Chapter 19: Berekker's the Smuggler

To keep the rituals of the God of the Seas, a sailor must take a handful of sea water and splash it onto his face, and to keep the the rituals of the God of the Winds, a sailor must empty his lungs entirely before boarding a ship and fill them anew once he has crossed the threshold. Berekker did both of these things without thinking as he climbed into his rowboat, but he paid no attention when Catyan did not. As if there truly were gods watching over him, clouds moved across the moon and a gentle rain began. Berekker had never learned which god watched over smugglers, but apparently they were pleased.

The day was working itself out surprisingly well. When Grainger had demanded 500 weight in gold in exchange for an undisturbed night at the docks, Berekker had agreed with a smile. The old cutpurse had been visibly shocked, and then suspicious. The price was outrageous— unconscionable— and so Berekker owed Grainger nothing. Once the night was over, he would owe Paya Gandro nothing. After a half a lifetime in his mentor’s debt, Berekker would be done with the man. He would be beholden to nobody. Whoever the unfortunate Barwell had been, his death meant only that there was one less person to implicate Berekker in whatever plot he was advancing.

Berekker took his seat at the stern and jammed his oars into the sand to the steady the craft while Catyan climbed in uncertainly. One would expect the men of an island nation to be competent at sea, but this was apparently not the case— at least not for soldiers from the main island. But Catyan was the only man that Berekker trusted absolutely, and so, after a brief tutorial, they boarded the small boat together and set out into the black ocean to look for Paya Gandro’s ship.

The night was calm, in spite of the rain, and it did not take Catyan long to master the technique of quiet oar strokes. His true test would come later, when they were being pressed up against the Sea Wall and the south cliffs of the bay, dodging rocks and shallows. Then it would be up to Catyan to recognize hazards in the dark and communicate silently to Berekker which way to steer the vessel.

Shapes loomed in the distance, dark against the darkness— cargo ships at anchor, waiting for dawn when the Sea Wall would open, the Assessors would begin their inspections, and the long line of merchant ships would begin plodding into the bay.

Berekker picked out what he thought to be the familiar shape of The Manatee, some distance ahead of them yet, and turned the rowboat towards it. Catyan propelled them forward with strong, quiet, strokes. Berekker regretted that he had not thought to bring gloves. His callouses had been gone for years and he would end the night with blisters. Still, it was good to be back on the water.

A short while later, three flashes from a lantern on board the ship ahead of them confirmed that they were bound for The Manatee. Berekker wondered if Piryenda Hass was still captain. Once, when they were both young men, they had nearly come to blows in the streets of a small port village in Mahagenia. At issue was the question of whether to sail a ship full of weapons bound for the resistance through a typhoon to the main island. Hass, a fiercely nationalistic sailor who had never captained a boat, had rounded up a crew on the spot, storming into the local tavern and storming out again a moment later with eight sailors in tow. Hass had thrown a pouch full of money at Berekker’s feet and Berekker had snapped that if Haas wanted to kill himself and all of his men, he could go ahead and do it, and Paya Gandro would compensate Berekker for the boat. Three days later, when Haas returned, he and Berekker went on an epic binge together, spending nearly a day in the tavern before buying the rest of the cask of palm spirits, pouring it into water skins, smashing the cask, and carrying the shards ten miles through the jungle to throw them into the volcano.

Berekker found himself chuckling at the memory as they drew up beside The Manatee. The arms that reached down to pull him off the ladder and into the boat were pale and covered in patterns, tattooed in blue— the arms of a northern seaman, chapped from wind and ice. Berekker was disappointed not to see his old Islander friend, but at the same time realized that the anonymity was for the best.

The northerner pulled Catyan onboard, and Catyan shook the beads of water from his oiled cloak vigourously, showing off his sword before the rain beaded again on his cloak. Two more northerners stood back aways. One examined the deck intently, while the other could not seem to decide how to divide his glowering suspicion between Berekker, Catyan, and the cargo that had been brought up from the hold and set near the winch. Following the sailor’s gaze, Berekker saw four wooden crates, strangely banded with metal. A young man crouched beside them, cowled in dirty grey wool, rocking slightly back and forth and mouthing something, as if he was singing to himself.

Under his breath, the sailor who had helped them on board said, “Strange one, that.” Then he clasped Berekker’s hand and shoulder and announced, in a hoarse gravelly accent, “Welcome to Manatee. I am Captain.”

This was not an occasion for proper introductions, so Berekker merely nodded and thanked the man. Catyan watched the sailors, but positioned himself casually between Berekker and strange, mumbling, man, who seemed to be a part of the cargo. The Captain motioned the two sailors toward the cargo with a nod of the head, and they went to start loading the crates onto the winch to lower them into Berekker’s rowboat, looking distinctly unpleased with their assignment.

The Captain passed Berekker a flask and said, “Good man, Paya Gandro. Bad business. I am sorry I don’t invite you in cabin for proper drink. Best this end quickly.”

Berekker nodded and took the flask, taking as small a swig as would be polite. It was surprisingly good and— not surprisingly— very strong. The honey and lavender, and the deep burn in his chest, took him back to his first days at sea. It was said that drinking the stuff would melt the ice out of your beard, but Berekker had never found that to be true. If consumed in sufficient quantity at night, however, it would make the following morning so wretched that the ice in your beard seemed trivial. Berekker wiped the water from his brow had remembered how idyllic it seemed the first time he sailed through the gentle, warm, rain along the south coast of the continent.

Catyan watched, expressionless, as the sailors hooked the first of the crates and lowered it over the side of the ship. The man in grey stood, turned gracefully to bow to each of the sailors in turn, and walked over to Catyan, Berekker, and the Captain. His wool cowl was entirely sodden. His robe was worn nearly through at the elbows and the knees, and was quite dirty. Steady streams of water ran from the ends of his sleeves onto the deck. He was gaunt and smiling, with long, dark hair stuck to his face and the shoulders of his robe. He came a little too close and said nothing, regarding Berekker and Catyan intently, his smile unchanging. The Captain muttered something and wandered off. Catyan frowned and fingered the hilt of his sword.

“Good evening,” Berekker said, eventually.

“Ah!” The man said with apparent delight, looking first at Berekker, and then at Catyan. “Pride.”

“Pardon me?” Berekker asked.

“It has been my very great pleasure to meet you, but now I must see to the cargo,” the man said. He bowed to Berekker and then to Catyan, and then climbed over the side of the ship and down toward the row boat. Catyan looked to Berekker and raised an eyebrow. Berekker shrugged. The third crate was being lowered into the row boat. Berekker went to the side of the ship, but Catyan stopped him and went over the side himself, handling the rope ladder more competently than many sailors. Berekker followed him down, and when he arrived at the rowboat, the final crate was being lowered into place. The strange man crouched beside the crates again, quietly singing nonsensical syllables, his eyes closed and his face turned up toward the rain.

Catyan stood with Berekker for a moment at the stern, frowning. He clearly did not like the idea of having his back to Berekker and the strange man. Berekker clapped Catyan on the shoulder and sat. After a moment, Catyan moved to the prow of the boat. The singing man moved aside for him, without seeming to open his eyes, and laughed with glee when Catyan climbed over the crates. Then he sat crosslegged in the pool of water that had acculumated in the bottom of the boat and continued singing to the cargo.

Berekker steered the boat back toward the rocky shore. The great beacons that topped the towers of the Sea Wall shone miles out to sea, but smaller lights shone downward, illuminating the waves in front of the gate in broad, slow, sweeps, looking for smugglers or other threats. They could not shine in the area closest to the wall, though. There was a strip of darkness there, perhaps fifteen feet wide, through which to guide their boat from the cliffs to the gate.

They took the boat back east, nearly to where they had put in, and then swung around to the north, rowing alongside the beach, eyeing the sweeping spotlights from the Sea Wall towers. Catyan was tense, pulling them forward steadily, staring intently into the gloom ahead of him, and signaling when Berekker should steer them to one side or the other, to avoid rocks. Quickly, the rocky beach grew into dark cliffs, higher and higher above them. Berekker had never attempted this part of the outer bay, but he felt the currents, and the choppy waves that came at him from the sea and rebounded off the rocks, and reacted to it all as if he had never spent a day ashore.

When the Sea Wall loomed suddenly out of the rain ahead of them, Berekker swung the boat around to the west, Catyan fended off a rocky outcropping with his oar, and the boat floated up gently to rest beside the wall. Berekker looked up at fifty feet of flawless stone, dark in the cloudy night. On the other side of the wall was the placid inner bay of Merendir, and on this side the infinite ocean, punctuated by the tiny shapes— so large to men— of ships carrying fortunes and ambitions from across the world.

The waves lapped against the wall, the rain drummed against the bottom of the boat, and the young man hummed incessantly. The great night raptors that nested in the cliffs glided slowly, silently, overhead, heads down, ever watchful for prey. The searchlight from the tower swept past them, a good twenty feet out to sea, and Catyan began to row. The waves pressed them always closer to the wall and Berekker found himself constantly steering them slightly out to sea. The narrow beam of a hooded lantern glowed in the rain above them, as a sentinel approached atop the wall. Berekker hissed, as loudly as he dared, for the young man to cease his singing, but the sound was lost in the rain. Berekker swore silently, but there was no way for him to address the man without making an even greater noise.

Sensing the danger of the situation, Catyan pulled in his oars and hunched under his dark cloak. For a long, tense, minute, the sentinel drew closer, fifty feet above them on the wall. Then, at the closest point of his approach, a cacophony began. Dozens of gulls burst forth from their cliffside nests, voicing their displeasure with some unseen predator, and all the sounds of the night were obscured by their discordant cries. A minute later, the sentinel was safely past, and the rowboat continued its slow journey toward the gate at the center of the Sea Wall.

Flanked by the two massive watchtowers, the gate of the Sea Wall was thirty feet high and three feet thick, made of a reddish iron that had remained untouched by the salt and the elements for centuries, wide enough to allow the broadest warships to pass three abreast. Every morning it opened, smoothly and nearly silently, pulled inside the walls by some unseen mechanism, and every night it closed. Except, Berekker hoped, tonight. According to Paya Gandro, it had been arranged for the gate to be left slightly open— an insignificant amount, unnoticeable from any distance, but wide enough for a small rowboat to slip through.

They came upon the gate more quickly than Berekker expected. As they rowed the last few yards, Berekker felt suddenly certain that the gate would be closed tight, that they would have to return to the coast in the outer bay, with illicit cargo that would have to be carried a mile over the rocks and tide pools to where the land was flat enough for a wagon. By the time they could get to Merendir and return with a wagon, it would be fully day, and the line for the Assessors at the gate would be long. An Assessor would have to be bribed, which was itself a dangerous proposition, and then they would have to get Grainger’s blessing to deliver the cargo to the appointed warehouse. It would be better to throw the cargo overboard and be done with the whole business.

Berekker’s fear was unfounded, however, and the mighty gate was indeed open. Their passage through the crack in the gate was so tight that the sides of the boat scraped against the iron, and Berekker had a new, terrible, image of the gates grinding closed with them inside, effortlessly crushing the boat, the cargo, and all of them with it. As the widest part of the boat came to the gate, it seemed like they might get stuck, and Berekker thought that both sides of the boat touched the gate at once, but then they were through, turning back the way they came, now inside the wall.

The rain stopped, and the moon even shone a little through the clouds. Berekker’s relief at having passed through the wall was short-lived, because now the sentinel with his lantern was heading back toward them, and still the cowled man was muttering. Berekker searched the bottom of the boat desperately for some small stone to throw at the man, to get his attention, to tell him to be quiet, but he found nothing. Then, in a long, terrible, moment, the bobbing beam above them slowed and stopped. The lantern appeared above them first, followed by an arm, and finally the indistinct face of one of the Assessor’s men. The beam of the lantern swung down towards them, and Berekker imagined that he could see the man taking a deep breath, ready to sound the alarm.

Then the man in grey was on his feet, directing a forcible oath toward the man, and throwing out both lanky arms. Berekker never saw what weapon the man had, or where he had concealed it in his robe, but the Assessor’s man toppled from the top of the wall, and fell, flailing, toward them. He seemed to choke on his cry and he fell in silence.

Berekker tried to move the boat, but he had no momentum and the boat only turned slightly in place. The man’s lantern and head hit the rim of the boat at the same time. The boat began rocking crazily, and droplets of flame showered around them. Berekker reached first for the sides of the boat, fearing that he might be tossed over the side, and then brought his hands quickly to his face, where a spray of warmth made him fear that he was burning. It was not fire, however, but blood. Beside the boat, the Assessor’s man floated, face down and motionless.

Catyan was looking back at floating mass. The moon now shone brightly above them, and the shining waves contrasted with the billowing darkness of the man’s cloak. The boat had steadied, and the last droplets of flame were flickering out on the wet wood of the crates. The strange, cowled, man had resumed his seat and was singing again, as if nothing had happened. Berekker prodded the Assessor’s man with his oar. If there was any life in the man, it would soon be claimed by the sea. Berekker pointed ahead and Catyan began to row. Feeling that their stealth had been compromised, and increasingly desperate to be done with the night’s enterprise, Berekker considered heading directly to the docks. They would almost certainly be seen crossing the moonlit bay, but surely they would be taken for Assessors. He rejected this notion as reckless, however, and they continued their slow progress back alongside the Sea Wall.

A short while later, when the clouds rolled back across the sky and the rain began to fall, heavy, straight, and warm, Berekker turned the boat into bay they rowed hard toward the dock. They did not let up their pace, even when one of the massive deepwater quays materialized above them, and then the broad belly of a Siltian trading ship. They passed the smaller quays, where the whalers and the coast-hugging merchant ships of the south coast docked, and not long after that, they ran aground on the sandy beach.

The cowled man did not leave his seat when Berekker and Catyan jumped out to pull the boat up beyond the lapping waves. Only once the boat was securely ashore did the man climb from the boat. He bowed again to Berekker, and then to Catyan, and commented, “A pleasant journey, in spite of the rain. I thank you.” Then, standing beside the boat, he continued his nonsensical song.

Two city guards approached. Catyan put a hand on his sword, but Berekker touched his arm and he relaxed. These guards did not have the imperious swagger of men on duty. They slunk through the rain, casting glances back over their shoulders. Some distance behind them, a third man pulled a thick-wheeled cart laboriously through the sand.

One of the guards frowned at Catyan, and then gave Berekker a wide-eyed look of recognition. Berekker responded with a cold stare, and Catyan did not respond at all. The cowled man giggled and the guard, seeming to notice him for the first time, nearly took a step back, but instead grimaced.

“Let’s get this over with,” the guard said, gruffly. He spoke more loudly than necessary, as if to assure himself that he was unafraid. The third guard, apparently of lower rank and therefore consigned to the worst duties even during criminal conspiracies, pulled the cart up alongside the boat, sweating and panting for breath. The cargo was transferred quickly to the cart and the cowled man climbed in behind it, drawing outraged looks from the guards, who chose to say nothing.

Even with all five men pulling the cart’s ropes, progress was slow through the sand. The cowled man stopped his song periodically to offer advice, which angered the guards, but which Berekker could not help but find amusing. “Put your back into it,” he said the first time, and then a while later, “Put your knees into it!” These were offered not as commands, but as concerned suggestions. The entire night, as it neared its end, was beginning to seem absurd. The familiar docks, strange in their dark, deserted, state, felt more surreal than dangerous. Berekker actually chuckled when the cowled man, standing in the back of the wagon as they pulled him across the beach, yelled out for the guards to “Watch the sand!”

Dozens of brick warehouses stood at the back of the docks, built up against the wall. They were expansive, with low ceilings all pitched in the same direction, rain running off them in sheets. From outside, the warehouses looked like the teeth of an immense saw, but on the inside, Berekker knew, the gradual change in ceiling height played tricks with size and distance. The guards led them to one of these warehouses, identical to the rest, except that the wide double door was fitted with a sophisticated lock and a large, weathered, Imperial insignia.

One of the guards pushed the door with some trepidation, and it swung open. The warehouses were unlit— there was no legitimate business done on the docks after dark— but somebody had stashed a lantern inside the door. The flame was out, and the guard swore a few select oaths and struggled with a damp flint, while the rest of the conspirators weighed the rain against the darkness and opted to stay outside. When the lantern finally caught, it caught with a huge blossom of flame that sent the guard falling backward, out into the wet sand, while the cowled man laughed uproariously. The guard swore again and picked up the lantern with overblown dignity.

With the doors opened wide, the cart went through them easily. Once the wheels hit the hard-packed earthen floor of the warehouse, they rolled with little effort. Ahead of them, the guard held the lantern above his head, illuminating empty space, floor to ceiling. He walked across the room until the back wall became apparent, and then a glimpse of some large piece of machinery. Then the guard stopped and made his way back toward the cart. They stopped pulling, waiting for the last guard to rejoin them.

“We can take it from here,” the man with the lantern said to Berekker, without looking at his face, when they had all assembled in the center of the empty warehouse. Something was not right. Catyan felt it too, and moved quickly to Berekker’s side, one hand under his cloak. The cowled man jumped lightly down from the wagon and nodded goodbye to Berekker. Then he spoke a forceful word and threw his arms wide. Very briefly, Berekker heard a sound like the rushing wind. He thought to reach for his knife, and then he knew no more.

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