Part One
Getting the Crew Together
chapter one
finlyr
It’s a homecomingthat feels more like being kicked in the belly than being greeted with warm, open arms.
‘State your business,’ the Seaguardian asks with bored indifference as we dock.
‘Returning home.’
They look me up and down and sniff. ‘Name and origin?’
‘Larkin, Spring Isle.’
‘There’s a tithe to dock a ship. Are you the captain?’
‘Aye,’ I say through gritted teeth, indicating a crate of assorted goods. ‘Collected from my passengers. Some returners, some visitors.’
The Seaguardian inspects it for a moment before nodding and letting me pass through. My duty to my passengers ends here. When the news of Paranish opening reached Lassair, mine was one of the only seaworthy vessels ready to set sail. Most of the others were tethered to the floating market and chose guaranteed trade rather than take a chance on Paranish. It was unknown to the locals and after it had been closed off to trade for centuries, folk were wary of sailing all the way out there. But I was Paranishian and still had my native tongue, although it had been a few years. My ship –Saltswept– was barely finished with repairs, but I jumped at the chance to go home. No, more than that: thechance to leave Lassair and the memories of my latest voyage. What should have been my last. As we hauled to Paranish, my passengers dreamed of beds warmed by lovers or hearths stoked by family. I have nothing but cold cider and strangers waiting for me in the capital.
I sling my pack over my shoulder and feel the solid ground beneath my feet. I’ve a thirst to quench.
Meandering the streets of Umasa is akin to finding your way to your bed drunk and in the dark. Desperate and nauseating. The streets are narrow and the buildings close, pressing down on you. It’s just as I remembered. The same salt-washed grime in the alleys, dirt beneath my fingernails I never quite got out.
I’ve arrived on market day, with strange stalls put up faster than I’d have thought. Foreign smoky herbs waft over from a wooden structure furnished with colourful silks. Bright birds perch on a table with gleaming gems in their beaks, the sunlight catching their feathers and the sparkle of their wares.
We’re all creatures of comfort, no matter how far we crawl from home. I creep through the crowds, unfamiliar voices thundering in my ears. I catch traces of Lassren on the wind and cock my head like a dog.
‘How much is this?’ a Lassairian trader asks.
‘Value in the eye of the beholder, dear heart,’ replies a Nishian merchant in a clipped, serious tone.
‘What does she mean?’ the Lassairian trader asks, turning to their companion.
‘You mark its worth,’ their companion explains in Lassren. ‘Offer her something.’
How simple when folk say what they want. None of this circling each other like beasts before the fight. You want; I have. You give; I take.
Holy Aistra, I need a drink. No, not just a drink. I need a piyata cider.
I slink away from the noise, down the wynds and closes that newcomers to Umasa avoid. They’re dark and narrow and only lead you somewhere if you know what you’re looking for.
This is my old haunt, but I keep my hand close to my hilt. Many fools get soft and comfortable after years away from home. I’m no fool.
The tavern is nearly empty, which suits my purposes. I mark a table in the back nook and signal the keep. The wooden table is sticky with decades of spilled cider, and the fabric of the chair has darkened and worn where elbows and shoulders have rubbed against it. I survey the other patrons sitting in the cosy glow of the candlelight. The day outside is bright and bustling, whereas we have sought the solace of dark and quiet corners.
‘You one of those returned wanderers?’ the barkeep asks as they take my order.
I squint to focus on their face dancing in the candlelight.
‘Aye, back on Paranish soil.’
‘You’ll have plenty of goods to barter then,’ they say with a tight smile.
This motherland courtesy hiding sharp teeth again.
