The Wreckers

I.

         The storm rose in mid-afternoon, turning the sky to rolling waves of gray that mocked the seas below.  As the darkness approached, sailors made for shore.  Those that could not reach safe harbor would be sunk or crushed in the rising waves.  Towns with deep harbors rushed to light guiding beacons in tall towers to call sailors to shelter.  If the ships could not fly before the storm, they heaved about and made for harbors.  Hard winds drove many from their courses.
         Along a barren stretch of rocky beach a light rose.  The town huddled atop the cliff drew in on itself, its people closing themselves within squat heavy-walled buildings.  A twin to the first light shone out, marking a path for ships on the belligerent sea.
         A lookout perched perilously on a rock ledge cried out, his deep voice carrying above the roar of wind and wave.  “Sail!”
         Below, in a sheltering cave, a score of men waited.  Soon they too could see the sails of a single vessel.  Large and nearly awash, it could only be a merchant ship trying to outrun the waves.  It bore for the stretch of water between the lights.
         They could not hear the ship run across the rocks, but they saw her flounder.  The lookout cried out again and the deceiving lights vanished.  From the relative safety of high rocks the men watched the ship’s thrashing.  Now they could hear the crashing of wood, hear the panicked cries of sailors. 
         Only three sailors survived the waves to reach the shore.  There they were met with knives and spears.  None reached the safety of the upper black beaches.  They were rapidly stripped of valuables and returned to the sea.
         Long after the storm, first of the season, blew its anger far inland, the men worked to collect flotsam and jetsam from the wreck.  Several of the more daring braved the sea in a fleet of small boats to climb aboard the merchant.  More goods were cast overboard to be hauled back to shore.  Finally the men hauled the goods up a narrow path to the town and into the tavern’s basement, carved long ago from solid rock.
         Before long the goods were divided between the scavengers, the lookout and the lampsmen.  All hurried back to their homes and their beds once the work was done, speaking only in undertones.  No lights shone in the village.  The winds kept to their relentless beating against the cliff until the sun rose, dwindling then to a gentle breeze.
         When the village woke from sleep, no trace of the merchant could be seen on the rocks, no trace of her on the water or the black beach.  Neither could be seen the spots where two bright torches had hung below the cliff.
          
         The king’s officer for the region strolled the streets of the village, his dark eyes scanning people for signs of trouble.  Those he passed greeted him with distant cordiality, watched him pass buildings to stop at the mayor’s house.  He descended the narrow stairs to knock on the inset door.  It opened as though someone had watched his approach.
         He ducked his head to enter, his face briefly showing the frustration he carried everywhere.  They probably had been watching; certainly nothing seemed to happen while he was about.  Every shore town had a king’s man stationed to watch for signs of a new Chalik invasion, but this town was different.  Three king’s men had been stationed here – and three had vanished.  The last had washed up along the coast, a single thin wound along his throat.  The murder had been cause for the king to sprout new suspicions – he feared that the Chalik had managed to turn some of the townspeople.  He feared spies.
         The thoughts passed before he lifted his head, so the face he presented to his host was placid.  The mayor’s wife greeted him with a smile, genuine enough.  A second wife, she was far younger than her husband, and lacked the work-roughened hands of the other women.  Even her voice was different from the other women’s; like the king’s man, she spoke with the accents of an inlander.  Somehow it served to distance her even further from the king’s man.  Yet she greeted him pleasantly enough.  “Dov Keelan – our pleasure to see you this day.  How did you fare the storm last night?”  She seemed genuinely interested, and he responded in kind.
         “Not a sound pierced the walls,” he assured her truthfully.  She smiled, content, and for a heartbeat he wanted to believe nothing wrong with the town.  “Might I speak with your husband?”
         She met his eyes, and he knew that the king had been right to send him.  Something was amiss here; her eyes proclaimed it.  “I fear that he is away.  The young Verrin-child – the one born so recent?”  She waited for his nod of remembrance.  “It ails – they fear it will not survive.”
         “My sorrow to hear such news,” he responded, knowing his concern was as false as hers, that she lied.  “They dwell north of the town, do they not?”
         “Yes.  He has gone by boat.”  Her statement seemed unnecessary, and she showed a nervousness he’d not seen in her before.  She brushed hair back from her face; he glanced at the hand without meaning to.  She wore a new silver-steel ring on her thumb.  He took little notice of it, even though such things were beyond the price of even a mayor.  A glitter of silver at her neck flashed through the heavy silk of her long tunic.  More silver-steel. 
         “Would you ask him to come to me when he returns?”
         “Of course.”
         He dipped his head to her, and continued the movement to leave the house.  The skies above were clear, and the breeze fresh.  He took time to stretch to his full height, reveling in standing straight.  He strolled to the cliff’s edge, considering the mayor’s wife and her new jewelry.  Stolen, most likely, but from where?  Any merchant with such treasure would travel with guards, and that would make wounds.  More, any merchant with such goods would hardly be abroad in the storm, and Keelan decided he could wager hard money that the mayor’s wife had not worn her silver-steel before.  He stared blindly down at the black beach.  A glitter at the sea’s edge caught his eye.  Without taking his eyes from the spot, he made his way casually down the narrow path to the rocky beach.  He hoped he deceived his unseen watchers.  In his seven weeks in the village he had not walked the beaches – the villagers warned him of the dangerous swift-rising tides and sharp rocks that yearly maimed men and women.  No one spoke out to warn him this day – the fishermen should be out at sea, plying their nets after the storm.
         At the water’s edge he found the glitter, scuffed at the sand around it aimlessly.  Beneath his foot appeared a silver-steel urn, its intricate Fyel designs encrusted with black sand.  Possibly thrown ashore by the storm, he mused, digging the urn from the clinging dampness.  He brushed away the worst to reveal the entwined herons of a high-quality piece.  The weight was pleasing to his hands, but seemed to weigh more heavily on his mind.
         Were this to wash ashore other, lighter, things should have as well.  There were no tracks to indicate the villagers had wandered the shore this morning.  He moved along the beach, hoping his walk still seemed without reason.  He shaded his eyes to watch the fishing fleet, counting the boats out of habit.  It was month’s end; two boats should be gone north to trade cured fish and inks for goods the village needed.  He counted the small craft three times before he was certain; all the boats rode at anchor in the shallows.  Even the mayor’s boat floated among the fleet.  As he watched, something that was not a net was flung over the side to drift away.  Even at such a distance it resembled a man.
         He turned from the sea abruptly to climb the cliff path.  If people watched, he paid them no heed.  Only from habit did he remember to duck his head as he entered his home; he slammed the door moodily.  The urn thumped against the only table in the one-room building, looking decidedly out of place on the plain wood.  His first thought was to set up for divining, no matter the time it took.  He had few other options.  Keelan glared at it, wishing he had not found it, had not been sent to this place.  He prodded his fire into life again with irritated thrusts of a poker.
         A knock at his door roused him from angry thought.  He hastily tossed spare tunics over the urn, concealing it beneath the dirty clothes.  He turned to the door as it opened.  The man who entered had once been a fisherman, but the sea had taken one arm and dealt him a blow to the head that kept him ashore.  The ex-sailor was one of few who would speak to him with any openness. 
         “Kern.”
         The man bobbed his head.  “Dov – the storm – it blew well for you?”  His eyes traveled to the pile of clothing on the table.
         The question puzzled the king’s man, but he kept his confusion hidden.  He flipped his own gaze back to the table, and on a whim dug out the urn.  “It blew well,” he agreed. 
         The ex-sailor’s eyes brightened in the dim light.  “Ah!” he exclaimed.  “The innkeep said you’d be one of us, then.”  He grinned broadly.  “There will be much more.  It is storm season now.”  He clapped the king’s man on the shoulder.  “You’ll be there, of course?”
         “Of course.”  He worked to keep harshness from his voice.  “A drink then, Kern, to celebrate?”
         “My thanks to you, but no.”  He patted his loose trouser leg gently; Keelan heard the faint slosh of a bottle.  The sailor touched the urn lightly with his one hand.  “So pretty.”  He chuckled to himself and wandered out of the building.
         The king’s man kicked home the door’s low bolt.  He crossed the room hastily, snatched paper and pen from their shelf by the window.  Seating himself at the table, he made a careful drawing of the urn.  On a second page he wrote a letter to the king, detailing his suspicions.  The divining seemed pointless now.
         Another copy of letter and drawing he entered into a small book he pulled from his tunic.  Smaller than the palm of his hand, it held the notes left by previous king’s men.  He closed the book, bound it with the intricate, delicate webbing that protected it, and slid it back into his tunic.  The drawing and letter he sealed with the king’s sign and left on the table beside the urn.  The king would see neither, he suspected.  Three men had worked before him, and their reports had not reached their lord.  Only the tiny book, concealed in the rafters of the house, hinted at the village’s true wrongness. 
         Wreckers.  He stared angrily out at the sky from the building’s one window.  Deliberately drawing in ships to a false light – luring them in to wreck on the rocky shore.  The sky was clear now, but as Kern had pointed out, it was storm season now.  There would be others.  He had suspicions, but even the urn and the mayor’s wife’s new jewelry were not enough proof.  He had to be able to stand before the king and say without doubts that there were wreckers here.  Otherwise the king would not act.  He was young yet, and still feeling his way, and more concerned with spies from the Chalik than wreckers.
         Keelan withdrew the book from his tunic and added one final notation, reading it aloud in a whisper.  “I stay to see the wreckers light their lamps.”  If he could see the lamps, the king would believe.  The mages who sat in judgment of the truth would see through his eyes the truth of the matter, and the king would be forced to act.  He concealed the book in his palm and began straightening away his morning mess.  When clothing was folded neatly and put into its trunk the king’s man climbed a narrow ladder to the sleeping loft.  He had, as usual, left the suspended cot unkempt.  He bent to straightening it; under cover of the blankets his fingers moved busily, weaving the tiny book into the nets supporting the cot.  While he worked his mind roved in search of a plan.
         Kern would undoubtedly speak to others, and they would decide the king’s man had been told too much.  He smiled grimly as he slid down the ladder to the main room.  Rather than silence the man who spoke too much, they would silence the outsider.  His only chance to survive was to force their hand.  Digging into his trunk he pulled out swatches of mottled gray and blue cloth, wrapped the urn tightly, binding the wrappings with cord that matched the cloth.  When the urn was well wrapped he stowed it in his waxed leather travel bag.  The letters he tucked into an outside pocket of the bag, then slung the bag over his shoulder.  He glanced around the building that had housed him, saw nothing amiss.  Spare clothing was negligible; he would not be expected to take all his possessions.  He dropped the bag long enough to struggle into the king’s surcote, which he wore only on official matters.  Likewise he made certain his beard was well-groomed and his dark hair pulled back tight in its plait.  The fire he decided to let burn; there was little enough in the grate, and the stone house’s thick walls posed little danger of burning.
         He left the squat building with his customary bland expression.  Again he made his way along the village’s main street, but this time he walked only to the tavern, where those men no longer able to fish spent their days, as did those with ships too damaged to fish.  As he’d hoped, the fishing fleet still rode at anchor, the mayor’s craft among them.  If he could force them to act before the town leaders returned, he might be able to prove his beliefs with little danger. 
         Several men were in attendance, clumped at one end of the bar.  Keelan dropped his bag casually at the door, nodded to the innkeeper and made his way to the inn. 
         “My pardons to you, but perhaps I could impose my presence?”  The formal words were what they expected.  They nodded greetings, waited to find out what he wanted.  He did not delay.  “I have need to make a voyage to Fathalm.  I will pay for such a voyage.  Speed is necessary.  We have the use of the king’s craft for this.”
         There was silence, during which the men looked at one another.  Keelan gestured for a drink, and as he drank watched the men unobtrusively.  Several eyes lighted on his bag and the letters, then returned to stare at the surcote he wore.  Kern had already spoken with them.
         “Certainly, Dov Keelan.”  Dacus spoke slowly, his eyes on his companions.  “Give us but an hour to make the boat ready.”
         “My thanks to you.”  Keelan finished his drink and rose.  “I will await you at the boat run.”  He threw enough money to the innkeeper to pay for all the drinks and retrieved his bag.  With a polite nod he left, certain he had forced the villagers to act.
         At the boat run, where the shallow-bottomed fishing craft made safe landings, the king’s man settled down on a flat-topped rock to wait.  Before the hour passed Dacus and his crew rowed out in the king’s craft, a small boat meant for speed.  The boat slid down the run to float beside the rock.  Hands were extended to help him on board; they positioned him close to the boat’s stern, out of the way.  He clasped the bag to his chest and waited.  The six men shipped their oars and rowed out of the run.  Slowly they broke through waves to deeper water.  As they passed the narrow outcropping of rock that protected the run the men pulled in their oars, settling them in the bottom of the boat.  They set the mast and raised the sail; the craft sped swiftly northward toward the deepwater port of Fathalm. 
         “Dov Keelan?”  Dacus, at the rudder, caught his attention.  “Do you wish all speed?”
         “Yes.”
         They made for deeper water and the merchant-current just within sight of land.  Before they entered the fast-water current, the small craft suddenly rolled.  Keelan found himself closer to the water than he wanted.  He suddenly felt hands at his back.  He was lifted over the side, losing his grip on the bag as he fought to stay in the boat.  The hands thrust him into the water, held him under momentarily.  A splash warned him they had thrown the bag overboard as well.  He dropped away from the hands, grabbing for the sinking pack.  The boat swung around overhead and slid away.
         When he surfaced, the bag securely grasped in one hand, the boat had vanished from sight.  With his free hand the king’s man stripped off his surcote and tunic, letting the waterlogged wool sink away from him.  He grinned to himself, spit out a mouthful of salty water, and struck out for shore, estimating distance with a practiced eye.

         Ashore finally, he dragged himself above the tidemarks and into the shelter offered by rough sea-brambles.  Opening the travel bag, he drew out the wrapped urn.  The silver-steel piece he shoved back into the bag almost carelessly, but the wrappings he spread out on the brambles to dry in the sun.  He waited, allowing himself a brief nap to gather his strength. 
         He awoke at dusk, felt the wrappings.  Once satisfied they were dry, he gathered them together.  Each was edged with grommets that he laced together with the binding cord, making a deceptively elegant set of clothing.  He stripped off his still-damp trousers and boots, slipped into the new dry trousers.  He tightened the laces and slid back into his boots, sighing at their dampness.  The laced shirt he left loose, tightening only the cuffs.  Finally he unbound his hair from its long plait and combed through it with his fingers. 
         It was fully dark when he set off, but the Seacathi pirate garb served as he intended, as a camouflage.  Likewise his hair, now hanging free and low, would conceal him in shadows.  He snatched up the bag, thrust his damp court trousers inside to pad the urn and withdrew a short-bladed sea hunter’s knife.  With the knife sheathed at his thigh, he considered himself ready.  Navigating by the stars, as he’d been taught long ago, he made his way back to the south.  He jogged with pleasure through the darkness, glad to be free of the constraining court clothes and into garb he was more comfortable in.