Donn: The Iranon
Bent over under the punishing weight of the basket on her back, Lara paused as the sun was just breaking over the mountains. She needed to reach the market and set up her stall before the first customers came, and before the sun got too hot… the sun would spoil her fresh corn. Her basket weighed more than she did, though, and was heavy enough and tall enough to make walking a complicated trial in balance and strength.
She needed a quick rest, and a quick drink of water.
She sat down very gently on a rock at the side of the road, taking care to keep her load balanced, and let out a sigh of relief as the bottom of the basket came to rest on the rock, taking the weight off her back and legs.
She wiped her face with the towel hanging around her neck, and took a swig from her bamboo canteen.
What was that music…?
She listened, entranced.
It was a lute, of course—the lute was the traditional instrument of Oonai, and almost every house had one—but whoever was playing it was a master. The music carried her through the storm, crashing waves hammering her boat, to a serene sunset as the storm clouds passed, and an island of peace and warmth welcoming her from the tumult.
A man’s voice had begun to sing, a poem set to music, words that bypassed her ears and etched themselves upon her heart, bringing tears to her eyes.
A donkey brayed; she snapped out of it.
She’d be late!
She leapt to her feet and walked away hurriedly to the market.
Behind her, Lubayd the 42nd Iranon continued to play and sing his latest work.
* * *
“Time for lunch, Lubayd,” called Basaaria.
The Iranon laid down his quill and twisted his neck back and forth to relax taut muscles, then stretched, arms high, fingers interlaced as knuckles cracked.
“Yo! Coming!” he answered, and rose from his kneeling position at the low table.
The table, a huge, slightly oblong cross-section of a monstrous oak, was strewn with manuscript, quills and inks, a flute, two deerskin fingerdrums, and two empty wine mugs.
He peered into the mugs to make sure they were really empty, grabbed the closest one, and walked out of the room.
His wife was just pouring tea, the children—ten-year old Eshan, with tousled hair and new bronze band on his tanned arm, and two-year old terror Nausheen, playing with the multi-colored beads woven into her braids—already seated. He took his place at the head of the table and waited for his wife to take her seat at the other end. Large serving plates were grouped in the center, with a small plate and utensils in front of each of them.
The plate in front of mischievous Nausheen was considerably larger, and (relatively) unbreakable. They all had teacups, of course, but he set the wine mug down next to his plate and looked expectantly at Basaaria.
“Lubayd, enjoy the tea, and leave your wine for the night,” she suggested. “I’ve some wonderful Pelin’gui tea that I know you’ll enjoy.”
“Bah! Tea is for women and children, wine for a working man!”
“But Lubayd…” she began.
“Wine, woman!” he demanded, cutting her off and waving his mug for emphasis.
She sighed and fetched a jar of wine from the kitchen, pouring his mug full. She made to take the jar back to the kitchen, but he grasped the lip of the jar, pulling it down to sit on the floor next to him.
“Leave it here, woman. I’ll need something to wash my meal down with, won’t I?”
Silent, she nodded and took her place at the foot of the table once more.
He lifted his mug to take a drink, but stopped at her voice.
“Lubayd! The prayer!”
“Oh, right. Sorry,” he mumbled, and set the mug down again.
He stretched his hands out to grasp the hands of the children, who grasped their mother’s hands to complete the circle.
“Let us give thanks to the One for all that we have today,” he intoned. “Let all find peace under Her blessing. So be it.”
“So be it,” echoed the others.
“A most brief prayer,” said Basaaria, obviously displeased.
“Even the gods prefer brevity,” he replied, draining half the mug in one gulp. “Let us eat!”
He used his dagger to stab a few pieces of meat on the serving plate, pushing the slices off onto his own plate with a finger. He licked the finger appreciatively.
“Very good!”
He used the serving spoon to load a pile of stir-fried vegetables onto his plate, then cut off a smaller piece of meat with his dagger.
“Venison?”
“Yes, fresh from the market this morning.”
He nodded, poured another mugful, and then reached over to pour some into Eshan’s cup.
“No, not Eshan! He’s too young,” protested Basaaria.
Lubayd laughed, and picked up his mug again.
“Drink, boy! A little wine never hurt anyone! Drink!”
The boy made no move to pick up his cup, flicking his eyes back and forth between mother and father nervously.
“Lubayd, no, please!”
“Drink, boy!”
Helpless, the boy picked up his cup and raised it hesitantly to his lips.
He touched his lips to the edge of the cup and took the barest taste, quickly lowering this cup again.
“Thank you, father.”
“Not to your liking, eh?” laughed Lubayd. “It’ll come to you. Man needs his wine!”
Leaving his plate half-full, he staggered to his feet, jar in his hand.
“I’m off to the market to think. Can’t concentrate here with all this ruckus. Need to concentrate on my work!”
Basaaria, wiping goat milk from Nausheen’s chin and clothes, watched him stumble out the door.
* * *
The tavern was dark, as taverns usually are, but raucous as always.
Lubayd held court at his usual table, a half-empty mug on the table in front of him and a half-naked woman on his lap. The usual coterie gathered around, praising his skill and urging him to keep singing.
He drained the mug in a single gulp, belched, and gave the woman a pinch on the bottom that earned a far louder squeal than it deserved. She loved his company for the same reason almost everyone else did: he was fun to be with… and he paid for everyone!
“Ho! I see we have a visitor with us today!” he cried, waving his mug in invitation to the man. “Come, join us!”
The thin, weather-beaten man picked up his own mug from his table, and walked over, taking a seat on the bench facing Lubayd. “Donn of Dylath-Leen, a trader.”
“Come to buy our wine, have you?”
“The wine of your fine city is always in demand, Iranon,” said Donn. “I’m sampling your wares now!”
He raised his mug to show his sample, and the onlookers, pushing up to be nearer the Iranon, laughed with him.
“You’ll find the wine and light of Oonai more to your liking than the brooding towers of Dylath-Leen, I think!”
“Your wine and your music are spring water to a parched heart,” countered Donn.
“Oh, and a poet to boot!” laughed Lubayd. “Master! Fill Master Donn’s cup! Fill everyone’s cup!”
The tavern keeper and one of his serving girls came running with wine jars, refilling all the cups around the table and calculating the cost to be added to the Iranon’s tab.
He held out a new mug of fresh wine, from his special stock, to Lubayd, who hurriedly drank down what was left in his hand and exchanged the old mug for the new one.
“Thank you, Iranon,” said Donn, taking a sip from his refilled mug.
Lubayd didn’t seem to hear him, his head moving slightly up and down as he hummed a tune to himself, keeping time with the beat. He fingers tapped on the table lightly.
“Oh, yes… that’s a catchy ditty, that is…” he murmured, and looked up at the ceiling as he played with a new composition.
“Play for us, Iranon!” came cry from one of the women seated next to him, hand on his shoulder.
He took another drink of wine, then picked up his lute, the priceless instrument played by the Iranon himself, the first Iranon of Oonai, with orichalc inlay and the finest ghastgut, and strummed out a chord, drunken fingers slipping on the frets as he recited doggerel for the crowd.
"An heir, a son!" he cried
Proud yet graying,
And struggled each night
With wives by the dozen
And even a cousin.
Alas! That once virile member
Is now only an ember.
They roared with laughter.
No names, of course, but they all knew it was about the King of Oonai, now past his prime and still with no male heir to assume his throne. He had wed well over a dozen women, and taken several dozen more as concubines, but had yet to produce any child, let alone a male one.
Lubayd sloshed more wine into his mug, and raised it to his lips.
It collided with a mailed hand, spilling over his chest.
“An ill-chosen song, I think,” came a quiet voice.
The surrounding laughter stopped and suddenly his audience discovered they had urgent business elsewhere, melting away.
Lubayd stood to face Captain Björk of the guard.
“Ah, Captain… I, uh… It’s just a harmless ditty, sir. Not about anyone at all!”
He wobbled a bit.
The captain turned him around and pushed him toward the door.
“Time to go home, Iranon. And mayhap time to think of different songs to sing.”
Lubayd’s shoulder his the doorway, and he grabbed it for support, then staggered into the street, mumbling to himself as he went.
The tavern was silent behind him.
* * *
Someone was hammering on the door.
Lubayd opened one eye, squinting in the afternoon sunlight.
“Open! Open in the name of the King!”
He heard someone—Basaaria—run to the door and throw it open.
“Yes, my lord, what…?”
“Silence!” came a roar of anger. “Where is the Iranon?”
“My husband is resting, my lord. I…”
“Your sot of a husband is collapsed in a drunken slumber, as always,” said the other. “And the King commands.”
“Yes, my lord. At once, my lord!”
Terrified, Basaaria ran to him, shaking his shoulders to awaken him.
“Who…?”
“The King, Lubayd! The king is here, with the Guard!”
“The King…? Here?”
He sat up, head pounding, room spinning.
Two soldiers pushed into the room and grabbed his arms, frog-marching him barefoot and ragged, out into the street. They threw him down onto his knees in front of the King’s palanquin.
“Iranon!”
He looked up at the King, gold crown radiant in the sunlight.
“You are a drunkard, and worse, you have insulted me,” said the King. “You are no longer the Iranon, no longer Songmaster to the King, and you shall no longer mouth such words.”
He waved to the guards.
“Cut out his tongue.”
He gaped in disbelief.
Basaaria threw herself to the ground in front of the king.
“My lord, please forgive my husband! Flog us for our error, and banish us, but please, my lord, please do not take my husband’s song!”
The King twitched his chin at Lubayd once more, signaling the guards to proceed.
A guard stepped forward with dagger in hand, and she grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back.
“Kill her,” said the king.
The guard dropped his knife, catching it in his left hand and plunging it up and into her chest.
“My… Lubayd…”
Blood spurted from her mouth as she clutched at her belly and collapsed.
“No! Mother!”
Ten-year old Eshan, his own small dagger clutched in his hands, leapt at the soldier.
Taken by surprise, the solder lifted his arm in defense against the sudden thrust, catching the blade on his forearm. Training told, and his dagger thrust once more, into the boy’s chest.
He fell to the ground without a word.
Teeth clenched in agony, Basaaria reached out her hand to touch his head.
“After you cut out his tongue, torch it all,” said the king, and waved to his carriers. The palanquin rose and moved smoothly down the street toward the palace. “Oh, and bring me Iranon’s lute, of course.”
Lubayd screamed in agony and struggled to escape from the men holding him to the butcher’s blade.
* * *
Donn’s cart, pulled by two horses, was full of wine jars, each sealed with wax and marked in dark red paint. He walked alongside, making sure the horses stayed calm and the wine jars safe.
He had finished buying the wine that morning—quality wines that would fetch a good price in Hlanith or Lhosk—and had just picked up the promised jars. Each jar was huge, almost up to his shoulder, and far heavier than he could move alone. The trip back east would be a slow one, he thought, and wondered how many guards he’d have to hire this time.
It was nice of that musician—everyone called him The Iranon, some sort of traditional position, he gathered—to buy him lunch and a few mugs of wine, even if it was just tavern piss. He thought again of the lute the man had played… that must be worth more than a dozen trading trips!
He sighed.
Probably some sort of sacred treasure, and they’d skin him alive for touching it or some such nonsense.
Better stick to trading.
Just up ahead there was a crowd of people, smoke billowing up into the air… a fire!
Local residents had formed bucket brigades, pulling water from a nearby fountain and dousing a few houses—the houses standing next to the one burning! They ignored the conflagration, instead doing their best to stop the blaze from spreading.
In front of the burning house lay three bodies—a woman and a boy, lying together in a pool of blood, her hand resting on his face, and a short distance away, a finely dressed man covered in blood, still moaning and writhing in pain.
Donn hesitated.
It could be dangerous to pry into unknown affairs, even here in Oonai, city of wine and music.
But there was something about that man…
He stopped in shock.
It was the Iranon!
Should he help the poor man, or… ?
No matter what may come, he thought, I cannot leave him to die!
He ran to the man, and pulled him up.
The other made no effort to stand on his own, almost drowning in his own blood, face caked with blood, tears, and sand.
Donn half-carried, half-dragged him to the cart and dropped him in like a sack of potatoes, then grabbed the whip from the front and snapped it.
His horses, already nervous from the flames, broke into a trot, and Donn ran alongside, pulling them down an alley and away from the fire as quickly as possible.
He heard the wine jars bumping into each other and grimaced.
I might lose a jar or two, he thought, but what of it? Who would cut his tongue out, for Ech Pi El’s sake? And why didn’t anyone try to help him?
He looked back. Nobody was following them, nobody seemed to care.
He threw a blanket over the man and kept the horses moving, but slowed a bit to try to save as much of his investment as possible. There was already a wine-stained crack on one jar, and if he lost too many he’d not recoup his costs on this trip, let alone turn a profit.
He had to get out of Oonai and do something about that wound as soon as possible.
* * *
A little cauterization, some potions, and a minor spell from a local Godsworn were sufficient to stop the bleeding and get the Iranon back on the road to physical health, but it was months before he finally began to take an interest in life again.
He could still speak to some extent, but it was extremely difficult to understand him, and he generally found it easier to just feign being a mute, and communicate through gestures, or writing.
Donn learned his story, that he had once been an almost sacred poet and musician in Oonai, the 42nd person to hold the name Iranon, and that his family had been killed and his tongue cut off because he lampooned the king.
He was no longer the Iranon, and wrote that he could no longer use his own name, Lubayd.
They decided that henceforth he would be Hakim.
Donn did make a profit on that wine after all, following the desert route south to Meroë instead of the more-traveled road east to Thran and Hlanith. And as they traveled his companion left more and more of himself in the past, and became dour Hakim through-and-through: mute Hakim of the panpipes, from some unknown hamlet in the Stony Desert.
He rarely smiled, except to children, and never wept. He never drank liquor again.
Over the years they even visited Oonai again, and silent Hakim kept his thoughts to himself as he noted a new house standing where his had once stood, and listened to market gossip about the king in his sickbed, and the epic battle between a wife and a concubine, both with sons they claimed were his.
* * *
It was freezing, and the wind from the Peaks of Thok cut through their furs like a knife.
Hakim huddled closer to the boat’s gunwale, trying to snuggle down out of the wind while keeping his body folded up as much as possible to retain the last vestige of warmth.
There was little shelter on the boat, and no point trying to warm themselves with a fire—the wind would carry all the heat away.
Donn, wrapped in furs without with only the merest glint of his eyes showing, sat square in the middle of the deck, looking as dead and immobile as the figurehead on the prow. Hakim knew he was watching their cargo, though, no matter the cold.
They’d traded their jade, wine, and dried fruit and meat for pelts in Sinara, and assuming the boat got them safely to onyx-walled Jaren on the coast, and they could hire a ship, they’d turn a good profit in Lhosk. Or even Celephaïs!
The road to Sinara had finally opened now that the siege was over and the besieging bandits from the mountains around Mt. Hatheg-Kla scattered.
They’d heard stories of the atrocities the bandits had wrought on the villagers of the region, and seen for themselves the crumbling fortifications and half-shattered gates of Sinara. The townspeople said it had been on the verge of being overrun entirely, after a long siege and continuous attacks, until Britomartis of Celephaïs had snuck into the bandits’ camp and killed their leaders, then attacked them from the rear with her troops while the defenders rode out on that final, famous sally that scattered the bandits for good.
Their shipment of food and drink had been the perfect choice for visiting merchants, and that jade sculpture from Ilarnek proved quite useful in settling on mutually agreeable terms with the lord there.
Rather than try to find more pack animals and pack sufficient rations to survive the snow-covered passes once again, they’d decided to hire a boat down the River Xari to Jaren. The ice was clear all the way, the rivermen reported, although still study enough to support a man’s weight along the banks. Unless the temperature dropped considerably, which would be quite unexpected for this time of year, they should be able to reach Jaren in about a month, they said.
A month was a long time to be floating down the river, but the boat would be stopping at villages along the way, or to replenish supplies, and it was certainly easier than driving a caravan through the drifts!
The riverboat was designed for the relatively shallow waters it navigated, equipped with a sail and oars for use when needed (usually when traveling upstream), but now just moving with the current.
After it flowed past Sinara, the Xari, fed by the countless streams flowing into it from the mountains, began to settle down into a powerful river, growing wider and deeper as it flowed to the sea. In the spring, as the snows melted or in the storms of autumn it turned into a monster, smashing boats and inundating riverside villages, but the snows were still crisp, and the river languid in the cold.
The captain—a grizzled bear of a man everyone called Rufe—pushed the tiller over, guiding the boat toward the starboard bank.
“We need more wood for the fire.”
“Hey, Rufe!” called one of the crew, “Maybe a nice fat deer, too?”
“Won’t find many fat deer this time of the year,” laughed the captain, “but we might as well stock up a bit if we can. Gettin’ tired of fish.”
The boat crunched into the ice shelf, splintering it up into thin plates of translucent cold.
The hull grated on the bottom; dry land was only a meter away, assuming there was indeed dry land under the packed snowbank overhanging the ice.
Gen and B’tolo jumped into the snow, bows in hand, and headed into the woods. Donn and Hakim joined Rufe and another crew, Jerem, with axes.
“There’s a likely one there,” said Donn,” pointing at a fallen tree.
He walked over for a closer look.
“Looks like it’s been down a year or more,” he said. “Don’t see any rot, either.”
The other joined him and looked more closely.
“Sure, looks fine to me,” agreed Rufe. “Not real happy about those claw scars, but the bear that made them is long gone.”
He turned to Jerem and Hakim.
“You two want to get started on the branches, and me and Donn’ll work from the bottom up.”
Jerem grunted assent, and began hacking branches off. Hakim waded through the snow toward the top of the tree, lopping off a few saplings on the way, and set to work there.
Donn and the captain squared off on opposite sides of the trunk and began chopping into it with alternating swings, settling into a repeating thud-thud-thud rhythm of axeblades. Chips flew.
After they were done with the trunk, hours later, they got out the wedges and began splitting it into more easily handled pieces. The stove on the boat could handle pretty big chunks, but it was a lot easier to throw in smaller chunks than a hundred-kilo log.
As they were sitting on their work and resting, they heard footsteps crunching through the snow, and looked up to see Gen and B’tolo trudging back to the boat. Gen had the body of a doe draped over his shoulders, but the stains on B’tolo’s furs made it clear they’d taken turns.
“Looks like we’re having venison tonight!”
“A good, healthy doe, captain,” said B’tolo. “We wanted the buck—a real prize, and a beautiful rack—but he took off as soon as we got close enough to spot him. The doe wasn’t so smart.”
“The doe ain’t as heavy, neither,” grumbled Gen. “Woulda taken both of us to haul that buck back here, even if we butchered him there.”
“Where do you want us to do it, Rufe? Shouldn’t take that long here, once we get a frame set.”
“It’ll be getting dark soon,” said the captain. “Let’s get back on board and push off again. Never can tell what might be waiting in these woods.”
“Yup. I’ll get a frame set up on the stern, then,” said B’tolo, picking up an armload of cut wood and walking toward the boat. “C’mon, Gen, get off your ass!”
Gen hefted the deer on his shoulders, settling the weight.
“Pity you don’t have muscles of a real man, B’tolo.”
“I got all the muscles I need right between my legs, which is more’n you can say!”
“Pity you only need that much!” retorted Gen, treading the beaten path to the boat. “Why, the last time I was in Lhosk…”
Their bickering voices faded into the wind.
“Best we get back to the boat, too,” said Jerem. She gathered her own armful and followed the pair.
The rest of them followed suit, and after a few more trips they were all back onboard and drifting with the current once again.
It was still freezing, and the wind from the Peaks of Thok still cut deep, but sizzling hot venison and tea helped.
* * *
By the time the onyx walls and towers of Jaren came into view the river was wider than they could see across. It split into numerous channels here, dotted with small islands that appeared and vanished again with the changing tides and seasons.
The river was quite deep where the quays of Jaren stood, and a stone breakwater made sure the worst of the current stayed outside. It was late winter, so there were only two other riverboats and three ocean-worthy ships moored. It took a good ship and crew to brave the northern seas at this time of year, and even river travel could be deadly for the inexperienced.
The captain swung the boat expertly up against the quay, and Jerem and B’tolo jumped ashore to tie up the hawsers fore and aft, pulling the boat up closer to the stones of the quay.
Three guards walked up to greet them as the finished.
“Welcome, Rufe. We didn’t expect to see you back until the ice melted,” said the older man, apparently in charge.
“Sergeant O’brina, good to see you’ve survived another Jaren winter!”
The guard chuckled.
“I expect we were warmer here with our hearths than you with you little stove!”
“Aye, I expect you were, Sergeant O’brina, I expect you were,” replied the captain. “These traders—Masters Donn and Hakim of Dylath-Leen—hired us to bring their pelts to port, and here we are.”
“Ice clear all the way to Sinala?”
“Was when we came through,” replied Rufe. “It’s getting pretty thin along the shore, too… If this weather keeps up I’d expect the spring floods to be starting up in a week, maybe ten days or so.”
“So you’ll be staying awhile, then.”
“Yup, ’fraid you’ll be stuck with me for a while. Not gonna row all that way against the floodwaters unless someone wants to pay me to do it!” said the captain as he handed over a small bag. “Harbor tax.”
The guard hefted it once. It clinked.
“Thank you, Captain. You’re free to enter the city.”
Donn stepped forward and nodded his head in greeting.
“Sergeant O’brina, Donn of Dylath-Leen,” he introduced himself. “Where would I find the captains of those merchanters?”
“That one’s from Inganok,” he said, pointed at an ugly black ship that made Donn’s skin crawl. “The other two, though, might be available. The one with the red pennant is an independent trader from Baharna and farther south who comes through every few years; the double crescent is, of course, one of Chóng’s ships.”
The black ship was difficult to make out clearly in the winter sky, a blob of darkness that ate the wan sunlight and shadows, hiding all detail. He’d heard tales of Inganok ships and their crews, and had little desire to find out that truth behind them. Strange men with long, narrow eyes, long-lobed ears, thin noses, and pointed chins, they brought most of the onyx used in Jaren.
Chóng, on the other hand, had an excellent reputation as far as he knew. An honest merchant who would scrupulously stick to the terms of the bargain, but never gave as much as a speck of dust away for free. Donn figured he’d rather have honest and tough than potentially deadly.
He knew nothing about the trader from Baharna, but why take the chance? Chóng’s reputation made him the first choice.
“Hakim, can you handle the cargo? I’ll try to arrange passage on Chóng’s freighter.”
Hakim nodded, and turned back to watch their furs being unloaded onto the wharf.
They could rent storage space in a shed if necessary, but it wouldn’t hurt the furs any to sit on the wharf for a night, either. As long as nobody stole them…
Donn hunched his shoulders into the wind.
Rufe had said today was warm and spring coming, but the icy wind slipping inside his coat sure didn’t feel like spring to him.
He couldn’t wait to arrange transport and head to the nearest tavern for some warm ale in front of a fire.
Chóng’s ship—the Blue Duck, it said—was a four-masted caravel with a square sail on the foremast and lateens on the other three. It was in good shape. Not new, certainly, and not especially clean, but Donn could see that everything was in the right place and looked ready for use. Damage from some collision—or battle—had been properly repaired, the rigging and sails were old but well-maintained and properly furled, and the watchman huddled on the stern deck noticed me immediately. Alert in spite of the cold.
“Donn of Dylath-Leen. Is the captain aboard?”
“Not likely in this cold!” he snorted. “He’s at the Scruffy Cat, drinking and warming his toes, I don’t doubt.”
“Thank you,” Donn replied. “I tell him to bring you a cup of something hot.”
“And someone cute and warm to bring it!”
Donn laughed and trudged back through the wind toward the town.
There were a few alehouses and inns facing the wharf, and the third one he looked at had a dirty sign reading “Scruffy Cat,” with a carved statue of a mountain lion next to it.
He pulled open the door and stepped in, slamming it shut behind him and standing for a moment to let his eyes adjust.
It was an average tavern, maybe a touch smaller than most… a dozen wood tables scattered across the sawdusty floor, oil lamps burning on the walls and stanchions, a few barrels and kegs lined up behind the counter, two dozen customers sitting at tables or standing in front of the stone fireplace, a serving woman with a platter, and a mustached old man behind the counter wearing a leather apron and a scowl.
I decided the old man was the best place to start, and plopped a coin on the counter to lubricate conversation.
“Ale, please.”
“We got two: light and dark. Which one ya want?”
“The stronger one.”
He cracked a smile, revealing that his scowl wasn’t a permanent facial feature and that he was missing a few teeth.
“That’d be dark, then. Warm ya right up, it will.”
He picked up a mug and held it under the tap on the larger barrel, filling it with a stream of black ale. He wiped it briefly with a rag and handed it over.
Donn was impressed. It was filled almost to the brim. An honest innkeeper!
He hoisted it in thanks, accompanied by a nod, then turned to survey the room.
“Where would I find the captain of the Blue Duck?”
The innkeeper pointed to three man eating dinner at a table off to the side.
“The one with the ferret on his shoulder.”
“Thanks.”
He walked over to the table, and caught the man’s eye.
The captain looked up, obviously wondering what he wanted.
“Donn of Dylath-Leen. I just got in from Sinala with a load of furs. I’m looking for transport to Hlanith or Lhosk.”
“Chow of Lhosk. You just asked about the Blue Duck, so you already know I work for Chóng. We’re heading back to Hlanith as soon as our load arrives, which should be tomorrow, weather permitting.”
“Hlanith would be perfect. We’ve a pretty big load… took up most of Captain Rufe’s boat.”
“You came down with Captain Rufe? If he trusted you, I think I can trust you, too. If it fit on his boat, it’ll fit in our hold. Just furs?”
“Just furs. Fleshed, stretched, and dried. Bundled without any frames.”
Chow nodded.
“Easy to handle, then… and in this weather, no pests hiding in the fur, either.”
“If they’re hiding they’ll be there ’til spring,” agreed Donn.
The captain waved his dagger, a piece of meat still hanging off the tip, at one of the other men.
“Qway, go down and see how much he’s got, will ya?”
Qway, a short, black man, didn’t look happy.
“C’mon, cap’n… lemme finish my food while it’s hot at least!”
The captain hmphed.
“Eat. And when you go why don’t you relieve Tom on watch, too.”
Qway almost snarled as he bit into a hunk of bread and tore off a mouthful.
Captain Chow ignored him and waved at an empty spot on the bench.
“Sit, Master Donn. Will you join us for dinner?”
“Gladly, Captain, thank you. My partner will be here soon, too… he’s arranging storage for the night.”
“Plenty of room.” The captain waved his arm. “Kinçalla! Some food for Master Donn here, and another on the way!”
Kinçalla—the innkeeper, as it turned out—called out a long “He–ya” and vanished into the back room.
Captain Chow lifted his own mug to Donn in a toast.
“To spring, may She come soon.”
“To spring,” echoed Donn, bumping his mug into the other’s.
They each downed a gulp; Chow slamming his now-empty mug onto the tabletop, and Donn holding his ready for seconds.
“Master Donn, you like goat meat?”
“Not my favorite, but I’ve had worse.”
“Well, tonight it’s goat meat, I’m afraid. Kinçalla only serves one dish, and tonight that’s it.”
“If it’s warm, I’ll eat it and be happy,” said Donn, taking another sip of the ale. “There aren’t a lot of inns to choose from when you’re on the road, and I’m always on the road.”
“A man after my own heart,” smiled Chow. “Kinçalla! Three more ales!”
He turned to the woman still quietly at the table, eating steadily while they talked.
“Alanna here hates goat, don’t you?”
She nodded, chewing steadily on something as she did.
“Alanna hales from down south.”
“You mean, like Baharna and Dylath-Leen? I’m from Dylath-Leen; spent a lot of time in the region.”
A serving woman appeared to drop a large plate of steaming meat and potatoes, drenched in some brownish sauce, in front of Donn.
He nodded, and pulled out a dagger, picking up the fork she’d handed him with the other.
“At least it’s hot!”
As he cut the meat he glanced at Alanna.
“So where’re you from? Tharalion? Zar?”
Alanna set her fork down, and abruptly stood. “Sorry, I don’t feel well.”
She turned and left Donn stunned behind.
He turned to Chow.
“What…? Did I say something wrong?”
“She’s not one for looking back, Master Donn. Might be a good idea not to mention it again.”
He stared into his mug for a moment, then took a slug.
“So you grew up down there, did you?”
“Yes… I travelled through the area with my father for years,” answered Donn, still wondering at the sharp reaction to an innocent question. “Like me, he preferred the land to the sea, but we visited Zar, Thalarion, and Baharna several times over the years. After he passed I continued his business, but rarely go to sea.”
“But you seek passage with us.”
“The routes to the south are impassible until spring, and I’d rather pay you to ferry my wares south now than wait here for the geese to come honking.”
Chow nodded, then looked up toward the door.
Hakim had arrived, and stood in the doorway brushing off snowflakes. He shook himself like a bear, his furs shedding caked snow easily.
Donn waved, catching Hakim’s eye.
He walked over to join them, shedding furs as he came.
“My partner, Hakim. He’s mute.”
Chow raised an eyebrow but nodded to Hakim as he approached.
“Chow of Lhosk.”
Hakim wriggled his fingers at Donn, who spoke for him: “Hakim of Dylath-Leen.”
He turned to Hakim and explained that Chow was the captain of the Blue Duck.
“Hakim says the furs are safe for the night, and we can load them any time tomorrow. Or even tonight, if you’re in a hurry.”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” said Chow. “Our own cargo should be here and loaded tomorrow, if all goes well. We can leave as soon as the cargo’s ready.
“Kinçalla! More ale! And another meal!” he called, receiving a muffled “He–ya!” from the back room in reply.
The serving woman brought over another mug of ale for each of them, and cleaned up Alanna’s leftovers.
The three of them turned to discussing the weather (colder than usual, but nobody had lost any toes yet), the Siege of Sinara and Britomartis, and the excellence of the ale—mostly Chow and Donn, but every so often Hakim would contribute something via Donn.
Hakim was dressed in browns and greys, and moved very quietly. He could make sounds, of course, but few people could understand him and it was generally easiest to just remain silent. Most onlookers assumed he was dumb in both senses of the word and tended to ignore him entirely. It was painful to be left out, but at the same time he’d picked up a lot of valuable information because it never seemed to occur to people his hearing worked fine.
They dickered over the charges, and reached an agreement that nobody was entirely happy with but everyone thought reasonable. The Blue Duck would sail to Hlanith, replenishing food and water somewhere on the jungled Kled coast a few times.
They arranged a room at the Scruffy Cat; it turned out that Captain Chow and his men were staying there, too, except for the poor soul on guard duty on the ship.
Later that night, they decided to check on their furs once more before retiring for the night. Captain Rufe had recommended that warehouse as trustworthy, but it never hurt to be sure. And being suspicious had saved them more than once already.
The skies were mostly clear, with a few ragged clouds scudding across the night sky.
The snow crunched softly underfoot and an unwary step could lead to a nasty fall, but at least it wasn’t snowing. Perhaps the weather would be good tomorrow after all.
The warehouse was only a few hundred meters away, and they could clearly see the warm glow of the firepit in front, and the silhouettes of the two guards on duty huddled in front of it. They looked cold, but no asleep.
They walked up quietly, and were pleasantly surprised when the guards noticed them before they got very close. Good ears, Donn figured. And apparently they took their jobs seriously, he realized, noticing that they both had their swordbelts strapped on over their furs, and there was no sign they’d been drinking.
“Donn of Dylath-Leen,” he called. “My partner Hakim was here earlier with our cargo.”
“Master Donn, Master Hakim,” replied one of the guards, taking his hand off his sword. “Bu-Cholis of Jaren. All is well here.”
“So I see. Our first time here in Jaren, and we just wanted to check.”
“No problem, Master Donn. Need to check inside?”
“No need. Thanks.”
He turned to Hakim, who nodded agreement.
The guards seemed to know what they were doing.
They walked back through the snow toward the inn.
Suddenly Hakim grunted and grasped Donn’s arm, pulling him into the dark shadow of a building.
Ahead of them, in the alley next to the Scruffy Cat, Donn could make out three blots of even darker shadow.
People.
They stood and watched for a minute—the three men were talking in low tones.
Donn could barely hear the rumble of their voices but could only make out a scattered word here and there.
He started to move closer but Hakim pressed his hand against his chest, holding him in place.
He glanced at Hakim, and saw that he was straining to catch every word.
The three decided whatever they had been talking about, and slipped silently away again.
Hakim let his hand slip, and took a deep breath.
“Paper,” he spit out, mangling the word that nobody but Donn could have understood.
“Let’s get inside,” said Donn, checking to be sure nobody else was lurking in the night. They walked back to the inn. There were still a few people at the tables, drinking, but not the three men they’d just seen.
Captain Chow and Alanna were gone. Donn thought some of the drinkers might be his crew, but didn’t know for sure.
They went up the narrow stairs, to their room.
As soon as they closed the door, Hakim whipped out his slate and began writing on it with the soft gray stone they’d found. It wasn’t very easy to read, but it was a lot faster—and cheaper—than using parchment and a quill every time. Hakim could no longer pronounce “slate,” so they’d settled on “paper” instead.
Slave catchers from Sisters, he wrote. He had to erase every so often to write new words, because the slate was so small.
The Sisters of Mercy… they ran orphanages throughout much of the Dreamlands, taking in children orphaned by war or disaster, or abandoned by starving families. And, in return for raising the children, they kept them as slaves. The practice of slavery was outlawed in a number of cities and kingdoms, including Celephaïs, but the Sisters were everywhere.
As were their brothels.
500 bounty for woman. Tonite. Alanna?, Hakim continued.
“They must be after Alanna,” said Donn.
Hakim nodded.
“Tell Chow?”
“Of course. We swore long ago to fight this,” agreed Donn.
He rose and stepped into the hallway.
There were several doors, and he had no idea which one belonged to Chow.
“Captain Chow!” he called. “There’s a small problem with our cargo, and I need to speak with you!”
There was a loud thump from the room across the hallway, and the door opened a crack.
After checking to be sure it was really Donn and not thieves, Chow stepped out, naked blade in hand.
“Master Donn.”
“Captain. Sorry to bother you, but we just went to check on our furs and there’s something we need to discuss.”
“Here? Now?”
“It’s quite important… Could you join us for a minute?”
Quite suspicious at the unexpected invitation at such a late hour, Chow looked into their room to see Hakim sitting unarmed on a bench, slate held up for him to read: Slavers. Sisters. Tonite.
Donn leaned close and explained what they had seen and overheard, in whispers.
Chow touched his hand to his brow as he nodded his head in thanks. He tapped on two other doors along the hallway, whispering to the crew who answered. Alanna and two other women were in one of the rooms. They moved to the captain’s room, with a few other crew in attendance, while four more went back downstairs wearing light armor and grim expressions.
Tom, the man who’d been on guard on the Blue Duck, snuffed all the lamps along the hallway, and they waited in the dark silence.
An hour passed before they heard a faint thump, the sound of a padded ladder hitting the edge.
Chow checked his men, catching their eyes to be sure they’d all heard it and were ready.
The shutters on the women’s room were suddenly thrown open and two men leapt in, swords raised to strike. The waiting crew met them with drawn sword and axe, killing one instantly and hacking the sword arm of the second to leave him sitting on the floor, gritting his teeth in pain and anger.
Another man jumped into the room Donn and Hakim were in, holding a long, curved knife in each hand. Donn, standing against the wall to the side of the window, stuck his dagger into the man’s ear and he collapsed on the spot.
Outside, he could hear the sounds of another short fight—Donn guessed the four men he’d seen earlier had circled around to see who might be waiting on the ground below. And found them.
In a short time the lamps were lit and the bodies counted.
They had no casualties, although one of the men outside had been hit by a falling ladder. Only one of the slave catchers was still alive: four men had broken into Alanna’s room and the rooms on both sides, plus the lone man on the ground was five.
Chow squatted in front of the survivor, who snarled “We have a slave warrant for Sasha, you bastards!”
“Perhaps you should have brought that up before you jumped into our rooms with weapons drawn,” countered Chow. “We know how to deal with robbers.”
“Nobody here named Sasha,” added one of the crew.
A slave warrant gave them flimsy cover to recover escaped slaves as missing property. Slave catchers were generally despised, but with a warrant they could usually count on the local guard to back them up, even if the warrant was issued elsewhere—as it almost always was.
“How many people in your party?”
“Only us four,” the man spat, and was rewarded with a fist to the face.
“Another lie and you’re a dead man,” said Chow. “How many?”
The man spit out some blood and growled, “Five.”
The innkeeper showed up behind them, looking into the room.
“Thieves?”
“Robbers broke in,” said Chow without taking his eyes off the bound prisoner. “We’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll bring some sawdust for the floor,” said the innkeeper. “I charge extra to get rid of bodies.”
Chow smiled. “The sharks’ll take care of it all.”
He turned back to the captive.
“Now, what are we going to do with you?” he asked.
Alanna, face still hidden in her cowl, sprang forward, dagger in hand.
Chow caught her arm, barely saving the fallen man’s life.
“Not now, not now,” he admonished. “Besides, his artery’s cut and he won’t last long. Let nature take its course, my dear.”
She struggled, but even as she tried to pull her hand from Chow’s grasp, the man on the floor slipped away, eyes rolling up into his head. Unconscious, and soon to be dead from blood loss.
“Dammit! I wanted to find out how he tracked us!” complained Chow. “Nobody should know who she is!”
Captain Chow stood, shaking his head.
“Well, we’d have thrown him in later anyway… pity, though. There might be more of these vermin about.”
“Master Donn, Master Hakim, perhaps some warm tea before we retire for the night?” asked Chow, holding his arm out in invitation. “Alanna, would you join us?
Donn agreed, leading the way back downstairs.
As they passed the doorway to the kitchen, Chow stuck his head in and asked for a pot of tea.
“That was more than three men. They didn’t mention any more?” he asked once they sat down.
“They didn’t say. There were only three then, but… there might be more watching even now!”
They scanned the few remaining guests in the inn. Nobody seemed to be listening, but on the other hand how many people were still sitting in an inn’s tavern this early in the morning?
Alanna watched them through the vapor rising from her cup.
“I despise slavery, too, although I’ve been fortunate to avoid it thus far,” added Donn.
“As do I,” agreed Chow, “But it is unusual for a man, a trader, to involve himself in their affairs. They are known for their long memories.”
“Some things cannot be stomached,” growled Donn. “Slaver or brigand, they’re all the same to us.”
“Thank you.”
It was Alanna, a soft voice on the verge of a sob.
“If they had taken me back to Zar… I would rather die!”
Donn laid his hand lightly atop hers.
“So you are Sasha, then? Well, they won’t take you back. Not while we’re here, at least.”
“Sasha is what they called me. It was never my name!” she said, face lifted to reveal eyes bright with tears.
The captain drummed his fingers on his teacup.
“I wish we’d be able to question him, find out where he got his information.” He thought for a moment, sipping. “I think we’d better plan on leaving as soon as possible.”
“We’ll get loaded at first light,” said Donn, glancing to confirm Hakim’s nod. “But they know where we’re headed, in any case.”
“Oh, they won’t bother us at sea. We can outrun or outfight vermin like that,” snorted Chow. “But they may be waiting for us in Hlanith.”
“No way to get word there in advance?”
“Not anymore… I used my last dragolet at Midwinter,” said Chow. “What I can do, though, is put a man ashore and stay at sea a day or two so he can make some preparations.”
“That sounds like an outstanding idea,” smiled Donn. “And if there is someone waiting we can give them a proper welcome.”
* * *
Chow posted a guard for the night, although there were only a few hours left until the pale sun crept up out of the ocean.
Donn and Hakim rose with the sun to find that the bodies had all vanished. Captain Chow just said he cleaned things up a bit and left out the details. Recalling his comment about sharks, Donn figured he didn’t need the details anyway.
The guard at the warehouse had changed, but the new guard was awake and alert, too… he was busy chopping wood for the firepit in front of the building.
“Morning to you,” called Donn, pulling an empty sledge behind him over the ice and snow. “We’re here to pick up our cargo.”
The guard rang the bell, letting the owner know they’d come—the owner knew their faces, and would let them in.
The three of them stood near the fire, warming their hands.
“Heard some slave catchers were in the Cat last night. That have anything to do with you?”
“Strange, I didn’t hear a thing,” said Donn. “We came out here late last night to check, and went to sleep right after.”
“Huh. Could’a sworn I heard swords.”
“Can’t imagine what slave catchers would be doing around here in the snow!” laughed Donn.
“No, me neither… strange, though…”
The owner trudged up, looking quite unhappy to be dragged out of warmth to the freezing warehouse so early in the day. He confirmed that Donn was indeed the man who had stored the cargo yesterday, and since he’d paid in advance (of course!) was free to reclaim his goods.
Donn and Hakim loaded the sledge with furs and hauled it back toward the waiting Blue Duck.
The crew was already hard at work, prepping the ship for departure and checking stores. Apparently Captain Chow had sent a messenger to the cargo hauler he had been waiting for, and had them break camp in the middle of the night to arrive early this morning.
Most of the goods he was loading were furs, too, and Donn noted that they seemed about the same quality as his own—or maybe just a bit worse.
He grinned in anticipation of the bargaining waiting for him in Hlanith, determined to sell his better furs for more than Chow could get for his selection!
They pushed off well before noon.
As soon as the city was out of sight five large bags, roughly man-sized and man-heavy, were dropped unceremoniously overboard.
* * *
The weather was beautiful, but even in the sunshine the wind slashed through Donn’s furs. There was ice on the ropes and rails, and it could be dangerous walking the decks. The cabins weren’t not much warmer, but at least you could get out of the wind.
That same wind caused a fair amount of chop, and as the boat rode the waves up and down and up and down and again and again, Donn recalled exactly why he preferred land routes. He wasn’t seasick, quite, but he wasn’t happy, either.
Hakim, on the other hand, seemed largely insensitive to the wind, legs dangling over the side of the stern castle, playing various sea chanties on his panpipes. His face and hands were exposed to the wind, red and chapped, but he played on… and in spite of the wind, his tunes carried clearly across the deck.
The crew knew the words, of course, and throughout the day often hummed or sang along under their breaths.
Even Captain Chow was in a good mood, and the freezing north wind billowed their sails, speeding them on their way.
Donn occupied himself by fishing off the stern, donating his catch, minor as it was, to the cook.
He was used to Hakim’s pipes, and often found himself humming along with tunes he knew. Although crew, Alanna often spent her free moments sitting nearby, listening or watching the waves. They gradually began to speak to one another, and discovered they both loved music, and sunsets, and the spicy rice cuisine of Zar, smothered in red peppers and octopus.
He’d spent some years in Zar in his youth and they talked of places they’d been or people met. They’d moved in different circles, but overlapped enough to have shared memories.
She revealed that Alanna was also a false name, chosen to help hide her from the slave catchers. She hesitated when he asked, but finally revealed that her real name was Pensri. She said it meant “maiden of the moon” in her mother’s tongue.
Donn thought to himself that with long, black hair framing her round, Asian face, the name was perfect. He kept his thought to himself, though.
A few idle days later, the captain turned the ship west, toward the Kled coast.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’m getting tired of salt beef and fish. Some fresh game and fresh water would be right nice about now.”
Everyone heartily approved his opinion, and the rocky coastline came into view later that day.
The captain ordered the anchor and the longboat dropped, and let the crew select a party of six to go ashore. Neither Donn nor Hakim was invited, and so they watched the longboat plow through the whitecaps toward a tiny, stony inlet that offered some protection from the surf.
The crew left one man to watch the boat, and vanished into the trees.
Most of the crew took advantage of the stop to enjoy napping or fishing, noting that the captain himself was stretched out on the stern castle enjoying the sun.
When the lookout tried to clamber down from the crow’s nest, though, the captain warned him to finish his shift, without even opening his eyes. He was keeping a close watch on his ship even if he did seem to be napping!
In the late afternoon the men appeared with two deer, and pushed off to bring back the fresh-caught game.
They battled their way back through the surf to the ship, and the rest of the crew helped them climb back aboard, hoisting up the deer carcasses and the longboat. The cook had already set up a frame for the deer and got to work at once with his knives.
Qway, the short-tempered Pargite, had a bloody cloth wrapped around his head.
The captain looked concerned.
“Trouble?”
One of the other crew laughed.
“No trouble, Cap’n. Poor Qway here was so eager to get that buck he rammed his head into a tree!”
Qway stomped off below to laughter.
The anchor came up, the sails down, and the ship moved back asea as it caught the wind.
A few days later the crew began to spot farms on the coast, and Captain Chow ordered them to drop anchor. They were still well away from the harbor, along the settled coastline north of the city.
“Tom, I want you and Qway to go into the city and set things up.”
The crew encircled Chow, listening closely.
“We don’t know if those scum are waiting here or not, but damned if I’m going to help them. I could put her ashore here easily enough, but we just don’t know where they might be hiding, or how many of them there are.”
There was a rumble of agreement from the crew. A few of them had experience with being press-ganged, others with slavery, and as paid crew they hated slavery as much as they loved their freedom.
“Most of all, she’s one of us, and we protect our own,” he continued. “Don’t bother looking for them… if they’re there at all they’ll be doing their best to remain unnoticed. Go to our branch there and talk to Factor Raibel. If Factor Chóng is around, by all means get him involved. We’ll need a way to get Alanna off the ship to safety, because they will surely bring the guard and demand to inspect us.
“Raibel knows the city better than me, ask him what to do, and one of you come back here and tell me how he wants to handle it. If you aren’t back in three days I’m heading to Lhosk instead.”
Tom and Qway nodded.
“OK, get the longboat in the water, then,” he commanded, and half a dozen crew got the longboat loaded and launched.
He turned to Donn.
“Do you want to go in with them now, or come with us? I can even unload your cargo here if you insist, but I’d rather use the big wharf in Hlanith.”
Donn and Hakim looked at each other; Hakim wriggled his fingers.
“No reason to go to all that trouble, Captain. We’re happy to sit here fishing for another day or two.”
“Good.” Chow turned to the rest of the crew, still standing around and listening. “What are you all still doing here? Back to work! Get this all squared away, and make her shine! You know Raibel wants his ships neat and clean!”
They scattered to their tasks.
Two days later the lookout called down from the nest: “They’re back, Cap’n!”
Captain Chow pulled out his telescope and scanned the shore.
Qway was there with somebody else.
The other man pulled off his hat, showing his face more clearly.
It was Factor Raibel, the man managing the Hlanith branch of Chóng trading empire.
“Launch the longboat,” called Chow. “I’m going with you this time.”
The crew took the longboat to the pebbly beach, picking up Qway and Raibel and ferrying them all back to the Bue Duck.
Factor Raibel was a tall, thin, silver-haired man with drooping mustache and no left hand.
He greeted most of the crew by name as he came aboard, and stopped when he noticed Donn and Hakim.
“Raibel of Lhosk,” he introduced himself.
“Donn and Hakim, both of Dylath-Leen.”
“Captain Chow has told me what happened,” he said. “Thank you for helping avert a rather awkward situation.”
“Of course, Factor,” smiled Donn. “It is every honest man’s duty to prevent robbery.”
Neither of them mentioned the slave catchers or the Sisters of Mercy.
Raibel gave a slight bow and walked with Captain Chow up onto the stern castle, far enough away to talk without being overheard.
To avoid any suspicion of undue interest—and, indeed, they had none—Donn and Hakim walked to the prow to admire the clouds.
Chow called for some tea, which the cook brought promptly, and after about half an hour called for Donn and Hakim to join them.
He explained what they’d cooked up: they would sail for Chóng’s dock as usual, expecting that any slave catchers would see them and gather there. At the last minute the ship would turn and instead dock on the spit—a long, thin strip of land that served as a breakwater for the main harbor, and had its own wharves and warehouses. While it was only a short distance away by water, it would take anyone a considerable time to get there by land, even on horseback.
Raibel would make sure that all the available boats would be busy during that time, which would give the crew of the Blue Duck enough time to unload Donn’s cargo, with Alanna hidden inside a bale of furs. A waiting horse-drawn cart would transport them and their cargo to one of Chóng’s warehouses where Alanna could emerge safely.
Even better, Raibel agreed that he would purchase Donn’s furs at an excellent price, to repay him for his cooperation.
Donn thought about it, and spoke privately with Hakim for a few minutes. Hakim smiled and shrugged his shoulders, letting Donn make the decision.
“I’ve never dealt with slave catchers or the Sisters,” said Donn, turning back to Chow and Raibel. “What is the usual bounty on a recaptured slave? And who is in charge of buying and selling slaves for the Sisters in Hlanith?”
The two others bristled at his questions, but he reassured them.
“I have a different suggestion,” he said, and explained his idea. It only took a few minutes for them to agree, smiles all around.
“Take the factor back to shore,” called Chow to the crew. “Qway, go with him and make sure he gets back to Hlanith safely.”
He called out in a louder voice, “We’ll be sailing into Hlanith tomorrow morning. We’ll be mooring at Chóng’s dock as usual, but there will be some surprises this time.”
He called the crew closer so he didn’t have to shout, and explained in detail before regaining his usual captain’s voice: “All right, everyone back to work! Raibel was quite unhappy with those crusty foulers portside!”
The crew was not thrilled to be chipping barnacles from the hull, especially when still at sea, but they had ale and companionship to look forward to the next day. And since the ship was fully loaded, most of the barnacles were well underwater where they couldn’t be seen—or removed—without beaching or drydock.
When the longboat came back it brought with it enough mutton and fresh vegetables for the night, and Captain Chow ordered one of their kegs of ale opened.
* * *
The next morning everyone was up with the sun, and the Blue Duck picked up speed with the morning breeze, heading toward the towers and smoke of Hlanith on the horizon.
About half an hour later they were approaching the breakwater, and the captain all but one lanteen furled, cutting their speed to a crawl. The harbor was crawling with ships, boats, and houseboats, and Raibel (and Chóng!) would be most unhappy if they rammed somebody on the way in. It cost money, and more importantly, good will, and to a merchant the latter was perhaps more important than the former.
The docks were already swarming with sailors, longshoreman, merchants, guards, and layabouts. Raibel had opened up a space on the wharf, and Captain Chow’s sure hand brought the ship to kiss the wharf with barely a bump. The dock crew grabbed the hawsers and wound them up right around the bollards, but the ship had already burned most of her momentum and there was almost no need to snub her at all.
As soon as the Blue Duck was still, Donn and Alanna jumped ashore, together with half a dozen sailors. Hakim stayed with their cargo, helping the crew get started unloading the ship.
They walked down the wharf toward the city proper, and almost immediately were stopped by a group of armed men, accompanied by city guards.
“We have a warrant to reclaim stolen property, namely one slave going by the name of Sasha,” cried the bearded man at the head of the group.
One of the guards nodded. “The warrant is valid, I’m afraid, and he claims that woman is the stolen slave.”
Alanna dropped her hood, exposing her face.
“That’s her!” cried the man. “That’s Sasha! Look at this picture!”
He waved a hand-drawn picture of her, and it was indeed a close match.
Donn smiled.
“Yes, I know this is the stolen property,” he explained, standing between her and the slave catchers. “And as an honest man I am bringing her to the city guard myself, to hand her over and claim the bounty.”
He turned to the guard sergeant.
“Sergeant? May I ask you to escort us to the guard office to deliver her to the proper authorities?”
The sergeant, at a loss by the way things had suddenly changed—he had been expecting a fight, based on what the slave catchers had told him—nodded. “Of course, Master Donn… it’s just right ahead.”
“Hey, I have the warrant! That’s my bounty!” shouted the other man.
The sergeant pushed him aside; obviously he had no love for the slave catchers, and now he treated Donn with the same derision. “Master Donn has said he will turn the slave over, and that means he gets the bounty. Get out of the way.”
They marched down the street, making a strange procession with Donn and Alanna in the center, surrounded by multiple layers of armed men: first sailors, then city guards, and finally slave catchers straggling along behind, determined not to be left out of any payment.
“Captain? Master Donn here has recovered stolen property in accordance with the warrant issued by the Sisters of Mercy, and wants to claim the bounty.”
The captain, a scarred warrior who looked like he would rather be sleeping, looked at Donn, and Alanna.
“You are the slave known as Sasha?”
“I am,” she admitted quietly.
“And you deliver her, and claim the bounty offered by the Sisters?”
“Yes,” said Donn, and waved Alanna forward.
“Well, that’s that, then,” said the captain, and waved his hand at the slave catchers standing in the doorway. “Off with you now. Warrant’s done now.”
They left, grumbling.
The guard captain counted out ten gold pieces, told Alanna to sit on the bench next to his desk, and chained her leg to it.
“Sorry, girl, but there’s no helping it. The Sisters will be here to collect you shortly.
“And you, Master Donn,” he snapped. “Your business is done. I’ll thank you to get out of my sight now!”
“Ah, but there are still two small matters to take care of, captain…”
Donn handed back the ten gold, and reached into his shirt to draw out a small bag that clinked.
He counted out another ten, twenty, thirty gold coins, and added them to the growing pile on the captain’s table.
“I believe a slave may be purchased from the Sisters of Mercy for two hundred grams of gold—in this case, forty gold coins, I think you will agree after examining them—and the city guard has an arrangement with the Sisters that allows such transactions to be handled through the city guard, correct?”
The captain looked at him quizzically.
“Yes…”
“Then I now claim this slave as my own,” announced Donn. “Free her, please.”
The captain slowly freed the slave, then pulled out parchment and pen and began to write out a receipt. Donn handed him a rolled parchment: “Here, let me save you the trouble, captain. I have one already prepared.”
The captain took it and scanned it, then suddenly stopped and looked at Donn in astonishment.
Donn smiled.
“I stand witness,” stated the guard captain abruptly. “You have legally purchased this slave, and the Sisters no longer have any call on her.”
“Thank you, captain,” said Donn, pulling Alanna to stand next to him.
“And one final thing, if I may… would you be so kind as to witness my statement of emancipation?”
“With pleasure, Master Donn, with pleasure!”
“As legal owner of the slave known as Sasha and as Alanna, I hereby declare her a free woman, and no man’s slave!” announced Donn in a voice that surely must have carried to the Blue Duck.
The captain bowed to her.
“Mistress, it has been a pleasure to meet you this day,” he said, laughing at the astonishment and discomfiture of the slave catchers.
“I, too, shall stand witness,” came a voice from behind. It was Raibel.
“Factor Raibel! You’re part of this plan, too?”
“Yes, captain. Master Donn here is a friend,” said the factor, and stamped the receipt showing purchase and emancipation with his personal chop.
Donn turned to Alanna, taking both her hands in his.
“One final thing I must ask,” he said, in a much lower voice. “Pensri, I would take you for my wife. Will you marry me?”
Her answer was distorted because she was trying to weep and kiss Donn simultaneously but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind what it was.
