Safe Passage

Rain Soak

A ship of mercenaries, assassins, traders, vagabonds, and other lost souls is the kind of place where secrets come to die; along with their owner – unless there was profit in keeping said owner alive. Well, for now.

But when the owner of the secret is a founder member of the Ordo Divitiarum then some secrets are presumed safe. Untouchable. But it’s always best to err on the side of caution and not breathe of such secrets. But some secrets converge and other align their outcomes. Those secrets tend to be bedfellows and sharing such knowledge becomes beneficial. Unless you are a mere mortal with no code to follow. But Lady Euph and Captain Jean Flint did follow a code.

And so, Lady Euph (coffee in hand) was sat one side an oak-hewn table in Jean Flint’s war room. Behind her stood her equerry Venu Enarum, who shuffled papers and passed each in turn to Lady Euph as she requested them.

Jean Flint, flanked by Mr Leaf, and a pink-and-black clad man known as Mr Chief, sat opposite her. Whereas Mr Leaf was quite vocal, the other man sat motionless, and Lady Euph could feel him sucking the energy from the room. It was mildly distracting and perhaps a little disturbing. She looked at Jean Flint as whisps of hot milk rose from her coffee.

“I know is you’re looking for an Athanasia talisman,” Euph began. “They are dangerous. We had a problem with one from Epumatara, and I suspect you know Alfonso de Careno was the father of the Athanasia. And perhaps you know something about the death of de Careno. None of these matter for now. We need to get to Denaviim.”

Jean Flint sighed. For years the death of de Careno had haunted him. In moments of reflection or with tired eyes, his mind wandered. What if he’d never found those parchments that described the Athanasia, the farmer would have no reason to meet de Careno and no reason to hear his final words. Maybe the watchmaker would still have met his end, he – a humble farmer – would no longer be a witness, nor a suspect. He would not be wanted; would not have a price on his head; would not have fled to Veraku, lived in the sewers, hiding from the Queen’s guard and city watch. He’d never meet Mearaithe, never heard those damn cat calls…

“He was my friend. Alfonso de Careno. We had tea together once and we spoke about Athanasia. He denied them of course but I had parchments. Proof. His seal was assigned upon them. I asked for Athanasia because I wanted someone returned to me. Alfonso de Careno died because I wanted to something. He died in my arms, and I am no longer that farmer. I am now Jean Flint and I want to find his killer. To know why he died. And to take that life in return.”

The air in the room fell cold – despite the warmth of the Northern Sea as the Behemoth headed for the Rain Soak peninsula. The shipped rolled in the waves and moments passed before Euph nodded, took a sip of her coffee, and placed the mug down. She turned to Venu Enarum and took one parchment from him.

“We have this man…” Euph searched for a name, “Van Bastardo who leaves the Uog tavern and heads for Veraku. Along the way he reaches Epumatara in the back of nowhere, so I’m told. My source tells me they sell supposed rare artifacts and treasures from the forgotten tribes but most of what they sell is forged – at best. But this Van Bastardo meets a trader - one Eqbol Rhushi and asks for any talismans made by a watchmaker called de Careno…”

Jean Flint leaned forward.

“Maybe we can speak to this Rhushi?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Alas no. My source is a little too…” Lady Euph searched for a polite word, “…too thorough to leave loose ends.”

“Ah, shame.”

“So,” Euph paused a moment as Jean Flint lifted his hands from the table and sat back. “Van Bastardo acquires a talisman, heads for Veraku, gets drunk in the Lions Den and loses the talisman causing Lord Hok and the Ordo Divitiarum some problems, because amongst all the forgeries, Van Bastardo just happens to get his hands on a de Careno original.”

Lady Euph rolled her eyes. She took a deep breath.

“Van Bastardo returns to Uog and changes his identity to become one Njal Ulf and somehow became an enforcer with the Lions Den, gets captured by the Hanseatic League for reasons unknown, and is now with the WTF. Somewhere.”

Lady Euph paused allowing these revelations to sink in. Flint nodded. “We have heard this Van Bastardo before. We were warned about him – his…” Now it was Flint’s turn to search for the perfect word, “…his passion for power. But while we are being candid – friends – there was something else with the death of de Careno. There was a purple light and ferocious winds but only where de Careno lived. And there was music. Some say a Fidlyra.”

At this revelation Lady Euph’s eyes widened, and all three men opposite noticed this. Mr Leaf spoke, “It’s sound is unique and I’ve heard it before whenever I visited the Cider House tavern. Not too far from the Ordo Divitiarum, I recall.” He feigned some confusion, but Mr Leaf knew exactly where the Ordo was, exactly whose chambers resided in that building and, exactly who Lady Euph knew within the tavern. It was his job to know. And he was good at his job.

Euph sighed. The layers of secrets needed to be revealed. “Bubbli di Brecia. A wealthy, but kind soul. A lover of wines from the i-milos vineyard, and yes, she has become the mistress of the Fidlyra. But the Fidlyra is something new in our world and arrived many moons after de Careno was murdered. The circle of people who know of this is small. Are you certain it was this sound?”

Jean Flint nodded. “It was given to me by an alchemist of Magus Remvarma who, on his death had given her an Athanasia scroll and told her to visit de Careno. She arrived in Ekrinaya a long time after the death of de Careno. But it was she who uncovered what we think was a portal and the music. I sent someone back to Ekrinaya to confirm these details”

Flint took a breath and spread his palms wide. “Arh, I also spoke with my Mage about this.”

“Mage? You have a Mage?” Euph could not restrain her surprise.

Jean Flint shrugged. It was becoming too easy to talk about these hidden secrets. “Maybe. I don’t know what the hell he is. He can be in this room one moment and high in the Menavariyam the next. But he say that purple denotes the presence of a powerful mage or artifact.”

“Like an Athanasia…” Euph mused before continuing with her notes, “So, the talisman was created by de Careno and he’s already dead. Epumatara deals with Denaviim and that’s where the talisman came from. Which suggest de Careno spent time there. Then this Van Bastardo appears and asks for a de Careno talisman by name. Disappears… and reappears as someone else. Meanwhile, my source sends the talisman to Denaviim.”

“Why?” This time Mr Chief spoke, his voice rasping but deep which forced Lady Euph to look at him. She broke that gaze and turned to Venu Enarum and asked for another parchment.

“Eqbol Rhushi was the trader in Epumatara, and he gave us the meaning of ‘Athanasia.’ De Careno made talismans that are almost impossible to destroy. They are known as ‘forevers’ and can only be destroyed in the forge where they were made. And believe me, this talisman needs to be destroyed. So, it was returned to a friend of the Ordo in Denaviim, and a goose sent to give notice of our arrival.

“Okay. We will reach Rain Soak in a few hours, port there for the night and I’ll send a goose back to Veraku to our people* in the Upper City. They will infiltrate the WTF and find something about this Njal Ulf. In the meantime, while I know you are capable, will you accept the skills of a Protector?”

There are some questions and offers which are not really so. The answer is usually yes and, for now, Euph needed the Black Sails and all their skills – especially in Denaviim. She agreed and Flint called for Zandrilla.

“What’s her story?” asked Euph.

______

*For those who imagined that whenever the Behemoth set sail, everyone boarded

and disappeared into the sunset may find this revelation startling. But the

Black Sails are everywhere – well almost. Think of Mearaithe who

always seems to be travelling or Reaper, the fish merchant in

Ghenu or Spartan’s cave – there’s always someone there.

______

Zandrilla

Ghenu is a place where stories intertwine with legends and sometimes bad decisions. Melkas Rhodin had warned her to throw the fight and you didn’t disappoint Melkas Rhodin. He was an underlord – someone who ran gambling dens, fenced wares which had been recovered from their owners, and was generally not a very nice person to be locked in a room with.

So, when Zandrilla landed a punch that showered the jeering audience with stained teeth, blood, and other bodily fluids, as her opponent’s eyes rolled back in his head and his knees buckled, Melkas Rhodin had whispered something to someone and now Zandrilla was sat in a room where that same someone was holding her firmly in place.

The room was some kind of cellar. Dusty jars whose contents she was unsure of lined wooden shelves as candle lights flickered. Dust dropped as the floor high above creaked in tune with the merriment of the Ghenu tavern. Zandrilla glanced around and saw nothing else but a barred door and, was that? No. Surely not…

Melkas smiled a fine row of silver teeth, his black formal hat seemed limp. His voice had the kind of twang you expected from far beyond the Blue Sea. “Throw the fight, That’s all you had ti do and all smiles. But norh. Norh you had ti be Zandrilla and break its face. And you cost mi a Priddy penny Zandrilla the soon to be floatin’ in the s’wers”.

As a writer, I feel I there should be more to the character of Melkas Rhodin with a decent backstory, but events will quickly overtake any idea of punishment he had in line for Zandrilla. It begins with a puff of air and ends with the someone who had hands on Zandrilla now reaching for his neck, feeling light-headed and falling backwards with a thunk as a cloud of dust lifts into the stale air.

There’s a shadow too which lands on Melkas Rhodin, knocking him to the floor as he loses his grip on some very nasty looking piece of metal. And Zandrilla is now moving forwards; rolling toward that piece of nasty looking metal which feels heavy when it reaches her hands and seamlessly lands in the startled eyeball of Melkas Rhodin. Glass shatters and the shadow disappears through a freshly made hole where a grime ridden window once lived. Zandrilla followed and pulled herself up through the mud of the street. The shadow stopped for a moment and said only: “Harbour. Behemoth. Now!”

---

The dream

He was in the fields tending to sheep and cattle, gathering the harvest, the purple grass swaying in the breeze. It was Ekrinaya, and he traded goods with the locals. He was popular too, greeting everyone with a warm and genuine smile and the uncanny ability to remember obscure facts about everyone.

He remembered their faces, many of their names too. He remembered Ms Vaduva, chopping purple fish and his neighbour who suggested he become a seller of rare maps. But he was always a farmer first. And one who loved puzzles second. That was his essence. And rare books from a “Ye Tome of Lyfe” nestled deep within Ekrinaya’s weave of alleys. Books that described the ancient past, and their secrets. And he remembered the smell of purple. The smell of…

And he kept notes and formed ideas for the ultimate puzzle – a device that the ancients believed could make one immortal and life was good. And he had found a watchmaker who, for the bribe of a large purse of gold coins was prepared to forsake the warnings embodied in the word. One word. ‘Αθανασία’ – Athanasia. Athanasia. The word resonated in his mind.

The dream clouds surge forward, and a silver coin falls from the air. The messenger boy smiles wide. He remembered the journey. Dusk fell with purple storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Ekrinaya’s alleys were less busy, so no one really noticed the farmer as he turned left then right, right then left, passed the magistrates and into the leafy lanes and formal gardens which would eventually bring him to the home of the watchmaker. The smell of purple. The music. The faint Fidlyra, almost from his own mind. He knocked on the door, checking his pocket watch for the time. No answer. And no candle flickered in the window. Distant voices and what sounded like a can being kicked. He knocked again, but this time the door became slightly ajar. He pushed it carefully and called out for the watchmaker. No response. No, there was a noise, like someone struggling to breathe. He went inside and found the watchmaker’s study where the rasping breath was louder. He quickly lit a candle and found the watchmaker slumped in his chair, blood oozing from his belly.

He quickly looked for something to stem the bleeding as the watchmaker mouthed the words ‘taken, taken’. The farmer poured some whisky and pressed the glass against the watchmaker’s lips. It seem to soothe the man who took a moment to look at the knife buried in his gut. He regarded the farmer once again and whispered, “Find, must… find… taken… Veraku… Ver…”

The farmer took a step back as the life fell from the watchmaker’s eyes. He looked down to see his own hands and clothes covered in blood. The watchmaker was silent now, gone.

His mind raced. The artifact had been taken. But by who and where? The ‘why’ was obvious and the ‘how’ included murder. The corpse was here and so was he, covered in the watchmaker’s blood. His heart raced for a moment. Even if he called for help, there would be an enquiry and questions. Questions he wanted to avoid. But no one knew he was here. No one. No one. Damn. The messenger boy…

His heart pounded once again.

Did the murderer know about the artifact? Did they know about his drawings? Could they find him. What had the watchmaker told them? Was his life in danger? His breathing became hard.

He knew he needed to leave, but first he needed to find the drawings. He searched the watchmaker’s pockets, his desk and bookcase. Nothing. He was frantic and study began to morph from purely a murder scene into one of a brutal murder and robbery.

He heard a door creak open. Quickly he extinguished the candle and reached around for anything that could be used as a weapon. Had they returned. Had they forgotten something?

His hand grasped something – it was the knife, still embedded in the watchmaker. He slowly pulled it out and winced. Whoever was here, was a problem. Did they have answers or did they have questions. He needed to get home. He needed to think. And he ran. Through the dark house closer to voices. Voices that carried candles. Candles that revealed features. Features that revealed… Questions.

The dream clouds rush forward once more, and the farmer is home. He remembers the gushing of water and he remembered the knife. It had a white bone handle, engraved with the letters J.F. The blade was a razor-sharp stone like slate or maybe flint. There was a faint glow. Purple. And then there was a ship. A safe place and he was someone new.

Jean Flint awoke and reached for his knife. “Athanasia,” whispered in his mind.

---

Storm clouds often threaten the Northern Sea: a place far beyond the warmer waters of the Blue Sea. This was a violent stretch of water and not the usual way traders would travel to Denaviim. But taking the usual way would draw too much attention on the Behemoth which, even with a lot of decoration from Saxo would still resemble an ocean fortress – albeit garnished in the wares of a food merchant.

Johnny Sacks had suggested the Northern Sea, porting in Venabar (conveniently placed between Rain Soak and the Golden Bank) where they were to collect an old friend of his. Tsar IYI was a regional lord of Tsarinaya and gatekeeper to the Eldo-Uma cavern: a series of deep lakes and rivers beneath the Pashtarak Mountains that emerged into the mystical lake of Eldo-Yara. In Denaviim the lake was considered cursed, shrouded in a persistent fog that made you see things that could not be real. It would be the perfect cover for the Behemoth, although the side effects would need to be managed – but then the sheer number of alchemists, healers, poisoners and whomever else resided on the Behemoth would be more than prepared for a little fog.

Unlike Rain Soak where the rain is persistent and the skies greyed, Venabar is a northern paradise. Heavy rain arrives mid-afternoon, followed by blooms of scented flowers the size of a man’s head. These attract a myriad of butterfly and the Venabar orchards provide a rich source of revenue for the Cider House tavern in Veraku. Lady Euph was familiar with the area, and she too sought out an old friend.

A wine merchant by trade, you may imagine him as an envoy with an eclectic taste for clothing that made Vic (his name) appear much older than his years. He seemed quite handy with his cane which was able to whip a man’s sword clean from his hand and sometimes his hand clean from his arm.

---

Before their departure, a goose arrived with the seal of the Black Sails. It was marked “Flint. Eyes” and the eyes of Flint now scanned the report. Njal Ulf. Enforcer. Ghenu. Trader Ghermuq. Denaviim.

---

The next twelve days were relatively uneventful. The Behemoth had taken on some passengers who, for the sake of the lore we shall skip. None played any significant role in our tale, and we all want to get to Denaviim. Along the way, we pass the northern shore of Qarbah and Fahch peered longingly at the dunes that crept closer to the ocean. The seas were unusually calm, the breeze fresh but slow moving. Voltumna may have influenced this, but no one would know his true self for another moon, far from here and somewhere in the Menavariyam.

And when you reach Tsarinaya, you realise it’s not the typical place one visits. It’s a molten wasteland and when, in the tale of Fedaloup, Tsar described to me his house of skulls, he was not kidding. What these were the skulls of, I have no idea. The air was acrid with sulphur and every so often the Earth shook with another tremor. The sky took on a permanent orange glow as the mountain burned and it was with some relief that the portal gate of Eldo-Uma opened, and the Behemoth slipped inside the mountain.