Chapter 36

The houses claimed by the Orels were packed tight from the addition of another seven souls, but the sounds coming from their yard were happy.

Young Koval was shrieking with laughter, a black-haired man only a few years his elder wrestling with him in the grass. Blankets had been laid over the steps and grass, the newcomers sitting on them with hollow cheeks but gleaming eyes. Old Horvat ducked and weaved among them, filling cups and patting shoulders and wheezing. Bolic was standing tall with a flask in hand, telling a story, but Maryam had not come for him. She kept to the shadows as she moved, never coming into their sight.

There was a shed, not far off, where Orel Poltava had put together the barest bones of smithy. Its windows were lit with lamplight and Maryam found the blacksmith inside. She was kneeling on the floor, sifting through a pile of chains and manacles. Some were set aside, the parts in good iron, while the rest were dumped in a bucket that would likely be sold to the Workshop for spare coppers. The tinkers always had use for scrap iron, though they were rarely willing to pay much for it.

Maryam did not try to keep her steps quiet, so by the time she came to lean against the doorsill Poltava had turned her way – hand on the knife belted at her hip, just in case. The other woman’s broad face lightened at the sight of her.

“Princess,” Poltava nodded. “A pleasant surprise. Do you have need of me?”

“You might say that,” Maryam said. “Are you in a hurry?”

She snorted.

“The bad ale Horvat is passing around will keep,” she replied. “I am at your disposal.”

That, Maryam had come to realize, was rather the issue. The Orels were bound to follow her arrangements but sitting with Izel she had realized that she had no real idea what they wanted. Oh, she knew what Bolic wanted. Her ship, her name, perhaps even her body. But Orel Bolic was only one of five.

An hour ago, before being forced to look her choices in the eye, Maryam would have dithered. Tried some small talk, maybe let the opportunity pass outright. But she was done with that, she had to be. Too much time had been wasted already.

“Your journey to Kofoni turned into a shitshow,” she frankly said. “You were shot at, nearly broke a leg and raided a slaver’s ship. Are you all right?”

“The physician said the leg is only sprained,” Poltava told her. “I have coin saved, enough to buy herbs for the swelling.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “As I think you well know. You are not a soldier, nor were you contracted to serve as one. I would not blame you for having doubts.”

“You think this will happen again?” Poltava quietly asked.

“It could,” Maryam said. “Neither me nor the Thirteenth would seek to put you in the way of blades, but to ferry the brigade around the Trebian Sea for contracts may well see it happen again.”

The older woman nodded, staying silent, and looked at her for a long time.

“Is this about Bolic?” Poltava finally asked.

Maryam’s brow rose.

“It’s not not about Bolic,” she acknowledged. “What has he said?”

“Fool things,” Poltava said. “The kind that tell the whole tale of how he lived it large for a time but ended up in slave hulk young. Some of those young men we picked up might like the sound of them, but I know better. The blackclad captain was happy enough to hang those slavers, but if they’d not attacked us first he would have walked us to the gallows instead.”

Not with any great pleasure, Maryam thought, but she agreed he would have done it anyway. Captain Tianming had not struck her as the kind of man who looked away when the Watch was in the wrong – at no point of the talk in the warehouse had he ever hinted that the matter with the merchantmen could go unreported to authority. Only which authority had been worth discussing.

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Maryam asked.

Poltava licked her lips.

“I’m not good with words, princess,” the blacksmith said, bringing up her hands. “My grip is the gift the gods saw fit to give me. I think you should talk to Koval, he’ll say it better.”

Koval the Elder, presumably.

“You would have him speak for you?” Maryam asked, honestly surprised.

She had known that Bolic ‘led’ the rest of them by virtue of highest birth and being the most experienced seafarer more than any deep love, but she would not have thought the elder Koval to be anyone’s choice. Maryam found him rather mousy and focused on his son at the exclusion of almost all else. It did not make him a bad man and it did make him a good father, but were she one of the Orels she would have not picked him.

“More than Bolic,” Poltava bluntly said. “I know he’s your man, princess, and trying to be in the other way too. But he’s a vitez to the bone, and I’m not interested in coming to the same end as his last crew did.”

It occurred to Maryam, not for the first time, that these were strangers. That she’d not known what they thought of her ties with Bolic, thought of each other. She didn’t even know what had happened to the man’s old crew, though guesses came easy – and grim.

“And what’s that?” she asked.

“Those that didn’t run away in time were seized and sold to the ironmen,” Poltava said. “Fodder for the mines. He’s a vitez, though, and they were just sailors. He got sold as a curiosity to some Malani official instead.”

Maryam’s eyes narrowed.

“You make it sound,” she said, “like it was not the Malani who had him seized.”

“Malani ruled the city, sure,” Poltava said. “But they didn’t run it. The harbormen are the ones who had him taken in. Didn’t bribe the right men, or maybe they were tired of the running the risk.”

“And the harbormen were Izvoric,” Maryam slowly said.

The older woman nodded and Maryam’s throat tightened. They would be, wouldn’t they? There were only so many Malani in Juska, even if you counted all the colony towns. They’d have a stranglehold on the key posts of the major cities and ports, maybe even fill the ranks with their own men, but for smaller cities? No, the Malani would just put one of theirs in charge of the old harbormen and let it all go on as before. Too much trouble to do otherwise, for too little gain. Gods.

“Koval should be taking his evening poppy about now, so he’ll be inside the house,” Poltava said, sounding hesitant.

She had been silent for too long, Maryam realized, and she cleared her throat.

“Why?” she asked, mostly to say something at all.

“He doesn’t like to be feeling it around his son,” the blacksmith said.

She thought of Tristan, for half a moment, but the similarity was only slight. The thief wouldn’t have taken a drop of it unless he were forced.

“I’ll pay him a visit, then,” Maryam said, inclining her head.

She pushed off the door, cloak catching slightly on the wood, and had taken only one step away when Poltava spoke up.

“Thank you.”

Maryam turned to find the blacksmith on her feet, leaning against the wall.

“For getting us out,” Poltava softly said. “But for this too.”

“I should have done it earlier,” Maryam said, voice tight. “I never asked what the five of you want. And I didn’t tell you enough of what I can really offer.”

“But you asked,” Poltava said. “It’s already more than any princess I’ve ever heard of.”

I’m not sure I should be called that anymore, Maryam thought. It had been one thing, to put on that half-formed notion and wear it like a garland when there was no one around it meant anything for. She could ruefully call herself princess of Volcesta when no one there had ever seen the valley, or understood that the word in Recnigvor she was translating didn’t really mean the same thing in Antigua. But now that there were Izvoric around it wasn’t just noise, a crude word shouted into a cave to echo.

Calling herself a princess, it would mean taking on a responsibility. Taking up oaths, some of which ran against oaths she had already taken.

“I’m not so sure a princess is what I need to be,” Maryam finally said, then shook her head. “Thanks for the talk.”

—

It was as Poltava had said – the man was inside the house, tucked away in a side room mending clothes clumsily. He was surprised when she asked for a word but promptly invited her to sit. It took but a few moments for Maryam to realize the strangest thing: Orel Koval reminded her of home more than any of the others.

Bolic, with the swagger and the sword and the mustache, he fit everywhere men sailed. He carried that with him, in him. Koval, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb in Allazei. He’d bought local clothes but there’d been no eye to flair: he’d gotten whatever was warmest, sturdiest and cheapest for himself and his son, as much of it as he could. Most of the shirts had been too large before he tightened them up with needlework.

Orel Koval walking around slightly bent in his mismatched clothes, hair black and eyes blue, looked like he’d been stolen right out of some coastland town and dropped on the streets of Allazei. He looked like half the Izvoric she’d ever seen and spoke like them too.

Only there was something slightly off about him, which Maryam picked up on only when she looked closer: the colors of his clothes were slightly off. The blues were not quite vivid enough to be from copper soup, the reds were Tianxi vermillion instead of madder red. The man had not changed, but the dyes had. A girl more inclined to verse might have found something in there, but Maryam had not been blessed with the gift of the turn of phrase.

She had eyes, when she cared to see, and ears when she cared to listen. But that was not the same thing and her tongue often felt clumsy when used for anything but sarcasm. Still, she had graces enough to ask about this wounded shoulder.

“The Dove’s physician assured me that enough rest will see it heal well,” Koval told her, fiddling with the bandage. “I will not be as nimble as it was before, but I was lucky and the bullet did not strike bone.”

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable – though whether it was from her presence or talk of the wound she was not sure.

“The liquor the blackclads use to clean wounds works better than honey,” Koval said. “They gave me a bottle and bandages with instructions on how to change them, so I need not fear infection.”

His hand reached for one of the scars beneath his eyes, thin lines that almost looked more like a mark than an old wound.

“If you head to the hospital, they will change it for you,” Maryam said.

The man gave her a forced smile.

“I appreciate it, princess, but unless the wound sours I would rather take care of it myself.”

It wasn’t pride talking, she thought. Koval had that father’s virtue of being able to swallow his pride when it came to anything that might reach his son, and dying of a bad wound would qualify.

“Are they giving you trouble there?” she asked, nails digging into her knee even through the tunic.

Maryam – well, Song – had checked and as auxiliaries the Orels were allowed the use of the hospital on the same terms as the locals. Koval the Elder shook his head, almost smiling in a way that had little joy to it.

“All the world gives us trouble,” he said. “It would be grasping of me to complain when you have us living in such luxury.”

Maryam would have laughed, if not for the utter seriousness of his tone. Awkwardly she cleared her throat, not quite sure what to say. Koval let out a small noise of understanding.

“Apologies, princess,” he said. “I forget how young you are.”

Her brow rose. She might have been inclined to find insult there, if not for his tone being so matter-of-fact.

“Meaning?”

“That I live in a stone house without paying rent,” Koval said. “That I do not owe a quarter of my catches to a lord and must not offer ten days of labor to the priests of Ribacki every spring to get my family’s boat blessed.”

He snorted.

“Food is freely sold, the blackclads serve as thief-takers without asking for the barter price and by the laws of their order I cannot be called as levy to wage war.”

Koval picked at his bandages absent-mindedly.

“A lord offering such fine living on the coastlands would have been called a tall tale,” he frankly said. “Gaining these circumstances for my son would have been well worth dangerous work, but you do not even ask it – only sailing for trade and travel, at pay more than generous.”

“It’s lesser pay than what most sailors would get,” Maryam said, throat tight.

The Thirteenth simply hadn’t been able to afford more without it eating into their means – even with Young Koval getting half-pay on account of his youth.

“We are lesser sailors than most,” Koval said. “And your ship, we love it not. Even Bolic makes signs to ward off evil whenever he passes by the engine room should you not be there to impress.”

Maryam hid her amusement at that, though it passed quickly enough anyway. The older man ran a hand through the thinning black strands of his hair.

“It is understandable,” Koval said, “that you do not see the worth of the gift you gave us. You were born a princess and became a craftwoman, so most of these things you must take granted. But even the others, who were all moneyed back home, have easier lives here than they did in the lowlands.”

“A blacksmith like Poltava makes a good living everywhere,” Maryam stiffly said. “Better than the pay I offered.”

“Poltava shoed horses and spent most of her time on nails and arrowheads,” Koval replied. “The finer work she did, mail coats and city-coinage, she did on behalf of the king of Prarije for a pittance.”

The older man shrugged.

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“Old Horvat owned his inn, it is true,” he said. “He was propertied man until he went out of business. But he paid dues to the Staresine and was subject to the war tax.”

“Bolic was a free knight,” Maryam tried, feeling like she was grasping at straws.

“What is calling yourself a vitez really worth, princess?” Koval mused. “He was a pirate with no rights under any law, even his ship only his own so long as he had the swords to keep it. He docked where harbormasters could be bought, and only as long as they found his gold worth braving Malan’s anger. I would wager your service is the first time he’s had such a long string of warm meals since he was a boy.”

She swallowed. It had not occurred to her until then that the truth buried beneath the tale of her mother’s war might also lie beneath the tale of what it was to be a free knight. She had patted herself on the back for knowing that vitez were pirates and smugglers, not legendary loyal partisans sworn to war on Malan, but never given thought to what that life would really mean.

“And it doesn’t bother you, the way they look at you?” Maryam asked, throat tight. “The stares, the whispers. That half the people out there will take you a servant or a slave just from the color of your skin?”

“I have been both of those things, princess,” Koval gently said. “It does not offend me to be thought either. It is not a source of pride, but shame? No, not that. The work was work.”

He looked out the door, through the common room in which echoed the laughter of his son still playing in the yard.

“If there was any shame to be found, my lady, it was in the cruelty offered my family and that will not be my burden to bring into the Nav. I am no more ashamed of having been a slave than I am of having been shot.”

“Are you chiding me for my pride, Koval?” she quietly asked.

Blue eyes shied away.

“I think pride is a concern for free knights and princesses,” Koval said. “I was a fisherman, and I am now a sailor. My concern is winter blankets for my son, teaching him enough written Antigua I can petition for him attend the school near the barracks.”

He touched his bandaged arm.

“This is, I think, will be a rarity,” Koval said. “The Watch will not suffer anything else of either you or the zeljezari.”

“The Morcant won’t stop,” Maryam told him.

She did not specify Nathi or the house, for there was not much difference.

“The Morcant will fight as lords fight everywhere when offended,” he shrugged. “But their family has sent a child to the Watch as hostage, so they will have to follow its laws or pay for it. My son is safer here than anywhere else in the world, I think.”

And Maryam had not asked the question, not come anywhere near it, but Koval was not a fool and sometimes neither was she. Let this be one of those times.

“You don’t want to leave,” she said.

He watched her for a long time, silent.

“You don’t know us,” Koval said.

Her lips thinned. She would have liked for that to be a lie, but it was not. The rest of her evening made the truth of that all too plain.

“This is not a reproach,” he hastened to assure her. “It is… proper. You are a king’s daughter and our patron. Already you offered great kindness in personally showing us around the port, teaching us where to go and who to buy from.”

But, she thought.

“But you do not eat with us, princess. You do not drink in our garden, trade junak tales or toss axes with Horvat and Poltava,” Koval said. “I will be grateful for what you did even after I die, carry it unto the Nav for the gods to weigh, but you have no idea what any of us want. Not even Bolic.”

“And what is that?” she asked.

“I want my son to grow to manhood on this island, for him to put on a black cloak when he grows of age,” Koval told her. “I want to set enough coin aside that when our contract ends I can buy a home, to take up fishing for the Watch in the shadow of one of their fortresses. I want to marry, to have children and never raise my hand in violence again until I die.”

Maryam blew out a breath.

“I thought you’d want…”

“To sail around the sea hunted like dogs, looking for slaves to free?” Koval asked. “No, princess. It is selfish of me, having been freed by your kindness, but I cannot. I am no vitez, to glory in the knife’s edge until it inevitably slips and cuts my throat.”

“You would leave our people in bondage,” Maryam said, and it was not quite a reproach but it was not far off.

A reproach as much for herself as him, she thought. The man’s lips thinned.

“My wife is still alive, as far as I know,” he told her.