A pair of nobles, alike in face but different in coloring, stood on the weathered timbers of the pier to take their report—Derek and Darren, the sons of Duke Escarion. At seeing Errol’s face, they started in surprise.

“Well met, Earl Stone,” Derek said. Darren nodded his agreement behind him. “Your arrival is an unexpected pleasure.” The ever-present smile, gentle and mocking, was gone from Derek’s face. Darren had always been quiet, but now his silence seemed weighed with grief.

He didn’t want to ask. For as long as he kept the question to himself he could hope that it might not be true. Errol shook his head. That was a boy’s way of thinking. Such hopeful denials wouldn’t serve him.

“We heard the bells,” he said into the silence. “How long ago did the archbenefice die?”

Derek’s gaze went past him. “Three days.”

“Who leads in his place?” Rale asked.

“No one.” Derek hurled the words as if they offended him. “The benefices can’t figure out which of them is supposed to be the salvation of the kingdom.” Derek closed his eyes and sighed. “Every last one of them claims to feel the call of Deas to lead.”

Darren put a hand on his older brother’s shoulder. “Go easy, Derek. They are ordinary men caught in extraordinary circumstances.”

“Then we need extraordinary men,” Derek said, but the heat had gone from his voice.

Errol nodded. Illustra required heroes. Liam was one and Pater Martin another, but they were few, too few.

He shifted the pack that hung from his shoulder, tightened his grip on the metal staff Martin had given him. “I must go to the Judica.”

The light of hope flared in Darren’s eyes. “You were successful?”

“Yes.”

A smile like a glint of sunlight grew on Darren’s face. “Perhaps that will embolden the benefices to make a decision.”

Errol shrugged, the weight of the book and its revelations suddenly heavy. “That depends on how they receive it.”