It was common practice for Meldeneans to sacrifice animals to their favoured gods before a hazardous voyage. Vaelin had been witness to a mass slaughter of livestock before their invasion fleet left port, the blood had flowed so freely the harbour waters turned red.
“We’ll provide the goats,” he said and gestured for Frentis to come forward. “Brother Frentis and two of my men will be your passengers. You will carry him to Varinshold where he will collect another passenger. You will then return here. The whole voyage cannot take more than twenty-five days. Is it possible?”
Nurin considered for a moment and nodded. “Possible, yes. But not for my ship.”
“Why not?”
Nurin unclasped his hands and slowly removed his gloves, revealing mottled and discoloured skin from fingers to wrist. “Tell me, land-bound,” he said, holding his hands up for Vaelin’s inspection, the lamplight gleamed on the waxy, misshapen flesh, “have you ever beaten at flames with your bare hands whilst your sister and mother burn to death?” A grim smile twisted the Meldenean’s lips. “No, my ship will not sail in your service. The Alpirans call you the Hope Killer, to me you are the spawn of the City Burner. The Ship Lords may have whored themselves to your king but I will not. Whatever threats or torments you employ will make no - ”
The bluestone made a soft thud as Vaelin placed it on the table, spinning it around, lamplight flickering on the silver veined surface. Carval Nurin stared at it in astonished and unbridled greed.
“I’m sorry about your mother and your sister,” Vaelin said. “And your hands. It must have been very painful.” He continued to spin the bluestone. Nurin’s eyes never left it. “But I sense you are, above all, a man of business, and sentiment is hardly profitable.”
Nurin swallowed, his scarred hands twitching. “How much do I get?”
“If you return within twenty-five days, all of it.”
“You lie!”
“On occasion, but not right now.”
Nurin’s eyes finally shifted from the bluestone, meeting Vaelin’s. “What surety do I have?”
“My word, as a brother of the Sixth Order.”
“Pox take your word and your Order. Your ghost-worshipping nonsense means nothing to me.” Nurin pulled his gloves on, frowning in calculation. “I want a signed assurance, witnessed by the governor.”
“The governor is… indisposed. But I’m sure the Grand Master of the Merchant’s Guild will be happy to oblige. Good enough?”
The Red Falcon differed markedly from any other ship Vaelin had seen. She was smaller than most, with a narrow hull and three masts instead of the usual two. There were only two decks and she carried a crew of just twenty men.
“Built for the tea trade,” Carval Nurin explained gruffly when Vaelin remarked on the unusual design. “Fresher it is the more profit you make. Small cargo of fresh tea makes three times the price of the stuff shipped in bulk. Quicker you get from one port to another, the more money you make.”
“No oars?” Frentis asked. “Thought all Meldenean ships had oars.”
“Got ‘em right enough,” Nurin pointed at the sealed ports on the lower deck. “Only use ‘em when the wind dies, which it rarely does in northern waters. In any case, the Falcon’ll shift with even the smallest breeze.”
The Captain paused to cast his gaze around the docks, taking in the rows of silent and empty ships and the cordon of Wolfrunners guarding the quayside. The crews had been ordered from their vessels during the night, not without some trouble, and were now nursing their bruises under heavy guard in the warehouses nearby. “Can’t remember the Linesh docks ever being so quiet,” Nurin observed.
“War is bad for trade, Captain,” Vaelin replied.
“Ships came and went at their leave over the past month and now they sit empty with their crews imprisoned. And yet the Falcon alone is permitted to sail…”
“We can’t be too careful,” Vaelin clapped him on the back affably, provoking a shudder of fearful repugnance. “Plenty of spies about. When do you sail, Captain?”
“Another hour when the tide’s right.”
“Then don’t allow me to delay your preparations.”
Nurin suppressed a sneering response and nodded, walking up the gangplank to assail his crew with a barrage of curse ridden orders.
“Do you think he knows?” Frentis asked.
“He suspects something, but he doesn’t know.” He gave Frentis an apologetic smile. “I’d send more men with you, but it might arouse even more suspicion. Sister Gilma’s orderlies told you what to look for?”
Frentis nodded. “Swelling in the neck, sweats, dizziness and rashes on the arms. If any of them have it they’ll start showing within three days.”