The House of Gaian

Chapter 22

Ubel strode down Seahaven's waterfront with two hundred of his warriors behind him. They broke off in companies led by captains to swiftly search the warehouses and the ships. Buckets, used as chamberpots, were being emptied over the side in the darkest hours of night. The stench was strong. Ship captains might be able to sneak people into the cargo holds and hide them, but they couldn't hide the evidence of those people.

In the end, it would be simple. Loyal merchant captains and fishermen would keep their ships—and would prosper since they would have fewer rivals for their business and could set a higher price for their goods. They would need that income to pay for the license each ship would be required to carry in order to prove that loyalty—income that would build ships, as Wolfram had done, to keep the harbors and seaports clean of unsuitable traders or visitors. Income that would finance an estate for the Inquisitors who would have to remain here to keep the barons under control and continue the search for escaped witches.

Right now, however, his goal was to flush out the witches and witch sympathizers who had fled from Durham and the southern counties of Sylvalan, flooding into Seahaven in the hope of finding any kind of seaworthy craft that would take them away from the Inquisitors' justice. Rats and witches. Both vermin. Both plague carriers in their own way. He'd find plenty of both on this waterfront. And when he was done cleansing Seahaven, only the rats would remain.

Right now, his eyes were on that merchant ship at the far end of the docks—a ship, according to the harbor master, that had slipped in and out of Seahaven several times in the past few days, taking on some cargo, but nothing like the usual amounts. And having nothing to unload to speak of. Most unusual, the harbor master had said, since the ship was one of several belonging to a well-to-do merchant family.

A merchant family that was also a filthy nest of witches and men so ensnared by the bitches that they pumped good seed into foul wombs to produce more filth. Oh, plenty of those vermin had already been eliminated, burned in their very ships or taken by the Inquisitors and the barons to be questioned and exterminated. But that nest was being rebuilt somewhere by the witches who had escaped, and he suspected the captain of that ship would be able to tell him the exact spot—after he'd softened the man sufficiently.

"Why do you accost me this way?" said a loud, panicked voice. "I've done nothing. Nothing! I'm an honest merchant just trying to catch the evening tide to take my goods to Wellingsford!"

Ubel hesitated. Stopped. Finally, with a last look at the merchant ship at the end of the docks, he motioned the guards to continue on as he turned toward the commotion behind him.

"You shouldn't have come back," Craig whispered fiercely, his tone a mixture of gratitude and anger. "You shouldn't have waited for me."

"You're family," Mihail replied. And we've already lost too many. He shifted a little, easing the strain of leg muscles that had been in a crouch position too long. Something was happening at one of the other docks, but he couldn't quite see around the crates he and Craig were hiding behind.

Craig was right. He shouldn't have made this last trip, shouldn't have waited one more day for one man when his cargo hold was filled with people—strangers who had offered him their last coins for standing room in the holds of his ship. But among them was a woman, with her daughter, who had lived close to Durham. So he'd stayed one more day, hoping Craig had gotten out of Durham, too, and had managed to reach Seahaven.

If he'd left yesterday evening, he'd be out in the open sea right now, and Sweet Selkie's sails would be full of a Mother-blessed wind that would take him back to Sealand, back to Jenny and the boys, back to safe harbor.

If he'd left yesterday. . . before the Inquisitors' ships had sailed into the harbor and the harbor master had sent bellringers to make the announcement that no ship was permitted to leave Seahaven until it had been inspected by the Inquisitors and duly licensed as a ship loyal to the barons.

Barons. Bah. Inquisitor puppets. Puppets or not, it wasn't going to be easy to get Sweet Selkie out of the harbor, and he couldn't afford to let her be boarded. Not with the living cargo he was carrying.

"You shouldn't have stayed," Craig said again. "She's the last ship, Mihail. The last one."

"I know it." He just couldn't think about it. His brothers gone. His father gone. Had his wife and daughter gotten to Willowsbrook safely, or were they gone, too? How long would it be before he knew? Would he ever know?

Couldn't think of it. Couldn't think that way. He needed to think of the sea, of the strong tide drawing Sweet Selkie away from the dock, giving her room to run, to flee fast enough to get past the Inquisitors' ships and out to the open sea. He could outrun them in the open. Had to outrun them.

First, he and Craig had to get to the ship.

"You—"

"You stayed," Mihail snapped.

Craig said nothing. What could he say? He'd stayed in Durham, pretending he didn't see the danger coming closer and closer as he sold off what he could, drained the assets to get as much gold and silver to family members as he could, quietly burned the business records that would have told the enemy where to look for other branches of the family. In the end, he'd escaped by setting the warehouse on fire just ahead of the guards breaking down the door to bring him in for questioning.

That commotion at the other end of the docks sounded like it was heating up. Mihail straightened up enough to peer over the top of the crates. Warriors forming a circle around someone. A buzz of angry voices—a low sound slowing gaining in volume as more sailors and dock workers moved closer to whatever was happening.

Mihail crouched again, shifting the heavy leather satchel slung over one shoulder—a twin to the one on Craig's shoulder. How had the man managed to walk to Seahaven carrying both satchels? "I never realized ledgers were so heavy," he muttered.

For a moment, a smile eased Craig's grim expression. "There's only one ledger in that bag. One that's any use to the family anyway. The other three are hollowed out and filled with the last of the gold and silver I had in the family coffers at the warehouse. That's why it's so heavy."

Mihail rested his forehead against the crates. "Mother's tits. Did you think to bring a clean shirt and another pair of socks?"

"They're in this bag. Isn't my fault you grabbed the heavier one."

Mihail just shook his head, then turned a little to study the dock where Sweet Selkie was moored. The docking ropes were untied. Two of his men stood at the bow, playing out rope that had been slipped through a dock ring, letting the ship ease back with the tide. His orders to his first mate had been clear. They sailed with the tide, with or without him. The gangplank had been withdrawn. Now only a board wide enough for a nimble man's feet was being balanced by another member of his crew so that it wouldn't scrape on the dock and draw someone's attention.

He noticed the way the men kept glancing around, searching for some sign of him while trying not to look like they were searching for someone. And he noticed the sea hawk perched on the end of the dock, watching his ship.

Another one glided low over the water and looked at the stern, as if trying to read the ship's name under the mud he'd smeared over it to hide it.

But hawks couldn't read.

Unless they weren't hawks.

A shiver went through him. Hope. Fear. He wasn't sure.

"The tide's going out," he said. "We have to go now while we can."

"The guards will spot us."

"No choice. Come on."

They stood up in time to see a merchant captain break free of the circle of warriors and run for his ship.

"I'm an honest merchant!"

Ubel stared at the sweating, shaking man. "If that is true, you'll have no objection to my warriors searching your ship to confirm that."

"I-I carry nothing that would interest the Inquisitors."

"That is for me to decide. Search the ship." Ubel nodded to two archers as several warriors turned toward the ship's gangplank. From a special pouch, the archers carefully withdrew a thick shaft of wood with the glass ball secured to the end. They fitted the shafts into their bowstrings and looked at him, waiting for the signal.

"No!" The merchant captain broke through the warriors and ran for his ship, his crew shouting now, panicked as other archers nocked arrows in their bows and took aim.

Ubel waited until the captain had reached the gangplank, gave the man that moment to think he'd escaped. "Now."

Arrows flew, finding their mark in the captain's back. He teetered on the gangplank, his hands reaching for the hands his crew held out to him. More arrows flew, and the men who had tried to help were felled. The captain tumbled off the gangplank and into the water.

"Now," Ubel said again.

The archers with the glass-balled arrows took aim. As the glass balls hit the mast and deck, they exploded, spraying a liquid that burst into flames, burning men, burning wood.

"The ship's on fire!" someone screamed.

Two more glass-balled arrows flew, and more liquid fire washed across the deck, caught the sails.

People rushed on deck now—women, children, old men, young men. Some jumped into the water. Men, mostly. The women were too burdened with long skirts and arms full of children. They knew they had no chance in the water, so they ran down the gangplank to the dock, as terrified and mindless as rats, uncomprehending that there was nowhere to go, no way to escape.

And his archers exterminated them as efficiently as they would any other vermin.

A howl of rage suddenly filled the waterfront. Ubel spun around as sailors, armed with boot knives or clubs, and dock workers, with sharp hooks, threw themselves at the warriors, turning an extermination into an ugly fight.

Suddenly surrounded by screaming, fighting men, Ubel pushed his way to a clear space on the dock, falling to his hands and knees as he tripped over a dying woman crawling away from the other bodies.

He'd miscalculated. He should have used the Inquisitor's Gift of persuasion to quiet that merchant captain, should have handled the extermination more carefully. He should have realized that the sailors had helped sneak people onto the ships, that the dock workers had looked the other way when supplies in the warehouses had gone missing. Should have realized that some of them might have family or friends hidden on the ship.

As he got to his feet, he noticed two men walking swiftly toward the last dock. The ship he knew belonged to a witch-loving merchant family was already quietly slipping back with the tide.

"Stop those men!"

The warriors who had gone ahead of him and had turned back to join their comrades couldn't have heard him. But they must have seen his urgent hand gestures and, looking in the direction he was pointing, spotted the easier prey.

"Fire the ships!"

The Wolfram captains riding anchor in the harbor couldn't hear him either. No matter. They already had their orders. They knew what to do. Even if that witch-loving bastard captain managed to reach his ship, he wasn't going to escape.

The tone of the fight behind him changed. The sailors were no longer fighting the warriors, exactly. Now they were fighting to reach the ships, the smaller fishing boats, anything that would get them away from the docks.

As if they actually believed they could get out of the harbor.

"You there!" someone shouted.

Glancing back, Mihail saw the warriors moving toward them. "Run," he said, grabbing Craig's arm.

No need to say it twice, not when the two sea hawks perched on the dock near his ship suddenly screamed and took flight.

They ran for the end of the dock. The sailor dropped the wooden plank. It scraped along the dock as Sweet Selkie began following the tide to open water.

Just one chance. Two other men stood by on board, ready to throw ropes that would keep him and Craig from tumbling into the sea.

"Go!" Mihail said, pushing Craig toward the plank as his men threw the ropes. Craig grabbed one and hurried up the bucking, bowing plank as fast as he could.

As soon as his men grabbed Craig's arms to pull him on board, Mihail rushed up the plank. He was knocked aside by Craig before both feet touched the deck.

Glass shattered. Craig screamed. Mihail felt a sudden burning along his left shoulder and down his back.

More screams.

Mihail twisted—and stared.

The right side of Craig's face was on fire. Fire burned down his neck, down his arm. The satchel he was still holding burned.

Someone beat Mihail's left shoulder and back, and he cried out in pain.

"You're on fire!" a crewman shouted.

Fire. "Water!" he shouted, putting his heart into the command, the plea.

Two barrels of fresh water burst open as he grabbed Craig, still staggering and screaming, and pulled him down on the deck. The water arched as if following a bridge of air and came down in a waterfall on both of them.

Gasping for air, he blinked water from his eyes—and saw the archers with odd-looking arrows take aim at his ship.

Fire. Not just flaming arrows, but something else. Something filled with fire.

"Get us away from this dock!"

He tried to get to his feet, but a woman, bent low to make herself a smaller target, bumped into him, sending him to his hands and knees.

Get to the wheel. He had to get to the wheel. But they couldn't raise sails while those archers could shoot those arrows and set the canvas ablaze.

The arrows struck the deck. Glass shattered. Liquid sprayed—and turned into fire.

Before he could shout, the flames vanished. Wood smoldered.

Someone touched his shoulder, making him gasp. He looked at the woman kneeling on the deck in front of him.

"I have no place to ground it," she said with effort. "I have to ground it or let the fire go."

"Can . . . you send it elsewhere?"

She was breathing hard, fighting to hold something she could barely contain. "Not far."

"The dock. Give it to the wood in the dock."

He forced himself up on his knees, aware of female voices quietly murmuring, calling water, calling air. Aware that Sweet Selkie was away from the dock, swinging round to face the entrance to the harbor. . . and the Inquisitor ships were raising anchors and sails to close off the harbor and block her escape.

The dock burst into flame. Glass-balled arrows shattered, spraying the archers with their own liquid fire.

"Raise the sails!" Mihail shouted.

Women's voices murmuring.

He watched wind fill the sails, felt the power of it as Sweet Selkie leaped forward, racing toward the enemy ships and the freedom that lay beyond them.

Denying the pain in his back and shoulder, he got to his feet and looked back at Craig. The woman who had bumped into him knelt beside his cousin.

"Do what you can for him," he said.

She nodded, and he made his way to the wheel, telling himself he had to be content with doing just that. His duty was to get them all to the open sea.

Behind him, the dock burned—and men burned. Behind him, a handful of smaller ships and fishing boats were following in Sweet Selkie's wake, having made good use of the fights and distractions to make their own escape. And no doubt following in his wake because there was wind in his ship's sails—and the enemy ships had none.

But they had men and oars, and two of those ships were moving to cut him off from the mouth of the harbor. They didn't need to reach him, just get close enough to fire on his ship. And if those ships carried more of that liquid fire . . .

Ignoring pain and fear, pushing desperation aside, he guided Sweet Selkie, using every bit of his skill, every breath of his connection with the sea to guide her—already knowing they wouldn't get out of the harbor.

Take care of the boys, Jenny. And don't grieve too long. Remember us by building a life full of love and laughter. Just remember us.

"Captain?"

Mihail glanced over, then gave his attention back to the sails and the sea. The young man had begged for passage to anywhere. His family was gone. Lost. He'd had a couple of pieces of jewelry in his pocket, little more than trinkets really, that he'd offered in exchange for passage. Mihail had declined the jewelry and found him a place in the cargo hold.

"Whatever's on your mind, be quick about it," Mihail said.

The young man hesitated, then said in a rush, "If I set fire to those two ships, you'll be able to get past them?"

Mihail glanced over. Then his head snapped around for a longer look.

The same young man he'd brought aboard—but not the same now that the glamour had been dropped, revealing the face behind the human mask.

"You're Fae."

"Yes. A Lord of Fire. The. . . witch could quiet the fire. I can't do that. But I can call it—and send it."

Mihail focused on the two ships slowly moving to close the gap. If he tried to swing around them on either side, the other ships could attack him. That gap was their only chance now.

"You didn't mention this before. Why? Afraid I'd throw you overboard if I found out?"

"Yes."

That answer sliced his heart. "You don't know much about us, do you?"

"No."

What would the Fae Lord learn about them now?

"Captain?"

Do no harm. If he gave the order . . . Burning ships. Burning men. Most would jump into the harbor to escape the fire. Could they swim? Could they manage to stay afloat long enough for their comrades in the other ships to rescue them? How many of them had wives, children, families? If he gave the order, would he be any different than the Inquisitor who had killed that other captain and set fire to the man's ship? Would he?

Do no harm. Not just his ship and the people on board her at stake. Those other ships following in his wake . . . They wouldn't survive, either.

Great Mother, forgive me. "Fire the ships."

The Fae Lord turned to face the ships, staggering a little to keep his balance as Sweet Selkie ran with the wind.

Fire bloomed in the two ships' lifting sails. It burst from the wood in the bows. Oars caught the moment they were lifted from the water.

They burned so fast.

Close enough to hear shouts. Screams. Close enough to see men leaping from the ships, slapping the water in an awkward attempt to swim toward him.

He sailed between the burning ships, offering no lifeline, no rope, no help.

A burning mast cracked, fell. More screams.

Come on, darling. Come on. Get us past before those ships sink.

Sweet Selkie lifted as even more wind filled her sails, felt almost as if she were skimming the water.

The harbor mouth. The open sea.

He dared to look back. The smaller ships that followed him had made it, too, safely beyond the pull of the sea as the two Inquisitor ships sank to the bottom of the harbor.

Safe. Safe, for now, in the open sea.

The ship suddenly bucked. He clenched the wheel, but it burned. Something burned. He couldn't seem to find the wind. He had to find the wind.

The last thing he saw was his first mate and two crewmen running across the deck toward him as his legs buckled. The last thing he heard was his first mate saying he'd take the wheel, it would be all right.

The last thing he remembered was someone grabbing his left shoulder as his mind spun down into the deep cradle of the sea.

Ubel stood in the bow of his ship and pounded his fist on his thigh as his captain hastily prepared to sail after their fleeing prey.

That filthy, witch-loving bastard had cost him good men and two fine ships! Master Adolfo would accept the loss as part of the cost of cleansing this filthy land—but not if that bastard captain managed to escape.

No matter. He, Ubel, had the best ships—Wolfram ships. He had the best warriors. And if warriors weren't enough, he had his fellow Inquisitors. No one could defeat men trained by the Witch's Hammer. No one.

That bastard captain thought he was getting away, but he was just leading the Inquisitors to the new lair. And when Ubel found him. . .

He wouldn't kill the bastard. Not right away. He'd punish him first for the trouble he'd caused, punish him for the deaths of Wolfram warriors—and the two Inquisitors who were on those ships when they burned. And after the bastard had received the initial punishment, he would take whatever bitch was dearest to the bastard's heart and sharpen his knives against her bones.

And she would still be alive while he did it.