Blood Song (Raven's Shadow 1)

“He has been sent for. She needs you as well.”

“I’m sure it can wait…” Barkus’s hand was tight on his wrist, putting his lips close to Vaelin’s ear and whispering two words which made him drop his tools and reach for his cloak and weapons without further demur, despite the immediate howl of protest from the blood-song.

“The Red Hand.” Sister Gilma stood on the other side of the mansion gate, having forbidden them from coming any closer. For once there was no trace of mirth in her tone or bearing. Her face was pale, her usually bright eyes dimmed with fear. “Just the governor’s daughter for now, but there’ll be others.”

“You’re certain?” Vaelin asked her.

“Every member of my order is taught to look for the signs from the moment we join. There’s no doubt, brother.”

“You examined the girl? You touched her?”

Gilma nodded wordlessly.

Vaelin fought down the sorrow clutching at his chest. No time for weakness now. “What do you need?”

“The mansion must be sealed and guarded. No-one can be allowed in or out. You must be watchful for any more victims in the city at large. My orderlies know what to look for. Any found to have the sickness must be brought here, by force if necessary. Masks and gloves must be worn when dealing with them. You must also seal the city, no ships can sail, no caravans can leave.”

“There’ll be panic,” Caenis warned. “The Red Hand killed as many Alpirans as Realm folk in its time. When word spreads they’ll be desperate to flee.”

“Then you’ll have to stop them,” Sister Gilma said flatly. “We cannot allow this plague loose again.” She fixed her gaze on Vaelin. “You understand, brother? You must do whatever is required.”

“I understand, sister.” Through his sorrow a dim memory began to surface, Sherin at the High Keep. He tended to avoid thinking of that time, the sense of loss was too great, but now he fought to recall her words that morning after the death of Hentes Mustor. The Usurper’s followers had trapped her with a false report of an outbreak of the Red Hand in Warnsclave. I had been working on a cure…

“Sister Sherin,” he said. “She told me once she had a cure for the sickness.”

“A possible cure, brother,” Gilma replied. “Based on theory only and beyond my skills to formulate in any case.”

“Where is Sister Sherin stationed these days?” Vaelin persisted.

“At the Order House, last I heard. She is Mistress of curatives now.”

“Twenty days sailing with a good wind,” Caenis said. “And twenty days back.”

“For an Alpiran or Realm vessel,” Vaelin mused softly. He turned back to Gilma. “Sister, ask the Governor to write a proclamation confirming your measures and ordering the city-folk to cooperate. Brother Caenis will have it copied and distributed about the city.” He turned to Caenis. “Brother see to the guarding of the gates and the mansion. Double the guard on the walls. Use our men only where possible.” He glanced back at Sister Gilma and forced an encouraging smile. “What is hope, sister?”

“Hope is the heart of the Faith. Abandonment of hope is a denial of the Faith.” Her own smile was faint. “I have certain instruments and curatives in my quarters. I should like them brought to me.”

“I’ll see to it,” Caenis assured her.

Vaelin turned to go, hurrying along the stone-paved path. “What about the docks?” Caenis called after him.

Vaelin didn’t look back. “I’ll see to the docks.”

The Meldenean captain was compact and wiry, sitting across the table from Vaelin with his lean features drawn in a suspicious glare. He wore gloves of soft leather, his hands clasped in a double fist on the table. They were in the map room of the old Merchant’s Guild building, alone save for Frentis who guarded the door. Outside, night was drawing on quickly and the city would soon be sleeping, still blissfully unaware of the crisis that would greet them in the morning. If the captain had any complaints about how he and his crew had been hauled from their bunks, forced to strip and submit to an inspection by Sister Gilma’s orderlies before being brought here, he clearly felt it best to keep them to himself.

“You are Carval Nurin?” Vaelin asked him. “Captain of the Red Falcon?”

The man gave a slow nod. His eyes flickered continually between Vaelin and Frentis, occasionally lingering on their swords. Vaelin felt no desire to alleviate the man’s unease, it suited his purpose to keep him scared.

“Your ship is reputed to be the fastest vessel to sail from this port,” Vaelin went on. “Finest lines of any hull ever crafted in the Meldenean yards, so they say.”

Carval Nurin inclined his head but remained silent.

“You have no reputation for piracy or dishonesty, unusual for a captain from your islands.”

“What do you want?” The man’s voice was harsh, rasping and Vaelin noticed the pale edge of a scar protruding from the black silk scarf he wore around his throat. Pirate or not, he had seen his share of trouble on the seas.

“To engage your services,” Vaelin replied mildly. “How fast can you get to Varinshold?”

The captain’s unease lessened but suspicion still clouded his face. “Done it in fifteen days before. Udonor was kind with the northerlies.”

Udonor, Vaelin knew, was one of the Meldenean gods said to have dominion over the winds. “Can it be done quicker?”

Nurin shrugged. “Maybe. With an empty hold and a few more hands to run the rigging. And two goats for Udonor, of course.”

It was common practice for Meldeneans to sacrifice animals to their favoured gods before a hazardous voyage. Vaelin had been witness to a mass slaughter of livestock before their invasion fleet left port, the blood had flowed so freely the harbour waters turned red.

“We’ll provide the goats,” he said and gestured for Frentis to come forward. “Brother Frentis and two of my men will be your passengers. You will carry him to Varinshold where he will collect another passenger. You will then return here. The whole voyage cannot take more than twenty-five days. Is it possible?”

Nurin considered for a moment and nodded. “Possible, yes. But not for my ship.”

“Why not?”

Nurin unclasped his hands and slowly removed his gloves, revealing mottled and discoloured skin from fingers to wrist. “Tell me, land-bound,” he said, holding his hands up for Vaelin’s inspection, the lamplight gleamed on the waxy, misshapen flesh, “have you ever beaten at flames with your bare hands whilst your sister and mother burn to death?” A grim smile twisted the Meldenean’s lips. “No, my ship will not sail in your service. The Alpirans call you the Hope Killer, to me you are the spawn of the City Burner. The Ship Lords may have whored themselves to your king but I will not. Whatever threats or torments you employ will make no - ”

The bluestone made a soft thud as Vaelin placed it on the table, spinning it around, lamplight flickering on the silver veined surface. Carval Nurin stared at it in astonished and unbridled greed.

“I’m sorry about your mother and your sister,” Vaelin said. “And your hands. It must have been very painful.” He continued to spin the bluestone. Nurin’s eyes never left it. “But I sense you are, above all, a man of business, and sentiment is hardly profitable.”

Nurin swallowed, his scarred hands twitching. “How much do I get?”

“If you return within twenty-five days, all of it.”

“You lie!”

“On occasion, but not right now.”

Nurin’s eyes finally shifted from the bluestone, meeting Vaelin’s. “What surety do I have?”

“My word, as a brother of the Sixth Order.”

“Pox take your word and your Order. Your ghost-worshipping nonsense means nothing to me.” Nurin pulled his gloves on, frowning in calculation. “I want a signed assurance, witnessed by the governor.”

“The governor is… indisposed. But I’m sure the Grand Master of the Merchant’s Guild will be happy to oblige. Good enough?”

The Red Falcon differed markedly from any other ship Vaelin had seen. She was smaller than most, with a narrow hull and three masts instead of the usual two. There were only two decks and she carried a crew of just twenty men.

“Built for the tea trade,” Carval Nurin explained gruffly when Vaelin remarked on the unusual design. “Fresher it is the more profit you make. Small cargo of fresh tea makes three times the price of the stuff shipped in bulk. Quicker you get from one port to another, the more money you make.”

“No oars?” Frentis asked. “Thought all Meldenean ships had oars.”

“Got ‘em right enough,” Nurin pointed at the sealed ports on the lower deck. “Only use ‘em when the wind dies, which it rarely does in northern waters. In any case, the Falcon’ll shift with even the smallest breeze.”

The Captain paused to cast his gaze around the docks, taking in the rows of silent and empty ships and the cordon of Wolfrunners guarding the quayside. The crews had been ordered from their vessels during the night, not without some trouble, and were now nursing their bruises under heavy guard in the warehouses nearby. “Can’t remember the Linesh docks ever being so quiet,” Nurin observed.