Chapter 81 — Seawatch Manor

  The shutters rattled in the salt wind, though the fire in the hearth burned high. Seawatch Manor stood upon the bluffs of the Blue Coast, a place of weathered stone and long shadows. Once a noble lord's home, it was now ruled by pirates and worse. It became a place where secrets could be whispered beneath the roar of the sea.

  Four figures sat about a long wooden and tile table, its surface scored with years of use and the marks of restless knives.

  The first was the priest known only as Frater Alborum (Brother of the Whites). He wore white, immaculate even in this grim chamber, the color of sanctity—yet his pale hands twitched upon the table’s edge, betraying the unease in his heart. His gift was compulsion, subtle and refined, a web he had spun across Avalon for more than a decade: the steward’s docile obedience, the careful fogging of memories, the little nudges that made men pliant. But tonight, his eyes flicked often to the door, as if some shadow had already come for him.

  Across from him seductively lounged the pirate. Captain Sareth, bare arms inked with serpent scales, silks and leather hanging scandalously revealing too much of a body, both beautiful and brutal. A dagger was tucked casually into her chest coverings, and a smile that showed teeth played on her painted lips. “Speak up, priest,” she purred, swirling her wine. “Or has the sea air robbed you of courage?”

  The third was Lord Joral of Eastwatch, a minor son of a younger branch, his cloak too fine for his purse. His pride was the only thing heavier than his debts. He leaned forward eagerly, eyes gleaming with hunger. “Yes, speak, priest! If Avalon bumbles, I want to hear it. Perhaps we can gain even more profit while my cousins sneer at my efforts.”

  At the head of the table enthroned the fourth Minister Scaevinus, courtier of the crown prince’s household, architect of the scheme. His manner was smooth as glass, but his eyes carried contempt, even for those with whom he conspired. He toyed idly with a signet ring, a thin smile never leaving his lips. To him, Avalon was a province of dullards and simple folk, their naivety the clay from which he had shaped gold.

  It was the priest who broke the silence. His voice was low, careful. “The steward of Avalon weakens—the charm frays. And there are stirrings in the Citadel—too many eyes watching, too many whispers of audit. I counsel restraint this year. Better that we draw in the net than fall into the trap this season.”

  For a moment, the room fell into silence, the fire hissed, and the sea roared beyond the walls. Then Scaevinus laughed—a cold, cutting sound.

  “Restraint?” He leaned forward, his gaze sharp as a blade. “You speak of restraint after twelve years of coin flowing into our coffers? Do you think the prince I serve tolerates cowardice? Do you imagine he does not know what you have done to Avalon’s steward? Should I whisper it in his ear, priest, what becomes of you then? Defrocked. Cast in chains. Burned for corruption of the soul.”

  The priest’s face blanched. His hand clenched upon the table, but no words came.

  “Sniveling coward,” Scaevinus spat. “You will do as you are bidden. Your leash is mine to hold, not Avalon’s. Remember that.”

  Captain Sareth’s laughter rang, low and mocking. “I should almost thank you both,” she said, toying with her dagger. “Your games keep the coin flowing, and with coin, I keep ships at sea. Avalon bleeds, and her trade comes to me instead. Do continue. I enjoy fat spoils.”

  Lord Joral struck the table with his hand. “And I will have my share! Eastwatch has forgotten me, cast me off, but I will not be forgotten in this Avalon business. Let them call me wastrel—I will drown them in silver until they choke!”

  Scaevinus’s eyes narrowed. He let their outbursts wash over him like so much noise. He had chosen these allies because each was greedy, flawed, and bound by his threads. Yet he trusted none of them. Trust was for fools.

  At last, he spoke, his voice smooth once more. “This year’s collection goes as I have conceived. Isenford for the kingdom’s reckoning, and the coastal gathering for ours. His gaze shifted to each in turn, the faintest smile cutting like a knife.

  “You, priest—keep Avalon blind. Drown them in hymns and charity until they forget to look. Captain, see the coast stays unsettled—smoke, rumor, a few missing ships—enough to make the watchmen blink elsewhere. And young Joral”—his tone sharpened—“will handle the couriers. Let no message fly straight this year.”The captain will ensure the coast remains… unsettled, to mask our work. And young Joral will see to the couriers.”

  He paused, hand resting on the map. ‘Each piece where I placed it. Each fool believing they serve the realm. Perfect order—so long as no one blunders.’ His smile deepened, soft as poison. ‘And if they do… I’ll unmake them myself.’

  His smile curved, thin and merciless. “Avalon stirs, yes. But Avalon does not yet know how to play the game. And while they stumble, we grow rich.”

  Silence fell again, broken only by the roar of the waves. None trusted the others, but each was bound by the lure of silver—and by the knowledge that betrayal, should it come, would be answered in blood.

  …

  The fire had burned lower, casting longer shadows against the paneled walls of Seawatch Manor. Outside, the sea gnawed at the cliffs, its endless roar the only witness to the treachery being spun within.

  The first to leave was Lord Joral of Eastwatch. Whether it was his youth or even just his hunger, it made him impatient; his footsteps echoed quickly and sharp as he strode out, already dreaming of silver flowing into his empty coffers.

  When the door closed behind him, Scaevinus lifted a hand. “Remain.” His voice was smooth, measured, but it carried command.

  The pirate captain, Sareth, draped herself across her chair, the firelight gleaming on the rings in her ears and the bare skin at her throat. Her smile was languid, practiced—too practiced. She knew profit when she smelled it, and Scaevinus’s summons reeked of it.

  The priest in white lingered stiffly, hands folded, but his eyes darted from shadow to shadow. Though cloaked in purity, unease clung to him like sweat. Still, he did not move to leave.

  Scaevinus's storm-gray eyes fixed on them both. He leaned forward, resting pale fingers upon the scarred table. "I have word," he said softly. "The burden rises this year. Every province is to bleed more, even Avalon. The king's coffers demand it. And so-" His smile was thin as parchment. "So do ours."

  The priest's lips pressed into a line, and with heat in his voice, "More? You ask for even more when the steward barely holds under the weight I have already bound upon him? His spirit frays. I warned you before—"

  “You whined before,” Scaevinus cut in, sharp as glass. “And yet, for twelve years, your leash has held. It will hold longer, because it must. You will strengthen the charm, priest, not weaken it. I will hear no more of your scruples.”

  The priest’s hand twitched upon his sleeve. For a heartbeat, his eyes darkened, and there was a hint of venom in his tone. “Careful, Scaevinus. White robes do not mean clean hands. I have bound men stronger than you. Do not think I cannot loose bindings as well as weave them.”

  The air in the chamber grew taut, silence stretching like a bowstring.

  Then Sareth laughed, low and throaty, breaking the tension. “By the Veils, you two sound like squabbling lovers. Threats, bindings—do you mean to kill each other and leave me the silver?” She leaned forward, her eyes glinting. “Because I’d not complain.”

  Scaevinus turned his gaze upon her, cold and disdainful. “No, captain, you would not. But it seems you have already been careless. Twice now, Eastwatch vessels have been harried by your folk. Ships too close, too visible. Do you imagine the kingdom does not keep tally? Or do you think me blind?”

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  Her smile sharpened, though her hand tightened on the dagger at her belt. “My seafolk take what they find. Hungry men grow restless. If you feast them on silver, they’ll wait. If you continue to starve them, they’ll hunt.” She tilted her head. “And if Eastwatch cannot guard his waters, is that my fault? Perhaps the young lord should pay me for protection.”

  “Enough.” Scaevinus’s voice cracked like a whip. “I will not have accidents. Not this year. The delivery must be clean, unquestioned. If Avalon falls short, all the better—but our coin must flow without stain. Do you hear me, Sareth? Control your mongrels. Or I will find a master among them who can.”

  He named them then—three of her own sub-captains, men she trusted little and hated less. “Varcus. Kolas. Garran. Each would slit your throat for the promise of my favor.”

  For a heartbeat, the pirate’s mask slipped. Fury flashed across her face, quick and hot, before she mastered it. “Threats from you, Scaevinus? Careful. Dogs bite the hand that starves them.” She rose halfway from her chair, her dagger gleaming faintly. “And some captains, too.”

  The priest shifted in his seat, a faint smile touching his lips at her defiance. “You see, Scaevinus? Control is fragile. Chains snap. Even yours.”

  Scaevinus only smiled, maddeningly calm. “And yet you both are here still, like dogs on the leash.” He let the words hang, weighty with scorn and meaning. “You stay because profit binds tighter than loyalty. You stay because Avalon has been our feast, and none of you are ready to leave the table.”

  Silence settled, broken only by the crackle of fire and the sea’s eternal roar.

  At last, the priest spoke again, his voice low, deliberate. “I will reinforce the steward’s bindings. But understand this: every knot tied strains my soul as well as his. Push too far, and the man may break entirely. If he shatters, you lose more than a pawn. You lose the veil of respectability that shields us.”

  “Then you will not let him shatter,” Scaevinus replied coldly. “You will weave your compulsions tighter, and the steward will bow as he always has. Do not speak to me of risk, priest—I own your risk. Fail me, and your robes will be ashes.”

  The pirate captain spat into the fire, the hiss loud in the silence. “And if you fail us, Scaevinus, perhaps you’ll find the sea less forgiving. Ships sink quick in storm-tide. Even lords drown.”

  He inclined his head as if her threat amused him. “So long as the tide carries my silver first, captain, you may dream of storms as you please.”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed. His voice was soft, but edged like a knife. “One day, Scaevinus, even princes may turn upon their lapdogs. Pray I am not there to whisper when they do.”

  Scaevinus’s smile lingered, smooth, unbroken. “Then pray harder, priest. For until that day, you are mine. As are you, Sareth. And together, we will bleed Avalon dry.”

  No one spoke further. The fire hissed, the sea roared, and in the silence between, each measured the others with veiled hate. None trusted, none loved, but all were bound—by greed, by fear, by the silver that stained every hand at that table.

  …

  On the manor’s wind-bitten balcony, the gulls’ cries and the slap of waves on the rocks below were a distant susurrus—drowned out by the closeness of two men and the hunger in their voices.

  Joral of Eastwatch stood with his back to the balustrade, cloak thrown aside so the salt wind could strike his too-fine hair. He looked younger than his years in that pale light: eager, raw, and not yet hardened by the things ambition must do. He had sent the others to their rooms with some excuse of business, and now, when the house belonged to the night and to plotting, he felt both exhilaration and a thin, sick edge of fear.

  Kola stepped up beside him—one of Captain Sareth’s captains, swarthy, corded with sea-work, his knuckles still bearing the seam-ridges of a ropehand. Where Sareth’s knife-sharp display and beauty were, Kola’s hard-held, ready-to-unleash danger lurked. Because he had waited for Joral in the shadows, with purging splashes of candlelight on his cheekbones. It was but once he bowed. And it was smooth as harbor air, as low as a grudging voice, as he spoke. “My lord. The sea holds secrets, but tonight it will hold none of yours.”

  Joral turned too sharply, hunger oozing from him like an ill-fitting sail. “Kola--good. Listen.” His words rushed ahead before sense could gain a hold. “This year we will take our strategy into our own hands. Sareth--she's all bluster and vulgar front. Unreliable. To lacking for what we want.” Once, he paced, bootsteps clattering against stone as if counting moments he could control. “She blows money and blood like a tipsy factor. It's high time someone more. . . unobtrusive took charge at sea. Unobtrusive and faithful. You will be that voice.”

  The young man's words were bright with youth's certainty: audacious, practiced, untried—and then there lurked in the air itself the audacity, as with a dare. Kola's smile narrowed; then there hummed beneath them the surf, as if waiting for foolishness. The young man waited before answering.

  Kola’s smile was all teeth, like daggers in a row, narrow and patient as a trap. He closed the distance with the man so that soon no one could hear the exchange between them it would be lost in the hiss of the surf. “You ask much, Lord Joral,” he said, low and slow. “She does not wear that knife as an ornament.”

  He let the meaning settle, eyes flicking to the manor roof as though checking for ears. “To move her aside is to take from her the only thing that binds her men. Do it clumsily, and those men will not weep for you—they will bleed you dry.”

  Joral’s jaw set. “We will strip the dead weight—Scaevinus goes. That snake hides in others' shadows and takes too many risks. He will be the fall guy; we'll cut him loose and blame it on his greed. We keep the priest—he still holds his charm—and we make sure the blame falls on Avalon if it must.” He spoke with the naiveté of a man who had read conspiracies in court pamphlets but had not yet felt a blade’s compromise. “This year, Kola—this year we split only two ways—you and I. The priest keeps his place for show. Sareth will be cast away like the harlot she is. You will run the captains. You understand?”

  Kola’s eyes glittered. He had heard the talk in taverns, the young lord’s promises to elevate a captain to lord of his own fate. He did not flatter the dreamer’s illusions. He had seen too many boys in cloaks make bargains and fall under knives at dawn. Yet there was hunger in the plan that made his own mouth run with scheming.

  “You want the sea calm and under control, Joral,” Kola said slowly, tasting each word. “You want a clean delivery, no storms, no fools, no stray ships. You want Sareth’s men to nod and obey because you say so. And you want the priest to tie the steward’s mouth and the king’s writ to make us invisible.”

  “Yes.” Joral stepped closer, lowering his voice until it was nearly a whisper. “And because I am the one opening this path for you—because you will take on Sareth’s men and make the deliveries clean—I expect a discount. Enough coin taken from the crown’s tithe so you can keep a bigger share. This year, we claim more. Next year, perhaps, I will grasp for more.” His hand closed on the balustrade. “I won’t share with blowhards forever. This year, we split two ways. This year, I begin to matter.”

  Kola’s laugh was dry and dark as he thought. ‘And what do you know of blood bargains, young lord? You have the look of a man who thinks a coup is a parade he can lead with a gilded hat. You do not know how a captain’s loyalties are bought, or how quickly they are sold to the highest blade.’

  Joral’s eagerness flickered at the edge of anger. He lifted his chin. “I have a wild card.” He leaned in; the moon gilded the flush of his face. “A powerful spellcaster rides with my retinue for the collection run. Not a hedge-wizard—someone of real craft. He will be our shield. He will keep prying eyes off the ledgers. He will—”

  Kola’s face tightened. For a moment, his expression was quiet, then a grin cracked it open, savage and pleased. “A mage,” he said. “So the boy brings a conjurer to the feast. That changes things.” He tapped a finger against the stone. “If your sorcerer can shadow our actions, turn a few heads, distract our eyes—then yes, we can make the take clean, and I will have the men to do it. But let this be a promise between us: mages are not loyal unless you pay them princely. Magic costs coin, and it costs preferences. Does your wizard know the debt you plan to bind him to?”

  Joral swallowed, a flash of uncertainty crossing his face. “He knows of payment. He knows the promise—and he wants something of his own. But he is… convinced. He wants a place. I can offer him that.”

  Kola’s gaze sharpened. He saw, for the first time, the frailty under the boy’s bravado. He also saw an opportunity. “Then hear me, Joral of Eastwatch. I will cut Sareth down only if I believe in the knife at my back. I will obey you if I am paid, and paid well.I won't be that fool who helps you raise a throne for some other man and starves on the crumbs. In a year, perhaps two, we take the chest. Then-who can know? Perhaps I'll take my share and run. Or perhaps I take all and drown in a warm isle. Or maybe I'll just stay on as a lord, with ships under me and coin enough to buy a name.

  Joral’s eyes flashed with that childish, dangerous dream. “Then do it, Kola. Do it and be my right hand. Help me send Sareth out into the wrong gale and make sure she is last seen on the rocks. Make sure the priest’s blessing is loud enough to drown questions. If you do this for me—if the deliveries are clean and the silver is split—I will make you richer than you imagine.”

  Kola hummed, considering the moonlit sea. He was not blind to the boy’s weakness; he was not blind to the fact that plans made by the eager often snapped under the weight of reality. But the promise of coins, heavy and a captain’s berth—those were practical things. He liked practical things.

  “Very well,” Kola said finally. “We’ll give your plan a try, Joral. We release Scaevinus, and we maintain our grip on the priest’s leash, and we’ll see if your conjurer can distract the eyes of the Citadel with his smoke and mirrors. But let this be known: if your wizardry proves no good, and if Sareth’s men sniff out a treachery, I’ll take what I can, and I’ll not look back.”

  Joral's smile was swift, bright with assuredness. “Don’t look back,” he breathed, as if that would settle all of the world's tangled IOUs.

  They stood there a moment longer on the balcony, side by side: a pair of figures on the edge of a precipice, one a dreamer with a foolish scheme that shone brightly with a potent ally, and the other a seasoned captain with a nose for profit that caught a whiff of profit in the air. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks, their fury oblivious to the curses being sworn above.