He left unsaid the words he had hammered into the boy privately. The dockmaster was worth far more alive than dead.
Jayan gave the woman an appraising look, then released her. She fell purple-faced to the boardwalk, coughing and gasping for air. He pointed his spear at her.
“Are you Dockmaster Isa?” he demanded. “Know that if I find you have lied to me, I will put every man, woman, and child in this chin village to the spear.”
“Isa was my father,” the woman said, “dead six winters today. I am Isadore, and took his seat after the funeral barge was burned.”
Jayan stared at her, considering, but Abban, who had been watching the other prisoners as well, was already convinced.
“Sharum Ka,” he said. “You have taken Docktown for the Skull Throne. Is it not time to raise the flag?”
Jayan looked at him. This was a plan they had discussed in detail. “Yes,” he said at last.
Horns were blown, and the Sharum drove the captured chin villagers toward the docks at spearpoint to watch as Dockmaster Isadore was marched to the flagpole and made to lower the Laktonian flag—a great three-masted sailing vessel on a field of blue—and raise the Krasian standard, spears crossed before the setting sun.
It was a purely symbolic gesture, but an important one. Jayan could now spare the remainder of her entourage, and accede her status as a princess of the chin without appearing weak.
“A woman,” Jayan said again. “This changes everything.”
“Everything, and nothing, Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “Man or woman, the dockmaster has information and connections, and her treatment will influence those in power in the city on the lake. Let the powerful think they will keep their titles and holdings, and they will deliver their own people to us on a platter.”
“What is the point of taking the city, if I let the chin keep it?” Jayan asked.
“Taxes,” Khevat said.
Abban bowed in agreement. “Let the chin keep their boats and bend their backs to the fishing nets. But when they come to your dock, three of every ten fish will belong to you.”
Jayan shook his head. “This dockmistress can keep her title, but the fish will be mine. I will take her as Jiwah Sen.”
“Sharum Ka, these are savages!” Khevat cried. “Surely you cannot truly mean to taint your divine blood with the camel’s piss that runs in the veins of chin.”
Jayan shrugged. “I have a Kaji son and Jiwah Ka to carry on my blood. My father knew how to tame the chin, as he did with the tribes of Krasia. Become one with them. His mistake was in letting Mistress Leesha keep her title before she accepted, giving her liberty to refuse. I will not be so foolish.”
Abban coughed nervously. “Sharum Ka, I must agree with the great Dama Khevat, whose wisdom is known throughout all Krasia. Your father acknowledged Mistress Leesha’s title and gave her liberty, for a child’s claim to her power depended upon that legitimacy. If she only has the title you give her, then she has no title for you to claim.”
Jayan rolled his eyes. “Talk and worry, worry and talk. It’s all you old men do. Sharak Ka will be won with action.”
Abban turned his own eye roll away as Khevat took a turn.
“She is too old, in any event.” Khevat spoke as if the very words were foul upon his tongue. “Twice your age, or I’m a Majah.”
Jayan shrugged. “I have seen women older than her with child.” His eyes flicked to Asavi. “It can be done. Yes, Dama’ting?”
Abban’s eyes flicked to Asavi, waiting for the dama’ting put an end to this foolishness.
Instead, Asavi nodded. “Of course. The Sharum Ka is wise. There is no greater power than the blood. A child of your blood put upon the dockmistress will make the town yours.”
Abban hid his gape. It was terrible advice, and would add months at least to their siege of Lakton. What was the dama’ting playing at? Was she purposely undermining Jayan? Abban would not fault her for it. Everam, he would willingly help, but not without knowing the plan. He was used to being a player and not a pawn.
“At least let me negotiate the terms,” Abban said. “A short delay, for appearances’ sake. A month at most, and I can deliver …”
“There is nothing to negotiate and no need for delay,” Jayan said. “She and all her holdings will be my property. The contract will be signed tonight, or neither she nor her court will see the dawn.”
“This will inflame the chin,” Abban said.
Jayan laughed aloud. “What of it? These are chin, Abban. They do not fight.”
“I do.” Dockmaster Isadore wept as she said the words.
Abban’s spies had worked frantically, learning everything he could about the woman before the ceremony. Her husband had been among the men who fell protecting her. Abban had told this to Jayan in hope the fool boy would at least leave give her the seven days to grieve as prescribed in the Evejah.
But the Sharum Ka would hear no reason. He eyed the woman like a nightwolf eyeing the oldest sheep in the herd. He had warmed to the idea of taking her this very night, and would not be swayed. When he thought no one was watching him, he squeezed himself through his robes.
Ah, to be nineteen and stiff at the very idea of a woman, Abban lamented. I don’t even remember the feeling.
Isadore had children, as well. Two sons, both ship captains already bound for Lakton when Jayan’s forces struck. They would keep the line hard against the Krasians, knowing Jayan must kill them to assure title for his son—should he manage to get one on the aging woman with the aid of Asavi’s spells.
The two moved to the pitiful excuse for a contract. Krasian marriage contracts typically filled a long scroll. Those signed by Abban’s daughters were often several scrolls long, each page signed and witnessed.
Jayan and Isadore’s contract was barely a paragraph. As he promised, Jayan had negotiated nothing, taking all and offering Isadore only her title—and the lives of her people.
Isadore bent to dip the quill, and Jayan tilted his head to admire the curve of her back. He squeezed his robes again, and everyone, including Khevat himself, dropped their eyes, pretending to ignore it.
And in that moment, Isadore struck. Ink splashed across the parchment like alagai ichor as she spun and leapt at Jayan, burying the sharp quill in his eye.
“Stop moving, if you ever hope to see again,” Asavi snapped. It was a tone few would ever dare take with the young Sharum Ka, but his mother had instilled a deep fear of the dama’ting in Jayan, and Asavi was his aunt in all but blood.
Jayan nodded, gritting his teeth as Asavi used a delicate pair of silver tweezers to pull the last slivers of feather from his eye.
The Sharum Ka was soaked in blood, little of it his own. When Jayan at last turned from the altar, panting and growling like an animal, the feather that jutted from his eye bled remarkably little.
The same could not be said for Dockmaster Isadore. Abban never ceased to marvel at how much blood a human body could contain. It would be days before Khevat’s nie’dama servants could clean it sufficiently for Khevat to formally reconsecrate the temple as Everam’s and begin indoctrination of the chin.
“I will take a thousand chin eyes, if I lose this one,” Jayan swore. He hissed as Asavi dug deep. “Even if not. There will not be a two-eyed fish man left before I am through.”