Chapter 1214: Conqueror of Seas(5)
"All fell exactly as the Red Angel said it would," a voice spoke above the din of the hall. He leaned back heavily against the gilded scrollwork of a captured chair, droplets of dark wine tangled in his long, matted red beard, that might also have been lice-nested for how it appeared he had not washed it. "That old crone of his must have whispered the whole plan into his ear while he slept."
"So the rumors have teeth, then?" a second man asked, leaning in. "The Hero of Harmway is making deals with the black arts? I heard he’s got a witch in the palace who eats the hearts of babies for eternal youth."
"Eternal youth?Have you seen the bitch?’’ He chuckled ’’I’d bet in the morning she has to take the worms off her hair.I wouldn’t put my cock anywhere near her, can’t think the Admiral is of different mind either.
Still what’s the harm in that, I say?" The bearded man emptied half his horn in a single, messy gulp. "Magic is as old as steel, and twice as sharp if used right. Besides, whatever that ugly bitch tells him in the dark, he still needs our steel to win the battles in the light." He wiped his mouth with a calloused hand and let out a raucous laugh. "I’ve been here less than three months and I’ve already struck more gold than a Romelian merchant. To hell with my brother! The fool said I’d find nothing but a sandy grave. Let’s see how satisfied he is with his mangy southern villages when I sail back with a chest that takes four men to carry!"
"Aye," the second pirate agreed, nodding. "Before I departed the Isles, a dozen of my kin said they’d make the crossing next spring. They couldn’t get the provisions together before the winter gales struck."
"Smart of ’em. This sea has waves like falling towers. I wouldn’t have risked the trip myself if Loud-Luck Luke hadn’t come back to the Isles with a pouch of gems the size of sheep’s eyes.Greed makes even the tallest of mountain seems an hill" He sipped again, his tone turning a bit more guarded as he looked around at the vaulted ceiling. "This land is truly filled with wonders."
"And gold," a third and a new voice added, quiet and yet loud. "Though I don’t think any of us missed that part, eh?"
The newcomer stepped out from somewhere the other had not seen and slid into an empty seat. No one moved to stop him; in this palace, the only law was the strength of your grip.This was a free land now after all...
"Greetings," the bearded pirate said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the man.
The newcomer wasn’t a pretty sight. His face was a roadmap of ruin, a thick white scar slashing from his temple down to his jaw, pulling his lip into a permanent, mocking snarl. He wasn’t fair to look upon, but it was clear he had stories that could keep a man awake at night.
"You look like you’ve seen the bottom of the sea and told the God to wait his turn," the second man noted, sliding a flagon toward the stranger.
"That would be Cain," the newcomer rasped. "I never quite felt the cold embrace of our God, despite the sea’s best efforts.Fought for Harmway and Khairo both, at this point I think the sea doesn’t like my smelly feet."
"You talking about the Admiral’s cripple?" the bearded pirate asked, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Aye, that one," the scarred man agreed "Though I’d suggest you never say it to his face."
"Why? Ain’t like he’s gonna grow a new leg if I do." The bearded man turned his eyes toward the far end of the hall, where Cain sat deep in conversation with a woman. Everyone knew who she was, or at least what she was. It wasn’t every day a slave was given a seat of honor at a high banquet.
"No, he’ll remain a cripple regardless of your words," the newcomer said, his eyes cold. "Legs don’t grow back. Just like heads won’t after an axe’s kiss."
The first man’s eyes went hard. "Is that a threat, friend?"
All he got in response was a dry, hacking laugh. "A threat? What care do I have for him? Insult him, fuck him, kill him, do whatever you want. It’s the Admiral you have to face afterward. Blake seems to care for that broken kin quite a bit. More than is healthy for anyone standing in the way."
That was enough to calm the raging waters. The bearded pirate cleared his throat and leaned back.No one wanted to mess with the Red Angel. "How long you been wading through this heat, friend? Seems like you know your way around the palace."
The scarred man took the cup, his fingers tracing the condensation on the silver. "Since the day the port-chain snapped," he rasped, the sound like stones grinding in a mill. "I was on the first wave that hit the docks of Khairo. I’ve been here long enough to remember when this palace smelled of rosewater and spice instead of old blood and roasted meat. I was even thinking of making a home here. There was a nice villa I liberated during the sack."
"You really want to stay? Plant roots in the sand?"
"Why not?" He sniffed. "The land is warm, the soil is fertile if you know where to dig, and the women are prettier and softer than the wind-bitten hags back home."
"Well... I suppose. Don’t think I could, though. I got all my kin back at the Isles."
"Well, can’t they come here too? Of course, that might be a bit harder now, wouldn’t it?"
The bearded man frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
"What else? Same old song," the scarred man said, leaning in. "Old men get jealous of the young, and poor men get greedy for the riches of others. Trouble is rising at the Call, didn’t you know?"
"The Call? No, I haven’t heard a whisper of it."
The scarred man glanced at a platter of roasted bird in the center of the table. "Not surprised, new doesn’t travel fast in winter. Well, if you throw me a piece of that chicken, you’ll find this mouth quite willing to blabber more."
The pirate slid the platter over, and the newcomer tore a wing off with his teeth before continuing.
"The old men at the Call, the ’distinguished’ elders of our Confederation, they don’t like how much gold is flowing through Khairo. They like it even less that they aren’t getting a fat cut of the spoils. Since the Sultan fell, the merchants have gone shy. No one wants to risk a ship through Harmway anymore, and those land-dwelling easterners are taking the long road to Yarzat on foot rather than paying our tolls.No ship sail through Harmway anymore..."
He chewed slowly, his eyes flickering toward the entrance of the hall. "So now the Call is looking at this land, where lords pay tithes just to keep their heads and the wine is better than anything our isle ever produced. They see the Red Angel carving out land for freeman, and they’re starting to clamor for a piece of the pie. They want the gold, they want the land, and they want Blake to remember who he ’owes’ for his fleet.
Word on the foam is they’re even trying to pass a law at the Call. A mandate for every man to cough up a cut of his earnings the moment he steps foot back home from Azania."
The table erupted. In the Isles, there was a reason they had cast the Salt Kings of old into the deep; those tyrants had tried to put their hands into pockets that didn’t belong to them.
"No fucker is taking a single silverii off my hands!" the bearded pirate roared, slamming his horn down so hard the wine splashed his chest. "I’ve never heard of such blasphemous foolishness!"
"Aye," the second man chimed in, his face darkening. "If those bastards want gold, they can take a longship and bleed for it like we did. This is the Way. You can’t take what a man has rightfully stolen; that’d be thieving, and we cut the hands off thieves back home!"
As he spoke, a woman with skin like polished ebony, draped in a silk dress that covered nothing that ought to be covered, leaned over to refill his cup. He barely noticed her, his blood too busy singing with indignation.
"Don’t go shouting at me, nor at the rest of the hall," the newcomer said, tearing a succulent piece of meat from the bone. "Tis a victory feast. You’re here to drink, to eat, to fuck, and to shout, but don’t go souring the air with a bad mood. Not that I’d be too worried about the Call, anyway..."
"You’re okay with being thieved from, then?" the bearded pirate sneered.
"Perish the very idea,"he rasped, a dangerous glint in his one good eye. "Only the Sea-God takes a tithe from me. And he has to earn that besides. No one steals from Ugly-Face Murth, the last man who tried lost his feet, his hands, and his arse in that order.
Anyone can try to take what’s mine, but they’d best be fast enough to run away with it before I take what I want from them. But like I said, don’t worry. Our Admiral is already in contact with those petty bastards at the Call."
"To do what?Gut them?"
"Negotiate," Murth corrected with a mocking grin. "Words is that he’s willing to relinquish his personal share of the Harmway tolls, if the Call agrees to bury that ’law’ before it’s even whispered in public."
"The Red Angel would pay that much... "
"Why wouldn’t he? He did it once before, didn’t he? When he stood before the judges as a criminal just to break the stalemate of the Sea-Break. Blake isn’t here for the gold, at least, not like we are. He’s here to carve a new way. I don’t know about you lot, but I grew bored of raiding the same grey villages and scrawny merchant cogs. I much prefer this land, so filled with wonders and soft beds."
The bearded pirate looked down at his overflowing cup, the fire in his eyes cooling into a profound, drunken respect. "I suppose... I suppose we ought to toast the man, then."
Murth didn’t need further prompting. He shoved his chair back, stood atop the bench, and with a voice that had once commanded the rigging in the heart of a hurricane, he bellowed:
"TO THE RED ANGEL!"
The cry was infectious. Horns, cups, and silver chalices were thrust into the air. A deluge of wine, ale, and sweet Yarzat-bought cider flew into parched throats and over jubilant faces. The roar was deafening, with a sound that seemed to vibrate the very gold leaf off the palace walls.
And it was at the height of that toast, amidst the spray of ale and the thunder of a thousand voices, that the soul of the feast finally appeared at the top of the Great Stair.
