The Silver Tide (Copper Cat) Read online

  He came back to her then, his grey eyes finding hers. Instead of the fire at Sandshield she remembered standing in his castle on the day before they went chasing the dragon, the pad of his thumb brushing the underside of her wrist.

  ‘We don’t have to forget everything that happened in that cold place,’ she said. ‘I have a couple of good memories, at least.’ Wydrin stepped up and kissed him, sliding the flat of her hand over the smooth skin of his back. No scars now, thanks to the deal she’d made with the demon Bezcavar. No visible scars, anyway. ‘You stink,’ she said, when they broke apart. ‘Do you want some breakfast?’

  Outside the air had been washed clean and the cobbles under her boots were damp. The rain had moved on, but Wydrin could smell it still in the air, mixed with sea salt and the wild, thorny scent of the jungle that crouched behind Two-Birds. She had left Frith up in their room, still trying to wash away the scent of stale wine, and she had it in mind to wander down to the western part of the pirate town, where she dimly remembered the best eateries to be.

  When she had been small, Devinia had brought her to Two-Birds a number of times. It had been one of Wydrin’s favourite places to visit, so full of noise and colour and very much like her home of Crosshaven, and yet not quite. Whereas Crosshaven was as old and as ingrained as the stones it perched upon, there was a fragility to Two-Birds, a dangerous sense that the town could be gone again at any moment, either wiped away by a storm, or raided by a bigger gang of criminals. She remembered how the rain would come in like a grey curtain, solid and loud, roaring across the ocean and dousing the small town in minutes. She remembered storms that howled and crashed waves up the small cobbled streets – people had been washed away and lost – and long days of blistering heat that had left her too hot to move, sprawled on the deck of her mother’s ship with a huge palm leaf over her head for shade, or drinking iced wine with her feet dangling over the side of the pier. Always, Augusta had had her beady eye on her, warning young Wydrin not to venture beyond the borders of the town, and for once she had listened. You had to be a fool not to recognise the danger of Euriale. It was not a place for children to go wandering.

  And now we’re sailing right into the bloody middle of it.

  She followed the winding street downwards, passing ramshackle houses, warehouses, taverns and butchers. It was like any busy town, with men and women heading here and there on their daily business, except there were more scars on display, more missing eyes and absent limbs. Life on the sea was hard; hard enough for retirement on an island like Euriale to seem like a good deal.

  Walking on she came to a small market square. Across the wet stones there was a tall wooden building painted white, complete with a bell tower and a giant rusted bell. There was a pair of red doors at ground level, with a great grinning skull painted across them. This was the home of the current mayor of Two-Birds; once a year the pirate captains would goad themselves into a rough sort of democracy, voting for one of their number to be the official head of the pirate town. Devinia had told her more than once that it meant very little – who could really be said to be in charge of such a bunch? And who could possibly enforce their wishes? But it was a figurehead position, someone to look to when an official word was wanted, when someone was needed to blame. Wydrin privately suspected that the reason Devinia dismissed the title was because she herself had yet to win it.

  Pausing in the centre of the square, her quest for food quite forgotten, Wydrin tried to remember who held the position currently. Lamefoot Jameson? Edgar ‘The Fury’ Sims? Around her men and women were setting up their stalls for the day, heaving stolen goods out of sacks and giving them a spit polish. Then, as if she had summoned the figure by thinking about it, the red doors of the Mayoral Tower opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered woman stepped out into the morning light. She wore a long leather great coat, stained and scuffed with use, and leather boots that looked equally battered. Her hair was short, so blond it was almost white, and she had a high forehead, so that her hair seemed to be straining backwards from her face. There was a wide slash of red greasepaint across her mouth, an affectation that reportedly caused the crews of the ships she attacked to run in fear; when she bellowed her war cry, it almost looked as though her head were splitting in two. Wydrin was familiar with the effect, as she was familiar with the woman who employed it. Inwardly, she sighed. Ristanov the Banshee was a well-known rival of her mother’s, and likely the last person she wanted to see as mayor, but there was the thick golden chain around her neck with the fat golden skull pendant dangling from it. No one ever said pirates were subtle.

  There was movement behind the tall woman and another figure stepped out into the daylight. This one Wydrin recognised straight away; Kellan still wore his tattered vanbraces, and he looked like he’d had a late night. Wydrin had been ready to walk away, eager to put some space between herself and the Banshee, but this was too curious not to question.

  ‘Hoy!’ She waved at them and jogged over before either of them had a chance to depart. ‘I was looking to get some breakfast, Kellan. Any suggestions?’

  Kellan looked faintly pained, while Ristanov placed her hands on her hips. ‘Ah, Wydrin, you’re up and about early,’ he said. He fiddled with one of the rags tied around his left arm, and then shrugged. ‘Should be easy enough to find food around here.’ Wydrin said nothing, simply beaming up at the pair of them with a carefully innocent expression. After a moment, Kellan cleared his throat. ‘I take it you know Carlita Ristanov, also known as the Banshee, current mayor of Two-Birds?’

  Wydrin grinned a little wider. ‘I do believe we’ve never actually met.’

  ‘Devinia’s whelp,’ rumbled the Banshee. She had a low, throaty voice, still thickly accented from her native Bararia. ‘Not the one that calls himself the Crimson Scar. The other one.’ Ristanov peered down at Wydrin. Her eyes were so pale a blue they were almost colourless.

  ‘Congratulations on making it as mayor.’ Wydrin nodded seriously, trying to convey how deeply impressed she was that the Banshee had managed it. She watched with pleasure as the taller woman’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘That is quite the achievement.’

  ‘It is a vote, as well you know,’ said Ristanov. ‘The captain that is considered most capable, yes.’

  ‘You must be very proud.’

  Kellan took a slight step forward, almost coming between the two of them, but not quite. ‘Did you want something at the Mayoral Tower, Wydrin?’

  ‘Not especially. Did you?’

  Kellan grinned. ‘Just updating our records, making sure your mother’s acquisition of the Poison Chalice has been recognised. We don’t want anyone turning up later to argue about it.’

  Wydrin tipped her head to one side. It was true that there were ledgers in the Mayoral Tower, a rough history of the pirates affiliated with the island. It was up to each captain how often they updated their own records.

  ‘Your mother caused some ripples when she took Tom Dogget’s ship as her own,’ Ristanov sneered, distorting the slash of red greasepaint. ‘Even pirates have a code, yes.’

  Kellan laid a hand heavily on Wydrin’s shoulder. ‘True enough. Well now, shall we find ourselves some breakfast, Copper Cat of Crosshaven?’

  For a moment Wydrin wanted to argue the point further – it would, in many ways, be a fine start to the morning to draw her sword against this woman – but she had long since been out of pirate politics, and had no real desire to get involved again. She shook Kellan’s hand off and sketched the Banshee a brief bow. ‘Absolutely. If I stand here too long I shall get a sour stomach.’

  When Wydrin and Kellan were across the square and down a side street, Kellan gave her a sidelong look. He was smiling a little ruefully.

  ‘I take it from that little exchange that you know about the history between the Banshee and your mother, then?’

  Wydrin nodded. Ahead of them she could see an open hut where a man was roasting chickens on a spit. They were glistening and fat, and the smel
l of cooked meat and butter wafted up the alley. Her stomach growled.

  ‘I know that four years ago Devinia was in the midst of taking a fat little trading schooner out on the edge of Emmet’s Bay when Ristanov the Screecher came out of nowhere to put a hole in the side of my mum’s ship, and in the resulting chaos made off with the goods. And then, six months later, my mum caught up with her north of Onwai and returned the favour.’

  ‘And so it has been going on ever since,’ said Kellan. He did not sound concerned. ‘Banshee isn’t liked by many, but she is respected. Which is why she’s the mayor now, as much as your mum doesn’t like it.’

  ‘Hey, you want one of those chickens?’

  For the first time Kellan looked pained. ‘I don’t eat meat.’

  Wydrin raised her eyebrows at that. ‘A pirate who doesn’t eat meat? No salted pork rations for you?’

  ‘It’s the smell,’ he said shortly, and then turned away as she bought one of the hot roasted chickens, wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘It doesn’t bother you then,’ she asked as they made their way back up the alley, ‘that Devinia’s worst enemy is the mayor of Two-Birds now? It doesn’t strike you as a problem?’

  ‘Not a problem as such. An opportunity, maybe. You know what pirates are like, kid. When do they ever like each other? Two-Birds is like throwing a bunch of angry tomcats in a crate and doing a little dance on top. It’s all one-upmanship, a big group of show-offs competing to be the biggest show-off. And now your mother has the biggest ship of them all.’

  ‘One big pissing contest,’ agreed Wydrin absently, passing the parcel of food from one hand to the other. The butter was burning her fingers. ‘Is this what this is all about? The Banshee is lording it up over Two-Birds so Mum turns up and prepares to explore the inner heart of Euriale, supposedly an impossibly dangerous task. Do you know where she got this latest map, by the way?’

  Kellan turned to her, and for a moment the look he gave her was too avid. She frowned slightly.

  ‘Sad to say, I don’t know all of your mother’s secrets, Wydrin of Crosshaven.’

  Kellan seemed distinctly unworried by Devinia’s plans, and by the potential for trouble posed by Ristanov’s presence, so much so that Wydrin had to wonder if he truly understood the dangers of either. However, Kellan was Devinia’s first mate, and Wydrin had never known her mother not to choose the shrewdest of her crew for that role. He might look like a grease-covered idiot, but she knew there would be more to him than that.

  ‘I’ve got a hungry mage to feed. I’ll see you on deck, Kellan.’

  8

  The moon was rising over an ocean of deepest indigo when Frith finally emerged from the leather worker’s shop, his coin purse significantly lighter but his boots, his belt, and the special sword-strap he’d had made to carry the staff across his back, all oiled and in fine order. It had been a lot of work and on short notice, but the woman who’d served him had been unperturbed, apparently well used to unusual jobs late in the evening. Now Frith stood on the doorstep, looking down across crowded roofs to the sea below. The rains of earlier had cleared swiftly, just as Wydrin had said they would, and now the night sky was a hectic explosion of stars.

  He turned to head further up the hill, the staff held comfortably in his right hand. Frith liked to carry it when he could, using it like a walking stick of sorts – the gods knew he’d had experience of using such – as it meant the Edenier was always at hand, with only a thought needed to summon it. This was the closest he could get to the power he had once wielded, when the magic had churned in his chest. Now there was a silence inside him, the raw magic replaced by a tumult of knowledge and images – knowledge gifted to him by the mad mage Joah Demonsworn. The only Edenier he had access to now was stored in the staff, ready to do his bidding but forever one step removed. He took a slow breath, reminding himself that without the genius of the Edeian-crafting mage Selsye, a thousand years dead, he wouldn’t even have that.

  Two-Birds was particularly busy at this time of night, the scent of alcohol and cooking food everywhere. He was eager to get back to their rooms, to spend one more night of relative peace with Wydrin before their adventures moved them on elsewhere, but as he crossed the small market square his eye fell on a stall full of cunning little daggers, their shining surfaces like liquid silver under the lamps. On an impulse he moved closer, catching the attention of the vendor, a short dark-skinned man with a string of pearls around his neck.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked. His voice was soft and his expression grave. ‘I was just about to pack up for the night, but always glad to have one more customer.’

  ‘Yes, I … I’m not sure.’ Frith looked over the man’s wares, frowning slightly. ‘Give me a moment.’

  The man nodded to him, and began to fold up the cloth hung over the back of his stall. When Frith remained quiet, the man began to pack away the knives and daggers, but at that moment a flash of light like the moon on water caught Frith’s eye. He held up his hand. ‘Let me look at this.’ He picked up the knife. It was short and wide, and its fat handle was made of smooth dark wood. Embedded into it was a piece of mother-of-pearl, carved into the shape of a shark. The blade itself was sharp enough, and curved on one side. ‘How much for this knife?’

  The seller looked up at him, a considering expression on his face. ‘It’s not for you, I’m guessing?’

  Frith scowled slightly. ‘How could you know that?’

  The man shrugged, and pointed. ‘Guessing by the brooch at your neck and the arms sewn on your cloak, sir, you prefer a griffin or a tree motif.’

  Frith blinked, surprised despite himself. ‘You are quite correct.’

  ‘For a dear friend then, I’m thinking. A lover, even.’

  All at once Frith remembered buying silver trinkets outside the Storm Gates. The vendor had asked him if they were for his sweetheart, when at the time he had thought Wydrin dead. A familiar sick feeling washed through his guts.

  ‘I don’t have time to haggle. Just tell me your price.’

  The man relented, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. ‘For you, sir, two silver bits. It’s a fine knife, I think you’ll agree.’

  Without saying any more, Frith passed the man the coins and took the knife, wrapping it carefully in a scrap of offered fabric before slipping it into the bag at his belt. He was glad he’d found it, but the whole conversation had dredged up memories of the Desert of Bones and his time there – his desperate grief for Wydrin, and the man he had killed to power the Edenier trap – and now his evening felt soured. He was still brooding over it as he left the market square to head further uphill, cutting through side streets to avoid the main crowds, and perhaps that was why he failed to notice the three figures that followed him down one particular dark alley. His first clue that anything was amiss was a throaty chuckle from directly behind him.

  ‘In a hurry are you, lordling?’

  Frith spun around, belatedly taking in his surroundings. There were three men behind him, their faces partially hidden in the poor light, although one of them, a man with a ragged scar dividing his face, looked familiar. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What does anyone want?’ said the fattest one. He was bald, the light of the moon casting a ghostly silver coin on his shining head. ‘Job security, a warm hearth, a sense of peace in one’s life—’

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped the one with the scar. ‘We know you, you posh bastard. Lording it up in The Blinkered Inn. And we also happen to know that that thing you’re carrying is worth a few bob.’

  ‘This?’ Frith gestured with the staff. He could feel a familiar quickening in his chest – not the Edenier any more, only his own growing rage.

  ‘The stories have reached us, even out here in the arse-end of Y’Gria’s Loss.’ This was the third man. He had lank hair hanging in his face, and had produced a dagger. He was weaving it back and forth in front of him, as if already carving flesh. ‘The Black Feather Three, the Copper Cat and her pet ma
ge. A mage’s staff has got to be worth something, that’s what we reckon.’

  Frith nodded. He gripped the staff with both hands now, and the magic was licking at his palms, eager to be free. ‘By all means,’ he said, ‘you are quite welcome to try and take it from me.’

  The fat one and the one with the knife charged him, apparently hoping to simply knock him to the ground. Frith pictured the mages’ word for Force, imagining it flying from his mind to the Edenier trapped inside the staff, and almost instantly his fingers tingled. A wave of faint purple light burst from the staff lengthwise, catching both men across the stomach and throwing them back up the alley. Frith heard the twin oofs as the breath was knocked from them, and he savoured the fierce burst of satisfaction. Without giving them a second to recover he pictured the word for Ice and sent a cone of glittering white brilliance up the alley that welded their boots to the cobbles. The other man, the one with the scar, had hung back against the wall. Of course, reflected Frith, this one had seen him use the staff in the tavern, and knew it was no mummer’s trick.

  The thief looked frightened now, and he was scrambling backwards, his comrades both moaning on the ground. Frith turned quickly, meaning to swing the staff in a one-handed arc to give the thief a good crack on the skull, when something connected solidly with the back of his own head.

  Black stars burst in front of his eyes and he staggered, dropping the staff and falling almost to his knees. Inwardly, he cursed himself – he’d been concentrating on the men in front of him, not listening for footsteps in the alley behind him – Wydrin was always telling him he was no street brawler. A big man with a club in his hand stepped past him and snatched up the staff before Frith could react. He was covered in bristly black hair, his beard swamping the lower half of his head like a thistle. Frith touched a hand to the back of his head: no blood, but it was difficult to focus.

  ‘Oh no, I think I get to play with it first.’ The staff looked like a toothpick in the bearded man’s meaty hands. He shook it at Frith, then looked aggrieved when nothing happened. Wincing, Frith climbed to his feet.