(Previous Chapter Thirty-Five) (Book Homepage & Chapter List) (Next Chapter Thirty-Seven)
3rd Day in the 1st of Delód’s Months, Rainy Season, in the First Year of King Feyaz’s Reign, 127th Reckoned Year
All of my yesterdays bleed fourth to paint a new tomorrow.
Fate, be thou my paint brush; death, cast aside thy sorrow.
Let rest.
Let rest on mine canvas, all thou dost want to be.
Let rest.
Let rest in the thy mind, ne’er an evil thought of me.
Be strong.
Be strong, O’ soul of mine, in the waters raging.
Be swift.
Be swift, O’ mine ears, to hear the voices fading.
“Come back, come back” I heard ye cry in grief.
“Come back, come back” And I turned unto thee.
At last I hear, and at last I turn, to trust in what will be.
Thy will be made of sterner things, if it could get to me.
“Thy Will”, From Heart’s Lament, written by Barron Ullin in the Unreckoned Years
Sprig snakes his way through the Travel Harbor, searching for a Finger Weaver. If he can’t find one on the docks, then he’ll have to move into the town where all of the churches are, there ought to be a Tapestry there somewhere. Sprig ducks under the arm of someone, dexterously relieving them of the pouch on their belt. He opens it and finds blisker leaves and wake-me beetles, so he simply tosses it aside. Sprig continues his elusive darting in and out of people and wagons, searching with quick eyes for an easy coin purse. He spots a small contingent of guards on their standard patrol, and he stays out of their line of sight easily — they’re never paying attention. He spots a man dressed in fine blue silk from Filkash, and easily snags the man’s coin purse while he argues with his charter. Sprig hefts the small bag and feels a decent weight inside, at least several bones of coins. It’s more than enough for his needs. Walking on through the crowds, Sprig continues scanning for the ubiquitous black veil of a Finger Weaver. He climbs up a rolling wagon of luggage and spots a Weaver several docks down. Sprig scrambles down the wagon and leaps off to catch a hanging sign shaped like a mossfin turtle. It swings forward with his weight, and he lets go to land on a sack of grain. When he at last stands across the street from the Finger Weaver, he removes the pouch of coins from his shirt. He opens the pouch and looks inside, thinking of the shiny plate he stole from Pet, then he flings the coins into the street in front of the Weaver, just as he did with the offering plate. He watches through the ensuing rush of travelers grabbing hungrily at coins, then sees the hand sign from the Weaver, four straight fingers with the littlest bent down, all pointed at the ground where the coins had landed. Sprig returns the gesture, then recedes to a rooftop to wait. The Tapestry is filled with illusion and misdirection, almost as much as the Fāy-Núl Tör.
It was only a few minutes until the Weaver finished their story. Sprig watched as a puppet with thick arms plunged an oar deep into a rolling sea. A student of the Tapestry always finishes their story. The black veiled person appears silently beside Sprig on the rooftop, both of them in the shadows enough to remain unnoticed by passersby. The black veil flutters just slightly as the Weaver speaks. “Why do you throw coins on the ground, listener?”
Sprig responds to the phrase with the appropriate answer and in his most serious voice, “I steal only to give, speaker.” He learned that serious-type voice by listening to Bor, though he prefers the speech patterns of Cheese best. The veil is lifted from the face of the Finger Weaver, revealing a girl of 11 or 12 years, just a few years older than Sprig. The girl has no hair, which is not uncommon in Filkash. Her upper lip is scarred with what must have been a painful gash, and below it she has a pure smile. She doesn’t look at Sprig, but watches the crowd, speaking eagerly but maintaining her solemnity. She clearly loves to hear of the other Masses, but that makes sense, Sprig thinks: all Weavers love to hear stories, and few travel. “What news do you bring? Do you wish to gain entry to the Strand?”
Sprig however, reverts back to a thick version of Cheese’s patterns, scratching his ear as he speaks. “Ah, nothin’ much. I were thinkin’ maybe you got news, seein’ as I ain’t from here.”
The Weaver is unsurprised by Sprig’s sudden degradation in vocabulary. Weavers are skilled in the aspects of theater, and Sprig is no exception. The Tapestry is the perfect ready-made disguise for a guild of thieves: deft hands, gifted voices, veiled so no one sees their face, and able to watch without truly being seen. Chapel noticed Sprig’s own inclinations and skills, learned early in the orphanage, and the Captain pointed him to the Tapestry. They have been helping him hone his skills and pointing his talents in specific directions. The Tapestry never steals for personal gain.
The Weaver girl answers in the same solemnity, though there is a tinge of Broadfell to her voice that her eagerness allows to come through. “What does the listener wish to know?”
“What’s goin’ on with the war?”
“King Feyaz continues to gather the navy and those that have been conscripted. The first move against the Cleave will be made on the blacksmith moon.”
Sprig looks up at the sky, but it’s just before first sunset, so he can’t find the moon to check the phase. “Do ships leave,” Sprig asks, “or is there like a lockdown or somethin’?”
“Ships come and go, but there are checks that the Harbormasters make.”
The hurry of the Trade Harbor below is accentuated by the hawkers selling wares held up on tall spears: fish, cloth, leather, fruit, and other goods periodically drift by the rooftop, bobbing as if buoyant. Sprig can’t remember the third thing he was supposed to ask, so he makes to leave. The Weaver places a hand on his arm. “The Loom will want to know the reason for a visit from a foreign Weaver. Are you following a mark?”
He notices the drop of the solemnity and titles, and at the same time is reminded of the final question he was supposed to ask. At first Sprig isn’t sure what to say, so he follows an old Tapestry proverb about twisting lies into truths. “I ain’t got a reason — the ship I’m crewed with were drafted for fightin’.”
The Weaver doesn’t speak, so Sprig asks the last question. “Anybody seen people visitin’ the King lately?”
She considers for a moment, then answers. “No, just the Fellpost of Broadfell. He came shortly after war was declared. Do you want me to ask The Loom?”
“Nah, ain’t gonna be here that long.”
She eyes him warily, but then he smiles his mischievous smile and she laughs. The two quietly watch the harried movements of patrons and travelers below. The first sunset begins to color the Travel Harbor’s water, then Sprig makes to leave. The Weaver speaks, stopping him. “What’s your name?”
“Sprig.”
But she looks at him carefully and says, “Not what you are called — your name.”
Sprig doesn’t answer right away, finally looking over to the Weaver girl. “What’s it to ya?”
“I have never met a member of the Tapestry from another Mass.”
“I ain’t a full member yet, still gots some offerin’s to make.”
“Still,” She says looking at him, “I would like to know.”
“Name’s… Spigwell, but kids at the home I were raised in made fun. So’s, I got a new name.
“Sprig.” She repeats, seeming to try the funny nickname.
“Yup,” Sprig answers, shuttering away the sick feeling he gets when he hears his real name, “You?”
“Mashia-Bess.”
“Well, Mashia,” Sprig says in a mix of Cheese and Chapel, “I gots to get back. Thanks though. An’ good show too — I ain’t never seen it.”
“It is one of my own. It is an adaptation of a story my father told me, called Boldifar Strong Oar.”
Sprig says, “It were a right good one.” Then he scampers off the rooftop, disappearing into the crowd.
When Sprig returns to the Painful Lady, the second sun is beginning to set and the Captain is waiting in his cabin. Sprig walks into the large and stately room, finding the Old Goat and First Mate Mavis, sitting across from Chapel. The Captain is staring down at the Saintstone eyeglass held in his hands, and he is mindlessly petting a very satisfied prattlebeak. Sprig enters and interrupts a conversation between the General and Mavis, “Found ‘em.” The Captain looks up, but doesn’t stop petting Sprig’s bird. “What’re you doin’ that for? Don’t spoil ‘em or it’ll expect the same from me.” Sprig says to Chapel. The Captain nods to Sprig and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You know you love her, Sprig. Give her some attention, she’s worked hard lately,”
Chapel scratches the bird’s neckless head. Sprig answers the Captain’s unspoken questions. “Ships are leavin’ but there’s checks. An’ there ain’t been nobody seen visitin’ the King recently, ‘cept the Fellpost. He showed up with his big, pointy hat after war were declared.”
Chapel hears and says, “Thanks Sprig…” as he continues scratching the bird. “You know, we ought to name this bird. She’s part of the crew now. Depths, she’s been pulling more weight than me, lately…”
The Big Man enters the cabin alongside Cheese, both laughing mildly and Cheese shoves the immovable bulk of Benafield. The Captain grows thoughtful, “Now, what would be a good name for you…”
The Big Man hears Chapel and decides to throw his two scales into the ring, “I say… Kerfuffle.”
First Mate Mavis rolls his eyes and couples it with an exasperated sigh. The General appears seriously contemplative of the name, then says, “Hmm, it’s not a bad one, I say.” Then he shrugs his shoulders, suggesting it doesn’t matter to him. Sprig speaks without even thinking. “How’s about Mashia?”
The Captain tries out the name, “Mashia” and the bird coos softly in it’s natural voice. Sprig smiles broadly, and Chapel speaks again, “Mashia it is then. Where’d you come up with that, Sprig?”
Sprig shrugs his shoulders, copying the General’s gesture. “Dunno.” But the bird eyes him, as if privy to the secret knowledge of its eponymous figure.
Shushilah and Petsune walk into the room then, followed by Bor and Pickett. The latter two smell like a mouthwatering dish that Sprig can’t wait to devour, while Shushilah and Petsune smell like the grungy tang of too many bodies mixed with exotic spices. Petsune is in the middle of speaking to Shush when they enter. “Yes, but you didn’t need to buy it for me. I didn’t even intend to buy it.”
Petsune is holding a fine leather belt with a place for his Sanctum dagger on it.
The General chimes in, desiring to hear the full story. “What’s all this then, Hmm?”
Shushilah laughs at Pet and answers the General. “The Filkish merchants, they had their way of our dear Pet.”
Chapel laughs too, “Ah, they got you? They can be very persuasive.”
“I don’t know what came over me,” Petsune says.
Chapel and Shushilah laugh, and Shush says an old Oullman idiom, “Is fun to watch! They took him through the forest!”
Mavis chuckles mildly then. “Bought it hook, line, and sinker, did you?”
Bor isn’t laughing, though he is smiling. “Probably because you’ve never had the freedom to shop before, have you Pet?”
Shushilah comments, “Is the way of the Filkish traders. Making you want something you did not know you were wanting.”
Sprig makes a comment that he doesn’t intend to be all that funny. “That’s ‘cause he were always buyin’ fish for the Fathers.” But suddenly everyone laughs, even Bor and Pet.
When the room quiets, Chapel speaks. “Well, looks like everybody’s here,” Petsune sees Chapel question himself inwardly, then a flicker of determination surfaces on his face and the Captain continues, “I met with my father, Devishaw, the King’s Right Hand. It did not go well….”
The General is about to speak, but Bor gives him an elbow and he swallows his question. The Captain continues explaining, “My father is not only unwilling to help us persuade King Feyaz to make peace, but I think… No, I know, he killed King Bornidin.”
Pet hears that his people are innocent in the king’s death and feels a heavy weight lift from his shoulders. He had hoped, but after the logbook he began to lose that hope. Now he knows for certain, and he finds himself reinvigorated in his quest to prove the innocence of his parents, despite the nature of the logbook. Now the General finds himself unable to hold his tongue. “What? That’s outrageous, what’s the meaning of this, Captain?”
Benafield chimes in, “How could this be?”
Now Bor speaks over the Big Man, “They said he was assassinated by a group of Coldor?”
To everyone’s surprise, Pickett begins speaking. “To catch larger prey, the fisher shark will spear smaller, easier fish on the two fishing tentacles on it’s face, using them as bait to fish for larger meals.”
The room goes quiet in shock, but then Sprig speaks to Pickett, “Hey, that’s a good’n Pickett,” then Sprig speaks to the rest of the room, “Pick is sayin’ maybe Young Bornidin were just the bait.”
“Yes,” Shushilah says, “This is the point, I’m thinking,” then he adds, “if Devishaw is hating the Coldor so much, this was the way to get rid of them, yes?”
No one speaks right away, until the General breaks the silence. “Hmm, it would be a good strategy for starting a war, to blame it on the Coldor. If one was fishing for the eradication of a people, framing them for the assassination of a king would be perfect bait.”
A few of the crew look at Petsune, wondering how he is taking this conversation. Petsune appears thoughtful and says, “But why now? Your father has always hated the… has always hated my people.” Petsune feels a strange flush of pride, finally being able to acknowledge that he is Coldor to the crew.
Cheese says, “Didn’t they catch the killers an execute ‘em? Four of ‘em, there were.”
The General thinks strategy aloud. “If they never confessed, they could simply have been sympathizers from the Royal cells… two tupandi with one spear, hmm?”
Chapel agrees with a nod, “I think you’re right, General. My father would have access to the Royal cells.”
Chapel turns from the room to look out the window in the stern wall of the captain’s cabin. “My father believes he has made the slaughter of the Coldor inevitable. We need a plan to stop it.”
The entire crew becomes contemplative with the heavy burden. Chapel’s words begin to settle into everyone’s mind.
The truth, that Devishaw hates the Coldor enough to kill the king for his plans, is devastating to Chapel. He had hoped there was a chance for his father to redeem himself, but now he sees Devishaw is too far gone. This fact lingers in the air like the smell of rotten fish in the Saints sun, poisoning the mood of everyone in the cabin. Chapel gazes out of the window, wondering if what his father started can be stopped. Out the window to the port and starboard side are ships with green and blue and red sails, all curled up and rustling slightly in the overcast wind. Chapel sees out into the water beyond the Trade Harbor, spotting the brown sails of Broadfell navy ships. The Second sun is below the horizon and the Small sun is still a ways above, casting a dull amber glow over the harbor water. In the diffused light Chapel sees several small contingents of brown-sailed Broadfell ships sailing toward the Royal Docks from the north. There are also a few small groups of purple-sailed Filkish ships coming into view from the southwest. They are all here to support their allies in war, and it sickens Chapel to think his father has manipulated all of these people.
While no part of this book or the audio will be paywalled, if you are enjoying it and want to support but can’t afford the book, my Substack paid subscription is 60% off the yearly ($12 a year, forever) and 50% off the monthly ($2.25 a month, foreeeever)
