Kellanved's Reach

Since generations of bloody rivalry could not simply be brushed aside, the navies were not officially merged, remaining independent and separated into two task forces.

For the marines, however, Cartheron deliberately pushed for no distinctions whatsoever. Despite this, or because of it, recruitment and training was proceeding with remarkable success. Privately, Cartheron was under no illusions, as everyone was eager to serve the man who had no formal rank, but was known simply as the Sword.

This evening Cartheron sat in the Anvil, a waterfront inn – though, in truth, almost all taverns and drinking houses in Dariyal were waterfront. It had become something of an unofficial rendezvous for the officer corps – if it could be called such.

His brother was with him, back from raiding. In fact, almost all vessels were in harbour as pickings were particularly thin this season. Fighting almost everywhere on the continent had merchants going to ground.

He sipped his watered beer and reflected that this raised the salient point so plaguing the conferences with Surly: what next?

Also at the table this evening were Dujek and his second in command, Jack, like Urko back from raiding, and the cadre mage Hairlock, who, though not pleasant company, apparently loved to talk and drink and so showed up uninvited all the time.

Urko nudged his brother, gestured round the table and observed, ‘We’re the only Napans left.’

Cartheron grunted his agreement. ‘We’re getting thin on the ground these days.’

‘Where is Tocaras, anyway?’

‘Mainland. He proposed some kind of mission to Surly and went.’

Urko nodded. ‘Hunh. Never was comfortable at sea. Born on the mainland, right?’

‘Yeah. His family’s related – but we’re all related here, hey? Damned small island. Anyway, a trade delegation, I believe. He’s half Napan.’

Urko peered down at his tankard. ‘That’s the Old Crew, then. An’ Choss is in Malaz.’

His brother, he knew, could sometimes slip into melancholy, and so to change the subject Cartheron looked to Hairlock. ‘What of our glorious leader?’

The mage stroked his wide jowls and nodded solemnly. He peered right and left then leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ‘Been poking round. All indications are he’s still alive. Don’t know just where he is, though.’ The squat and sun-darkened mage raised a blunt finger. ‘But, here’s the kicker.’ He paused to glance about again and Cartheron realized that here was a fellow who loved to be ‘in the know’, dispensing juicy bits of gossip; he’d have to warn Surly and Tayschrenn about that. ‘Jadeen had a whole organization in south Itko Kan, right? Found out it’s now in complete disarray. Word is, she’s dead.’

Despite his disapproval of Hairlock’s smugness and gossiping, Cartheron was impressed. The Witch Jadeen, dead? Could the little runt really have … He shook his head.

‘I didn’t think he had it in him,’ Urko announced, and thumped the table. Cartheron winced.

‘Perhaps it was Dancer,’ Jack murmured, keeping his voice low.

Urko jabbed a blunt finger to the young officer. ‘That I’d believe.’

‘That’s enough about that,’ Cartheron warned, and he sipped his beer.

Hairlock just grinned and tapped a finger to the side of his nose.

Dujek cleared his throat and leaned to Cartheron. ‘Got a request, if you don’t mind.’

‘What is it?’

Dujek gestured to Jack. ‘The lad here has a far better head than most for runnin’ things, so has pretty much been doin’ all the work without the rank. So, I request he formally has command.’

Cartheron studied the young officer, who in fact was no younger than many of them – he just had kept his youthful looks for longer. He was even trying to grow a beard, perhaps to compensate. He nodded. ‘I’ll draw the papers up tomorrow. Congratulations, Jack. You’re now command rank.’

‘Drinks!’ Urko called out.

A young servitor came to the table and Cartheron asked, ‘What would you like to celebrate, Jack?’

‘Whisky.’

Cartheron raised a brow. ‘Well, well. Whisky, Jack?’ Then he slapped a hand to the table. ‘That’s it. Whiskyjack – the cunning bird. There you go.’

Urko’s forehead furrowed. ‘What?’

Cartheron pointed to the thin ropy fellow. ‘His name. Whiskyjack.’

The lad actually looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know about this …’

But Dujek was nodding. ‘I like it. It has – whadyacallit – panache.’

Cartheron ordered the round, then spotted a slim dark figure slipping into the tavern and frowned. One of Surly’s dark birds, her Claws. This one, a young woman, approached the table and bowed, murmuring, ‘Your presence is requested.’ She looked to Hairlock as well. ‘And you, mage.’

Hairlock appeared surprised. ‘We’re ready?’

The young woman slipped away without answering. When the round arrived Cartheron drank his swiftly, saluted the lad in his new command – and name – then rose. Hairlock accompanied him.

They crossed the waterfront to the ancient pile of stone that was the harbour garrison, armoury, and informal palace of Dariyal.

‘You’ll like this,’ Hairlock chuckled. ‘If it’s what I think it is.’