* * *
When his worthless nephew stuck his head between the cloth hangings of his palanquin shouting, ‘Ships, Uncle! Hundreds of ships!’ Nevall Od’ Orr, Chief Factor of Cawn, nearly had a heart attack. Not from the prospect of Cawn being sacked by some fleet out of nowhere – invaders can be milked just as easily as anyone – but rather from the fact that his nephew had managed to get within arm's reach of him.
‘Groten!’ he bellowed, massaging his chest with one hand and smoothing his beard with the other.
The captain of his bodyguard thrust his shaven blue-black bullet head through the cloth hangings, ‘Yes?’
‘That's “Yes, Chief Factor”.’
A nod of agreement. ‘Yes?’
Nevall stared at Groten; Groten stared back. Sighing, Nevall covered his face. ‘Groten,’ he began, speaking through his hands, ‘how did my idiot nephew get through your oh-so-vigilant cordon of guards?’
‘He's your nephew.’
Nevall threw his arms down to slap his thin crossed legs. ‘I know he's my Lady-damned nephew! I myself hired the mage who through no mistake of mine actually reported honestly on his paternity. Now, because of the egregious oversight of allowing one of my relations near me I penalize you one month's wages.’
Groten's thick brows pressed together. A large meaty hand rubbed his sweaty pate. ‘A month's?’
‘Yes. That is, unless you'd prefer to go back to whipping slaves on one of my merchantmen?’
The hulking Dal-Honese frowned his assent. As he did so the palanquin jerked from side to side and Nevall braced himself with a hand at the low roof. ‘What was that? What's going on out there?’
‘Ah, the crowd, sir. All headed to the waterfront.’
‘Well? Why aren't we?’
The captain of the bodyguard opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut. The head withdrew. Soon after that orders sounded and the palanquin rocked as Nevall's bearers started up again. He found the paper fan he'd dropped when the terrifying apparition of his nephew's head had assaulted him and he set to cooling himself. Gods above and below, did any of the smelly populace of Cawn have the least idea of what he had to endure as their Chief Factor?
Comforted by the crack of his bodyguard's whips and the thump of their truncheons clearing the way, Nevall turned his thoughts to this fleet of mystery ships. Could it be the Empress's forces? His sources spoke of her intent to sail after the disastrous assault of those mercenary raiders. And where else would she sail but for Cawn? Port of choice for any inland expedition. Yet how could she have arrived so soon? It would take more than two weeks for a fleet of that size to make its way from Unta – and that barring any of the usual delays. No, logic compelled that this must be some other force. Therefore, eliminating the possible but improbable invasion from Korel, Genabaris, storied Perish, enigmatic Nemill, legendary Assail or that empire his most distant trading partners whisper about – Lethery, or some such absurd name – that left the rumours his field agents had been picking up of a massing of ships in Western Falar. But an invasion fleet from Falar? To what end?
The stink of the waterfront, old sun-rotted fish and human excrement, penetrated the palanquin and Nevall scrambled to find his pomander; he dug it out of one of the small drawers and pressed it to his nose. Dead Poliel! How could anyone live like this? How could he be expected even to think? The palanquin slowed. Voices all around babbled. ‘Groten!’
The captain of the bodyguard stuck his head between the hangings. ‘Yes?’
‘What is it? What's to be seen?’
‘Lots of ships. All kinds. Even Moranth Blue merchantmen.’
‘Moranth Blue vessels? How could you possibly know a Moranth Blue vessel from any other?’
The captain of the bodyguard shrugged his wide shoulders, shaking the palanquin. ‘Because the sails are blue?’
Nevall stroked his beard. ‘Oh, yes. Flags? Any flags? Did you think to look for those?’
An uncertain frown. ‘Well, they're still pretty distant. But there's an old woman here who claims to be a witch. Says she can see though the eyes of birds. Says she'll look for a half-silver.’
‘A half-silver! Tell the hag I'd look through the anus of a mole for half a silver. No, wait, let me guess what she'd see looking through the eyes of a bird – fish! Fish and water! What else would a blasted bird look at!’
Groten flinched away, hurt. ‘It was just a suggestion. Anyway—’ he looked out, spoke with someone, glanced in again. ‘Tali. They're flying the blue of Tali.’
Nevall hissed a breath while pulling at his beard. Tali. The old hegemonic power itself. So much for these rumours of a return to independent states. Looked like they'd merely be changing one hat for another. So be it. The Cawnese were famous for their pragmatism. They would join – until fortunes changed.
‘Very well. Groten, take me to whoever's in charge down there when they arrive.’
‘Yes, ah, Chief Factor.’
Even as the sullen dockworkers kicked at the mooring ropes thrown from the Keth's Loss, a palanquin carried by six extraordinarily tall men and escorted by ten cudgel- and whip-wielding bodyguards bulled its way down to the dockside. At the railing, Ullen clenched his teeth, knowing who that would be: the current Chief Grasper and Extorter of Cawn, whoever that was this year. While he watched, members of the bodyguard stood on the gangway planking where the dockworkers were lazily sifting, and name-calling led to pushing which led to punching and soon a gorgeous, indiscriminate row erupted between labourers, dockhands, general onlookers and the bodyguards. Caught in the brawl the yellow-clothed palanquin pitched about like a ship in a storm while its occupant screeched, ‘Cawn welcomes … its liberators! Long … live the Talian forces! We open our doors … to your noble … warriors!’
Ullen could only hang his head. Gods, Cawn, how he hated the city.
That night Urko rode west with a force on all the horses that had survived the crossing in serviceable health. He claimed to be scouting the trader road to Heng, but Ullen knew he was fleeing any dealings with the Cawnese authorities. He also knew why – Urko would have throttled the lot of them. The warehouses Ullen leased were falling-down ruins awash with a fetid sludge of rotted fish. The wagons he rented fell apart even as they were loaded. The horses were either diseased or broken or both, not one animal among them fit even for light scouting. Meanwhile, the fees, tithes and bills piled up in the wallets of his secretaries, exaggerated, inflated and outright false. He had bills for material and labour for repair of ships he didn't even recognize.
Meanwhile, V'thell had formed his Moranth Gold into columns and marched off without speaking to anyone and Bala had somehow claimed a fine carriage – probably threatening to curse a family – and attached herself to that brigade. By the time Ullen was organizing the rearguard and supply trains Urko's entire campaign chest was emptied. Toward the end of his stay Ullen was handing out scrip and referring bills to Tali's ruling Troika. Nevall Od’ Orr and Seega Vull, the richest factors in Cawn, sent him on his way with a sneer and the fluttering of handfuls of his scrip to the wind.
It surprised him that he kept his humour through the entire ordeal. Standing with the rearguard, hands at the reins of the scrawny and bruised ex-carthorse he'd purchased for the price of a Grisan war-mount, he bowed an ironic farewell to Cawn – may it rot in the effluvium of its own sour rapaciousness. For what seemed not to have occurred to these factors in their myopic focus on the immediate gain was that once the League had taken Heng, the road to Unta led back this way.