Half a King

Sumael narrowed her dark eyes at Yarvi as he shuffled past. She had a scar and a notch in her top lip where a little triangle of white tooth showed, and he found himself wondering what southern land she was born in and how she had come here, whether she was older or younger than him, hard to tell with her hair chopped short—

She darted out a quick arm and caught his wrist, twisting it up so his hand came free of his torn sleeve.

‘This one has a crippled hand.’ No mockery, merely a statement of fact, as though she had found a lame cow in a herd. ‘There’s only one finger on it.’ Yarvi tried to pull free but she was stronger than she looked. ‘And that seems a poor one.’

‘That damn flesh-dealer!’ Ankran elbowed past to grab Yarvi’s wrist and twist it about to look. ‘You said you could row!’

Yarvi could only shrug and mutter, ‘I didn’t say well.’

‘It’s almost as if you can’t trust anyone,’ said Sumael, one black eyebrow high. ‘How will he row with one hand?’

‘He’ll have to find a way,’ said Trigg, stepping up to her. ‘We’ve got nine spaces and nine slaves.’ He loomed over Sumael and spoke with his blunt nose no more than a finger’s width from her pointed one. ‘Unless you fancy a turn on the benches?’

She licked at that notch in her lip, and eased carefully backward. ‘I’ll worry about the course, shall I?’

‘Good idea. Chain the cripple on Jaud’s oar.’

They dragged Yarvi along a raised gangway down the middle of the deck, past benches on either side, three men to each huge oar, all shaven-headed, all lean, all collared, watching him with their own mixtures of pity, self-pity, boredom and contempt.

A man was hunched on hands and knees, scrubbing at the deck-boards, face hidden by a shag of matted hair and colourless beard, so beggarly he made the most wretched of the oarsmen look like princes. One of the guards aimed the sort of careless kick at him you might at a stray dog and sent him crawling away, dragging a great weight of heavy chain after him. The ship did not seem well supplied in general but of chain there was no shortage.

They flung Yarvi down with unnecessary violence between two other slaves, by no means an encouraging pair. At the end of the oar was a hulking southerner with a thick fold of muscle where his neck should have been, head tipped back so he could watch the sea-birds circling. Closest to the rowlock was a dour old man, short and stocky, his sinewy forearms thick with grey hair, his cheeks full of broken veins from a life in the weather, picking at the calluses on his broad palms.

‘Gods damn it,’ grunted this older one, shaking his head as the guards chained Yarvi to the bench beside him, ‘we’ve a cripple at our oar.’

‘You prayed for help, didn’t you?’ said the southerner, without looking around. ‘Here is help.’

‘I prayed for help with two hands.’

‘Be thankful for half of what you prayed for,’ said Yarvi. ‘Believe me, I prayed for none of this.’

The big man’s mouth curled up a little as he looked at Yarvi sidelong. ‘When you have a load to lift, you’re better lifting than weeping. I am Jaud. Your sour oarmate is Rulf.’

‘My name’s Yorv,’ said Yarvi, having turned his story over in advance. Keep your lies as carefully as your winter grain, Mother Gundring would have said. ‘I was a cook’s boy—’

With a practised roll of the tongue and twitch of the head the old man spat over the ship’s side. ‘You’re nothing now, and that’s all. Forget everything but the next stroke. That makes it a little easier.’

Jaud heaved up a sigh. ‘Don’t let Rulf grind the laughter out of you. He’s sour as lemons, but a good man to have at your back.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Though, one must admit, since he’s chained to your side, that will never happen.’

Yarvi gave a sorry little chuckle, maybe his first since he was made a slave. Maybe his first since he was made a king. But he didn’t laugh long.

The door of the aftcastle banged wide and a woman swaggered into the light, raised both arms with a flourish and shrieked, ‘I am awake!’

She was very tall, sharp-featured as a hawk with a pale scar across one dark cheek and her hair pinned up in a tangle. Her clothes were a gaudy patchwork of a dozen cultures’ most impractical attire – a silken shirt with frayed embroidery flapping at the sleeves, a silvery fur coat ruffled by the breeze, a fingerless glove on one hand and the other crusted with rings, a crystal-studded belt the gilt end of which flapped about the grip of a curved sword slung absurdly low.

She kicked aside the nearest oarsman so she could prop one sharp-toed boot on his bench and grinned down the ship, gold glinting among her teeth.

Right away the slaves, the guards, the sailors began to clap. The only ones who did not join them were Sumael, her tongue wedged in her cheek on the roof of the aftcastle, the beggar whose scrubbing block was still scrape-scraping on the gangway, and Yarvi, ex-King of Gettland.

‘Damn this bitch,’ Rulf forced through a fixed grin while he applauded.

‘You’d better clap,’ murmured Jaud.

Yarvi held up his hands. ‘I’m worse equipped for that than rowing.’

‘Little ones, little ones!’ called the woman, ring-covered fist pressed to her chest with emotion, ‘you do me too much honour! Don’t let that stop you trying, though. To those who have recently joined us, I am Ebdel Aric Shadikshirram, your captain and care-giver. You may well have heard of me, for my name is famous throughout the Shattered Sea and far beyond, yea unto the very walls of the First of Cities and so on.’

Her fame had not reached Yarvi, but Mother Gundring always used to say the wise speaker learns first when to stay silent.

‘I could regale you with rousing tales of my colourful past,’ she went on, toying with an earring of gold and feathers that dangled down well past her shoulder. ‘How I commanded the victorious fleet of the empress at the Battle of Fulku, was for some time a favoured lover of Duke Mikedas himself but refused to become his wife, scattered the blockade at Inchim, sailed through the greatest tempest since the Breaking of God, landed a whale, and blah blah blah, but why?’ She affectionately patted the cheek of the nearest slave, hard enough for the slapping to be clearly heard. ‘Let us simply say this ship is now the world to you, and on this ship I am great and you are lowly.’

‘We’re great,’ echoed Trigg, sweeping the benches with his frown, ‘you’re lowly.’

‘Fine profits today, in spite of the sad need to replace a few of your brethren.’ The many buckles on the captain’s boots jingled as she swaggered between the benches. ‘You will all have a mouthful of bread and wine tonight.’ Scattered cheers at this spectacular show of generosity. ‘Though you belong to me—’

Trigg noisily cleared his throat.

‘—and the other shareholders in our brave vessel—’

Trigg nodded cautious approval.

‘—still I like to think of us all as one family!’ The captain gathered the whole ship in her outstretched arms, huge sleeves streaming in the breeze as though she were some rare and enormous sea-bird taking flight. ‘I, the indulgent grandparent, Trigg and his guards the kindly uncles, you the troublesome brood. United against merciless Mother Sea, ever the sailor’s most bitter enemy! You are lucky little children, for mercy, charity and kindness have always been my great weaknesses.’ Rulf hawked up phlegm in disgust at that. ‘Most of you will see the good sense in being obedient offspring, but … perhaps …’ and Shadikshirram’s smile collapsed to leave her dark face a caricature of hurt, ‘there is some malcontent among you thinking of going their own way.’

Trigg gave a disapproving growl.

‘Of turning his back upon his loving family. Of abandoning his brothers and sisters. Of leaving our loyal fellowship at some harbour or other.’ The captain traced the fine scar down her cheek with one fingertip and bared her teeth. ‘Perhaps even of raising a treacherous hand against his doting carers.’

Trigg gave a horrified hiss.

‘Should some devil send such thoughts your way …’ The captain leaned down towards the deck. ‘Think on the last man to try it.’ She came up with the heavy chain and gave it a savage tug, jerking the filthy deck-scrubber from his feet and squawking over in a tangle of limbs, rags, hair. ‘Never let this ungrateful creature near a blade!’ She stepped onto him where he lay. ‘Not an eating knife, not a nail-trimmer, not a fish-hook!’ She walked over him, tall heels grinding into his back, losing not the slightest poise in spite of the challenging terrain. ‘He is nothing, do you hear me?’

‘Damn this bitch,’ murmured Rulf again as she hopped lightly from the back of the beggar’s head.

Yarvi was watching the wretched scrubber as he clambered up, wiped blood from his mouth, retrieved his block, and without a sound crawled stiffly back to his work. Only his eyes showed through his matted hair for an instant as he looked towards the captain’s back, bright as stars.

‘Now!’ shouted Shadikshirram, swarming effortlessly up the ladder onto the roof of the aftcastle and pausing to twirl her ring-crusted fingers. ‘South to Thorlby, my little ones! Profits await! And Ankran?’

‘My captain,’ said Ankran, bowing so low he nearly grazed the deck.

‘Bring me some wine, all this blather has given me a thirst.’

‘You heard your grandma!’ roared Trigg, uncoiling his whip.

There were clatters and calls, the hissing of rope and the creaking of timbers as the few free sailors cast off and prepared the South Wind to leave Vulsgard’s harbour.

‘What now?’ muttered Yarvi.

Rulf gave a bitter hiss at such ignorance.