Forgotten Stairs Read online

  Forgotten Stairs

  Part Two of Native Silver

  Blake Hausladen

  Edited by

  Deanna Sjolander

  Published 2018 by Rook Creek Books, an imprint of Rook Creek LLC

  Copyright © 2018 by Blake Hausladen

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  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  * * *

  Edited by Deanna Sjolander

  Cartography by Author

  Contents

  Map of the Pinnion Coast

  15. Madam Soma O’Nropeel

  16. Madam Dia Yentif

  17. Arilas Barok Yentif

  18. Geart Goib

  19. General Leger Mertone

  Map of the Oreol

  20. Minister Sikhek

  21. Crown Prince Evand

  22. Boatswain Soma O’Nropeel

  23. Arilas Barok Yentif

  24. Geart Goib

  25. Madam Dia Yentif

  26. Geart Goib

  27. Arilas Barok Yentif

  28. Madam Dia Yentif

  29. Crown Prince Evand Yentif

  30. Boatswain Soma O’Nropeel

  Also by Blake Hausladen

  About the Author

  Glossary

  15

  Madam Soma O’Nropeel

  The last of the morning rain pattered on the thick planking of the pier when Gern and thirty greencoats delivered me and the remainder of my family back to the harbor. Pix was asleep in the saddle, holding onto her father. A lieutenant I knew helped him carry her aboard the Thorne, and Gern ordered the rest of the greencoats up the broad gangway after them.

  I was anxious as I looked at Mercanfur’s ship. The single broad sail was ready to be hoisted aloft upon the heavy keel-stepped mast, and the boatswain was already recruiting the soldiers to serve as seconds on the ship’s fourteen long oars. The helmsman stood at the tiller, and the hands were ready to cast off. Farther down the pier the large and ungainly Phalia was similarly prepared, though my first thought upon looking at her was that they had been a bit ambitious with the cargo. She sat very deep in the water and listed a hair to port.

  Gern looked ready to suggest once again that I stay. “How is Pix doing?” he asked, instead, and handed me Barok’s letter case. I knew the look of someone who had been scolded. Barok had backed me. The prince and I were going to get along just fine.

  “She is as well as can be expected,” I replied. “Something will fill the hole in her heart.”

  “That is good. I hope she is able to find a way to deal with so much loss,” he said. I ignored this. He was talking just to talk, and I needed to be moving on. He had something else to say.

  “Out with it.”

  “What do you intend to do with everything you have collected?” he asked finally and glanced down at my oilskin satchel. It did not surprise me that he knew I had gathered up all of the articles touched by Barok’s blood, but I did not need to answer him.

  He said after a time, “I cannot abide the thought of us using his blood to make magic. Kyoden would not approve.”

  “Kyoden failed.”

  “Soma. You go too fast. We were barely coming to grips with what Geart was capable of, and then he and Leger tore off to Bessradi to cut the head off the beast. And now here you are, remade by the Spirit herself, and you haven’t taken so much as a deep breath. What if this power of yours needs more than his blood? What if death and murder are required?”

  “You ask a foolish question. The Shadow created mankind to destroy this Earth, and we are just barely removed from Him. Success for us is seeing all those in His power laid down or freed. The tool you and Leger use is steel. His attack upon the capital was cold-blooded murder. If you do not doubt his action, don’t you dare caution me about mine. She gave me a different tool, and I will use it.”

  “I doubt the wisdom of his attack as well. There must be something we are unwilling to do.”

  “Dire priestess is my title, Gern Furstundish. My magic is not the kind that warms men’s hearts. This is the last time I answer questions from the Chaukai regarding what I do or why. Are we clear?”

  “Why do you distrust us?”

  “You are men, and you were made to destroy the world. He watches us, from every dark place. He knows who we are and where we are. He whispers it at the world, and there are those who will hear Him. There are those amongst us that will betray us.”

  He nodded. “You would do well, Lady Soma, to stay out to sea. Few will understand.”

  “Thank you, Chaukai. I had already decided that whatever magic I can make with the blood of the Vesteal, I will make it out to sea—away from anyone who thinks they know better than the Spirit of the Earth what it is I am supposed to do.”

  It took him another long moment. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Keep the prince safe.”

  “That above all else, ma’am.”

  “Lady Soma?” Admiral Mercanfur said. His urgency for us to depart matched Gern’s reluctance.

  “Sorry, coming now,” I replied, bid the captain farewell, and made my way aboard. We shoved off, and the pier dwindled from view. I gripped the rail and trembled lightly with such terrible nervousness.

  I am going out to sea!

  I’d grown up upon thin docks and the decks of sluggish barges with boatmen’s tales of the Bergion Sea. Those were stories of a frozen and treacherous devil and the kind of work left to the most foolhardy or adventurous of captains. Before I’d met my husband, I would have gone south in an instant if ever the opportunity had presented itself.

  Enhedu’s Pinnion Ocean was not so bitter and hostile a creature. It was warm, green, and was known for its long, straight winds and deep reef-free waters. I caught myself shivering and turned to search for Pix with hopes of sharing the moment with her, but she and her father had gone below. I started toward the companionway amidships but was stopped by the scene I found there.

  Mercanfur’s oarsmen and the greencoats who had been recruited to help were not getting on. The rowing had come to a halt. The oars were tangled. The boatswain was yelling about how simple rowing was, but few of the words he used would make much sense to landsmen. Oarlock, stringer, drive, blade, and thwart were not words they could understand at the pace he yelled them, and being told to keep their feet off their knees earned the boatswain a laugh. He abandoned his drum stand, strode forward, and started yelling at the Chaukai lieutenant.

  I doubted that the boatswain knew the risk he was taking.

  The lad was one of the Kennculli boys, Pemini’s youngest brother. His birth name was a mouthful like Gernilqwa’s—Bohnasilva or something thereabouts. He went by Bohn, and everyone in Urnedi knew him for his defense of Urnedi’s palisade the day the Hessier came. I knew him from the previous day’s funeral. He’d lit his brothers’ pyres while I lit those of my sons and daughters. I’d not been able to say the prayer. He’d held my hand and said it with me. He’d made it all the way through as though he were at peace.

  “Hold a moment, Boatswain. No need to overcomplicate things,” I said. “Let the sailors guide the oars through the stroke, lads. You just be the muscle for the pull.”

  All save Bohn and his Chaukai sergeants looked like they had not heard me at all. They were behaving the same as any number I’d suffered over the years—stubborn men whose pride
could only be satisfied by public demonstration. It never seemed to matter where a man was from, either. They all refused to listen to sense the first time around.

  The boatswain turned away from me, but I cared little what he thought of me. He was doing a poor job, and the practical matter before him needed to be sorted.

  He started to berate Lieutenant Kennculli for the uselessness of his men. This I would not abide. “Out of the way, Boatswain,” I said to him. He turned and looked ready to knock me over the gunwale. All three of the Chaukai stood up and looked ready to cut him in half.

  Admiral Mercanfur waved everyone down. “She was a Bessradi barge captain, Boatswain, and I’ll lay money that she’s taught more landsmen than you how to pull an oar. Let her have a go.”

  “West branch?” he asked as he stood—a smile suddenly upon his face. He offered me his hand. “Boatswain Hoitent Shoender is the name.”

  “Madam Soma O’Nropeel,” I said as I shook it, a bit startled by the sudden change in his mood. “South Branch. My barges put out of Errera.”

  “Eyy, I know the spot. The Halberdon is a rough place to make a living. Mean bend in the river there, too, if I recall, though we rarely sailed south of Bessradi. My family works the flatboats up near Alsonvale. Barges you said?”

  “Eleven of them. Five were left to me by my father and mother after the storm of ‘81.”

  “Ohh, that one didn’t care if you were weak or strong,” he said, letting his thoughts take him far away for a moment. He looked sideways at me. “The Yentif chased you off the river, too?”

  “We’re here now,” I replied, and that he understood.

  “Ahmm,” Mercanfur admonished, and we noticed what a theater we had become. Hoitent wished me luck with the landsmen, told Mercanfur he’d be the rest of the day in his hammock, and disappeared below.

  The crew laughed at this, but I got them moving. “Guardsmen, stand clear for the moment, if you please. Not you, Lieutenant.”

  The rest rose and stepped up onto the section of deck that ran across the tops of the thick beam-like thwarts the rowers sat upon. Mercanfur had made no move yet to raise the sail, so this obstruction upon his deck did not offend. The admiral meant for us to row out of the harbor, which made sense as we needed to sail northwest against a southwesterly wind to reach the mouth of the harbor. His sail would be of no use until we made the turn out to sea.

  The lieutenant’s seat was the last on the right-hand side. He was already in the number two spot closer to the rail, so I sat down next to him and took hold of the oar. It was longer and thinner than a barge oar with a thin blade that wanted to be kept close to the surface of the water. The shallow angle would take a bit to get used to, but the oar was well balanced upon the low gunwale and the two curved oak claws of the oarlock would keep it well seated.

  All the sailors and soldiers crowding the deck looked on as I fit my feet into the rope loops of the foot braces, wrapped my right hand over the oar, and my left underneath.

  “Hands in your lap,” I said to Lieutenant Kennculli, “and stay out of the way for the moment.” The calm-faced veteran sat back, and I levered my oar up out of the water. I called to the rest, “Rowers, station.”

  It took a moment for a few to untangle their oars, but soon enough, all fourteen oars went up.

  “Ready and catch,” I called, crouched forward with knees bent and hands outstretched, and lowered the blade of the oar into the water. “Stand,” I called and pushed first with my legs and then drew my hands in toward my left shoulder, keeping the oar blade level as it pulled through the water. “Finish,” I called loudly as I ended the stroke, turned the oar, levered it free of the water, and settled back in a crouch with my arms once again extended. The sailors knew their oars and the stroke much better than I, but were kind enough to keep the very slow pace I called.

  “Catch and stand. Finish. Catch and stand. Finish.” The Thorne began to gather a bit of speed. “Catch and stand. Finish. Catch and stand.”

  As we continued the stroke, I said to Bohn, “You follow, ehh? Crouch forward on the ‘finish,’ legs then arms on the ‘stand.’ Two thumbs upon the oar now, if you please, and watch my knees and shoulders.”

  He mimicked the motion as I called another set of strokes. “Okay, Lieutenant, on the next ‘stand,’ show us what you are made of,” I said and called out, “Finish, catch, and stand!”

  He had a perfect sense of it, his hands over and under the oar just as mine were. His pull was steady and strong, and he relaxed as the oar hit his chest, leaving just his thumbs upon it. I finished the stroke, and after the next catch, his draw was even stronger. It wasn’t but three strokes later that the Thorne was beginning to turn to port from his pull on the oar. A few of the greencoats joined in and then the rest.

  “Just your thumbs on the finish, lads,” I reminded them, but they needed little guidance after the demonstration. All they had to do was to pull when I called the ‘stand’ and leave the rest to the sailors. They’d learn the rest soon enough.

  The Phalia was well ahead of us, their oars also at work. I considered picking up the pace of my call but figured our chances of catching her to be very slim. They were on the inside of us, and we’d have to swing all the way around them as we made the turn around the rock that marked the bend in the harbor’s neck.

  “Well that’s embarrassing,” the helmsman jibed. “Beaten out of port by a dozen half-starved fishermen.”

  One of the greencoats laughed at this, but no one else did.

  “I heard that,” a voice called from below, and Boatswain Hoitent emerged with mallets in hand. He slowed a bit as he got a look at how well the soldiers were getting on. He gave me a quick nod as he trotted by.

  The first big boom of the drum came just after I called the next catch, and the sharp sound startled me. The second low thump of his drum came after the stand and a third and fourth on the finish. The sound of it punctuated each of my words. The helmsman pulled up his rudder until just the tip of the fin was in the water. The Thorne gathered speed, and we gained on the Phalia as she reached the wide slow turn around the gray thrust of rock.

  I stopped trying to get a look at them after that. The oar was getting heavy, my mouth was starting to dry, and I was getting angry. “Alright, men,” I shouted through the next stroke. “Get hold of the oars now. You’ll not live it down if they beat us out of our own harbor.”

  The greencoats made good, the oars pulled harder, and our pace increased as we began the turn downwind to the sound of the drum and my call.

  “Catch.” Boom.

  “Stand.” Boom.

  “Finish.” Boom, boom.

  The sun emerged from beneath the last of the fast-moving clouds. The warmth did wonders for our chilled flesh, and we kept at it.

  I stole a glance, expecting the Phalia to have already finished the turn, but the great rock was wider than I expected, and we were nearly on her stern. The harbor mouth was still twenty lengths away.

  “Better current in to starboard,” I yelled to our captain. He popped his head up, grinned savagely as he saw the faster water, and hollered at his helmsman to adjust.

  “Sail,” the lookout called from the basket at the top of the mast as we dived along the rushing current. “She’s raising her sail.”

  The crew growled, Mercanfur belted orders to get his own aloft.

  The boatswain called over them all, “Ready a sprint, you louts, double-time, on the catch!”

  I gasped as we finished the stroke and crouched forward with the rest.

  “Catch,” I cried. Boom, boom.

  “Finish.” Boom, boom.

  “Catch.” Boom, boom.

  “Finish!” Boom, boom.

  We surged forward as the Phalia gave up her oars, raised her long yard, and the triangular sail caught its first breath of air.

  “Get ‘em lads!” Mercanfur called over the noise of my shouting, the oars, and the drums. Our surge of speed carried us even and then into the lead.r />
  The crew cheered wildly, but with no clear finish line, we were all watching when Captain Etchpay tightened the braces that reached up the Phalia’s long yard. Her sail filled to three times the size of the ship, and it was startling to see the ragged craft heel gracefully over to starboard. The ship’s list to port had been on purpose—a trick of how they loaded their cargo, I guessed, in order to lever back against the pull of the great sail.

  The Phalia leapt forward, and we were soon hearing the cheers and calls of the Heneuran crew as they retook the lead. “Oye! Oye!” they barked in unison, the dozen bearded skeletons thrusting their fists up in the air at us.

  The crew laughed at this, the drum stopped beating, and I called the exhausted rowers to a halt.

  Our own sail caught the wind then, and our speed held. The boatswain called the men to get the oars stowed and themselves below and watered. They went, shaking blistered hands and slapping sore backs.

  I was standing by the mast, struggling to hide the ache in my thighs and shoulders, when we made the last turn out to sea. The ship nosed into the first wave, and I gasped as we pitched up and over. I took a deep breath, tasted the salt of the wild spray, and looked onto the sea.

  The gray line of the morning’s retreating storm cast a dark shadow directly before us, but the rest was an endless roll of emerald green draped beneath a smooth blue canvas.

  “A lot different than the river, isn’t it?” the boatswain asked from the other side of the mast.

  Tears were in my eyes and butterflies in my stomach. I nodded.