Watching him go, Tattersail shook her head. Such a rogue!
Footsteps at the entrance brought her round. A woman was standing in the threshold, peering about the reception hall. Tattersail had never seen her before, and from her plain homespun shirt and trousers and dirty bare feet, she thought her a servitor come to ask for work in the kitchens. She drew breath to shoo her out of the keep but in that instant she felt the woman’s full presence, and the weight and power of her aura nearly thrust her back. Ye gods! Who is this?
Tattersail’s hands jerked to raise her Warren as the woman came forward, kicking unconcerned through broken glass. One hand instead went to her throat and clutched there, as her breath would not come. ‘Who are you?’ she managed shakily.
The woman was short, like her, but willow thin. Her features were odd – perhaps of a people unknown to Tattersail: the face long and the eyes large. The mouth lipless.
‘Call me Nightchill,’ she answered.
‘What do you want?’
‘You.’
Tattersail clutched even tighter at her neck. She gasped, ‘Why?’
‘To meet you. I sensed your performance. It was impressive.’
The terrifying power of this woman’s aura – the most potent she had ever sensed, far greater than the glimpses she had had of Agayla’s – made Tattersail want to faint, but she dragged her hand from her throat and nodded, acknowledging the compliment, whispering, ‘Well … thank you.’
‘And to tell you that you are wasted here.’
Now Tattersail frowned. ‘Did Agayla send you?’
An entirely humourless smile drew up one edge of the woman’s slash of a mouth. ‘No. Agayla did not send me. I am here to do you this one favour, and to warn you. There are powers circling this island that you are not ready for, child. They will annihilate you. Leave while you can.’
Now Tattersail found her teeth clenching and her legs steadying. This again! ‘I can take care of myself and I’ll leave when I damn well choose!’
The woman shrugged, untroubled. ‘Very well. It is your choice. Do not say I did not warn you, however.’ And she tipped her head in farewell and walked away.
Tattersail’s gaze went to the midnight hanging once more and narrowed there. Damn her meddling! Then her brows clenched and she stared anew. Was that ugly portrait of the Hold even darker with swirling shadows now?
*
Nedurian stood at Malaz’s harbour wharf and watched the beaten and bedraggled fleet of freebooters and would-be raiders come straggling in. Mock’s Insufferable had been among the first, looking damaged from the engagement, but still seaworthy. The Intolerant and the Intemperate were missing, apparently casualties of the engagement. So too were so many of the freebooter fleet. More were limping in even as he watched, but it appeared as if fully half the assembled flotilla had failed to escape the ambush.
King Tarel had struck his piratical rivals a severe blow. It was the talk of the waterfront, of course; the Napan betrayal. And thinking of his employers, Nedurian was worried. The townsfolk might want blood.
He pushed away from the wooden crates he was leaning against and headed to the row of waterfont dives that included the Hanged Man, and Smiley’s.
He found the Napan crew closing up shop even though it was the evening, the best time for their trade. A small two-wheeled cart stood at the door. In it lay the body of Amiss, wrapped in canvas sail cloth and sewn tight.
‘Come with us,’ Surly said, sounding tired. Tocaras helped her up on to the cart, where she sat cradling her side with one arm. Urko took up the two poles of the cart and started pulling, and the rest of the Napans followed along.
It was to be a burial, obviously, and Nedurian didn’t know whether to be honoured or resentful at being included; honoured, as the only non-Napan present, resentful because perhaps he wasn’t trusted enough to be left behind.
Urko led them south to the very tip of the waterfront, where fishers pulled their tiny dories and dugouts from the surf. Coins changed hands with one such fellow and Urko gently carried the wrapped body to a dory and laid it within.
Surly waved Nedurian to join them. He sat at the bow, wrapped in a blanket against the unusual chill of the night. A lantern next to him lit the waves and the five Napans: Surly, Shrift and Tocaras at the canvas-wrapped body, Urko and Grinner at the oars.
Once they were far out beyond the harbour, Surly and lean Tocaras lifted the body to the gunwale. Surly said a few words in benediction, or farewell, and together they let slip the corpse into the dark water and watched it sink from sight.
After a long silence, empty but for the slap of the waves and the far-off crash of the surf into the cliffs north of the city, Urko and Shrift began to power the small dory back to the glow of the distant lanterns of Malaz harbour. Nedurian addressed Tocaras. ‘So, a burial at sea…’
The tall, pole-slim fellow nodded sombrely. ‘Yes. Always a sea burial for us Napans. It’s a tradition.’ And he added, more softly, ‘But not for me.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘May I ask why not?’
Looking out across the dark waters, the fellow grimaced as if in distaste. ‘I hate it. The sea. It’s taken too many from me.’
Nedurian thought of so many of his old friends, gone now, and he nodded. ‘I can understand that.’
No more was said until they returned to Smiley’s. Nedurian, Surly and Urko took up posts to keep watch. The mage sat at one of the narrow windows, an eye on the gleaming cobbles of the nighttime street. Urko sat at the door, while Surly busied herself at the bar. A large fire cast an uneven amber glow over the common room.
Nedurian sipped his watered wine. He glanced about the quiet room, asked, ‘What about your local hires? Where are they?’
‘They’ll drag their sorry arses back once they’ve run out of coin,’ Surly said from behind the scarred wooden counter.
‘And what about you lot?’ he asked Urko, who sat on a tall stool with his hands and chin resting atop a short hardwood staff before him. His coarse features drew down in a scowl.
‘What about us?’
‘Why are you still here? Why not leave? You heard how King Tarel betrayed the fleet. Mock might order you arrested.’
Urko snorted his derision. ‘He can try.’
‘What I mean is, wouldn’t it be safer to head to the mainland, hire out as crew?’
The giant fellow’s gaze slid to Surly, his wide knotted hands clenched on the staff. ‘Can’t. We’re—’
‘That’s enough,’ Surly cut in. Her eyes were on Nedurian now, suspicious. ‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’
He raised his hands open in surrender. ‘You’re right. Never mind. None of my business. But I’ll let you know … I really don’t care if you’re wanted on the mainland.’
Urko just eyed Surly, saying nothing.
‘We’ll leave,’ Surly added, meditatively cleaning glasses, ‘when the Twisted returns.’
‘It’s overdue,’ Nedurian said, then wished he hadn’t.
Now Urko lowered his gaze, frowning even more deeply, his hands clenching as he thumped the staff to the hardwood floor.