Bone Jack

On Itzal’s—now lost—map of the Razorgrass Sea, the Keep of Modris Khan was marked with a red dot and a question mark. The dot was about equidistant between five sharp buttes called the Rotten Teeth and one of the deep ravines that cut through the prairies. There was a range of hills there, but they were poorly explored because of a field of treacherous sink-holes to the south and a scattering of broke boulders to the north. Itzal had been looking forward to it. He couldn’t think how a slow-turning ship could navigate a boulder field, especially given the inevitability of flurrying wind.

Fortunately, Itzal had the chance to see the style of navigation.

Unfortunately, it was among a completely different boulder field.

He didn’t know very well what the boulder field protecting the keep of Modris Khan looked like, but he did know the boulder field the ship sailed into. The stabbing, twisted boulders inspired a great many sketch artists. Geologists speculated about the tall and relatively thin boulders, scratching into the sky like a field of broken bones. They groped, looking every bit like they would fall down at any moment. If the stories could be trusted, though, the stabbing stones had stood for eons.

Yes, Itzal knew this place. They called it the Massacre Fields.

“What are those things caught on their bottoms?” Itzal asked.

“Wrecked ship,” Negui said. He said it with a smile. Itzal couldn’t grasp that.

The ship navigated in among the stabbing stones. The lowest of them loomed a hundred feet in the air. The height surprised Itzal.

The wreckage of ships strung on the jagged bottoms of the stones, like caught cobwebs. Their sails and rigging fluttered in the wind, sad and shredded. The cracked, sunbaked beams hung like skeletons of creatures caught in snares and forgotten to their struggles till the elements ate them away to only bone, still caught in the traps.

The technique to navigate the jaggedy pillars of rock disappointed Itzal somewhat. Their technique was to go slowly.

“At least for now,” said the helmsman through a grin. He turned out to be one of the few other people on board that Itzal could talk with. “You wait till we’ve got some marauders dragging—another day—another drive.”

“I thought you did the marauding on these plains,” Itzal said. Which made the helmsman chuckle.

Unsure how much he ought to display his grasp of the geography, Itzal watched the doings of the ship for a while, saying nothing. He had not been told where they were going, so he presumed that they did not care for him to know where they were going, so he did not know whether it would be wise to ask too informed-sounding questions about their course. This whole economy of information thing felt so new. When to play ignorant. When to twist truths. When to bring forth impossible knowledge. He didn’t even know if these moments were the right moments. He just felt as if…with Ben gone—with no Captain Younes—no Lilywhite—someone had to be the wise one. Caesura seemed to think it would be Itzal, and deferred to him on everything. Negui treated Itzal like an opponent worthy of serious thought, which startled Itzal so much he spent most of his time in silence. And the crew skirted around him like frightened things. The crew of the Riot had treated him like some kid they didn’t know, till he proved himself. By their general unhidden disdain, this crew made it clear that he could never prove himself to them.

It all felt quite uncomfortable.

And he did not know the right way to decide whether he should ask their course.

Which had been the reason he learned that the helmsman knew the language of the mountains. Itzal had apparently been muttering something about, “Just you and me, then,” to the distant storm clouds in probably a fairly hopeless-sounding voice, and the helmsman had chuckled. Embarrassed, Itzal had spun to look at the helmsman. The helmsman did, indeed, have a smile on his whiskered face.

“There’s no sympathy in the Empty Sky,” the helmsman said. “Not for pasty skin mountain puppies. Better you go back to your peaks. You won’t lead a long life out in the open. The lightning sees you easier with your white face.”

“Beg pardon,” Itzal said, sensing that he suffered from taunting but feeling he came short in terms responding the appropriate vinegar because he lacked the context he needed to understand the insult. Deciding that, even without understanding the insult, someone like Captain Younes would give a sharp reply, Itzal changed expression. He made an attempt at a frown. “Belay that. I’ll have no cheek off of you.” Then, feeling self-conscious, his face fell. Although he knew it would ruin the effect, he said, “Was that the right sort of thing?”

The helmsman chuckled again. “Word or two of advice for the squirrel,” the helmsman said. “You’ll never be a terror to anyone.”

“I shan’t,” Itzal said. He partly asked it, partly admitted it, and partly accepted it with those words.

“Never shall. You should never try to be. Spend your energy more usefully.”

“On wariness, perhaps,” Itzal said, sighing.

The helmsman gestured that he agreed. “Things more terrible than you lie waiting on all sides. Spend your energy worrying about them, and just stay out of the way.”

After that, Itzal talked to the helmsman more often than most other people on the ship. Not because of any sort of mutual respect or truce, but because the helmsman seemed to have the time. He wasn’t the only helmsman, but he must have been the best one because he stood there at the tiller more than anyone else did. And at least Itzal knew where he stood with him. He could take a sort of grim comfort in knowing what to expect. He couldn’t say that about the rest of the crew. He couldn’t tell from any of the chattered Yaria what to feel about anybody else.

And besides, standing close to the helm for long periods rewarded him with an excuse at one point to nose into a conversation about their course and destination.

“No, we are not making sail for the keep of Modris Khan,” Negui said. Itzal had opted for a soft version of his knowledge of their course, trying to imply he’d picked up information from listening to conversations between the helmsman and other sailors.

“We’re not,” Itzal said, knowing that he failed to keep a note of disappointment out of his voice. It had been such a fixture for the adventure, the idea of finally getting to Modris Khan’s keep. This final denial disappointed him.

“No, squirrel. We are going somewhere far worse,” Negui, as much as he ever did, looked pleased to share the foreboding.

“But Modris Khan will be there?” Itzal said.

“Yes,” Negui said.

Itzal nodded. He would need to make some preparations, in that case.

“My understanding of slavery seems to leave something to be desired, Caesura.”

“That is true, Master Itzal.”

“I am not sure that I need to understand the full economy of it now either.”

“I think not, Master Itzal.”

“I do need more complete information.”

“I agree, Master Itzal.”

“You keep calling me ‘Master Itzal.’ ”

“Master forgive, if I speak out of turn. I thought it would be acceptable to you, since in other cultures it’s a diminutive. To me it is acceptable since in my culture it is not.”

“I see.”

“Shall I stop?”

“No, I think it’s a good compromise.”

“Very good, Master Itzal.”

“Let us leave that aside for the time being.”

“Yes, sir. Master forgive, if I speak out of turn. Would ‘sir’ also be acceptable?”

“I sense that my discomfort shall not weigh heavily on the matter.”

“I must use some title.”

“Must you?”

“Yes. And with all due respect, other titles begin to grow tiring.”

“I can understand that.”

“Then ‘sir’ might also be an acceptable compromise, will it not?”

“You sound more like you’re telling than asking.”

“Sir has every right to view my words as he wishes.”

“I know when I’m beat, Caesura.”

“Yes, sir. You had something to ask, sir.”

“I’ve quite forgotten it, Caesura.”

“I believe you wanted to discuss the ownership papers with me.”

“Oh yes. That’s right.”

“What do you wish of me?”

“Can you, conceivably, sell yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps that’s not what I mean.”

“Feel free to clarify your point, sir.”

“Supposing that I gave you these ownership papers.”

“They would be in safe hands.”

“And supposing that I signed ownership over to someone else…”

“I am supposing it, sir.”

“Well…supposing that happened. Would you…would you be able to carry these papers to the person I’ve named?”

“Before I answer, Master Itzal, may I make an inquiry?”

“Please do. I’m out of my depth, Caesura.”

“Would you want to sign ownership of us over to someone else and ask me to carry the papers for you?”

“It might happen. Does that distress you? I fear I cannot tell what you feel about it.”

“It is not my place to feel anything about it, sir.”

“All the same…”

“As you’re asking. Master forgive, if I speak out of turn. It’s a rare thing to call a man ‘master’ who has no taste for it.”

“Would you prefer it to continue?”

“I could grow accustomed to it without finding complaint in it, sir.”

“I shall remember that, Caesura.”

“I hope that you do.”

“I shan’t forget it.”

“Many thanks, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Ceasura.”

“Back to your question, then.”

“Right. What have you got to say to it, then?”

“It would be irregular.”

“But would it be impossible?”

“I hope it gives you comfort to know that it would be within my power to do it.”

“That is good to hear.”

“Master forgive, if I speak out of turn. I think you will ask me to do it.”

“That will depend on something, Caesura.”

“On what, pray tell, sir?”

“Am I right in my surmise that you and the other Full Kits represent…what, a sampling of a bigger product?”

“We are a demonstration of product, yes. We have been sent demonstrate the advantages of us—of Savasci Kole—of the Warrior Slave.”

“In hopes of…what? Starting up some trade?”

“We represent a significant turn on investment. Delivery costs alone of unattended weapons mounts too high for all but the largest smithing families. Though my troupe represents a significant investment of time and of training and of equipping, once we are here—as you see—a finished product, we can be sold at great profit.”

“That’s…a good thing to know.”

“Master forgive, if I speak out of turn. I know that more intimate knowledge of the slave trade does not please you.”

“That’s quite all right, Caesura.”

“I take it, then, that you may expect to find a reason to ask me to ‘sell myself,’ as you put it, sir?”

“I’ve got a feeling, at least, that you may have an occasion to demonstrate your mettle.”

“I do believe you may be right in that, Master Itzal,” Caesura said.

The sound of rain rattling on oilskin dulled the corners of his and Itzal’s voices. They stood under a shelter rigged on deck with oilskin and spare wood. The rain poured around them, angry like a charging army. They could see quite far, as if the rain rinsed the air. The breeze blew lighter than the wind fell, and the air felt motionless. It moved just swift enough to keep the ship moving. It had gained empty plain, past all the jagged bone-shaped stones. Now that Itzal saw past them, he found he recognized the place, or guessed it. It made him unhappy to see the dark brown, squarish mound of a shape, looming in the rain ahead. Itzal would not have sworn to it at this distance, but he thought he saw movements in the rain, movements like ships and ballistae.

Itzal watched the approaching place. But Caesura watched Itzal.

“You look on this sight with such fear,” Caesura said. “It deepens your eyes.”

“Do I?” Itzal said, and he swallowed, realizing that his face ached from a frown he hadn’t noticed. He rubbed his cheeks in slow circles and his gaze went out of focus. He tried to find a quiet place in the weird pulsing in his head.

“I do not know this place,” Caesura said. “Is it a place that I, too, ought to fear?”

“No, not particularly,” Itzal said, his tone vague and his attention nowhere nearby. “Not, at least, unless you’re frightened by the subtleties of the geopolitical landscape of the Razorgrass Sea.”

“I confess, that has never been a subject of my nightmares,” Caesura said.

“Nor has it ever been a subject of mine. Though I’ve had professors who’ve said I’ll never quite understand the world until I understand the significance of geopolitical landscapes.”

“Such long words tend to soften the bite of things,” Caesura said.

“That’s how I feel,” Itzal said. He snapped back to the present. Then, glancing at Caesura, he proffered an expression that could have looked like a smile if you didn’t have a good grasp of human characteristics. He waved toward the mound in the rain. It grew larger every moment. “That’s one of a series of sentry keeps. By itself, it doesn’t matter very much. The series together, however, represents one of the few things that the entire Great Basin Trading Confederation agrees upon. This series of sentry keeps stands watch over the East-and-West Highway.”

“Oh,” Caesura said. That he understood.

The East-and-West Highway was the biggest trading lane across the Razorgrass Sea. It was established after a cooperative effort between the major trading corporations on the east and the west side of the Razorgrass Sea. All significant traders agreed on the necessity of the maintenance and defense of the East-and-West Highway. And, so far in the history of trade on the Razorgrass Sea, attacks on it had been among the few rallying events to gather forces from all corners of the near world. A few khans had tried it. Itzal knew that one or two had succeeded in capturing one of the sentry keeps, intending to prey on the vessels that would still be taking the Highway from east to west and back. The cooperative counteroffensive mounted by the traders had rather wiped those khans from history.

It had not been attempted for a long time. So either Modris Khan was a fool or he thought he had something special to offer his generation.

Itzal didn’t know. In either case, he didn’t like what it boded for those few people he knew nearby. He didn’t like what it boded for Caesura and the Full Kits. Nor for himself.

Somehow, no matter how much worry he could not batten down for himself and the Full Kits, he couldn’t quite worry the same for Lilywhite. Though he had a mental itch that made him sure Lilywhite strutted about somewhere nearby, making a joke of it all. Somehow, Itzal couldn’t shake the thought not only that Lilywhite stood somewhere entirely out of danger, though quite nearby, but also with a pot of tea near at hand and refreshed from several nights of sleeping somewhere soft and warm and comfortable.

Itzal could not find the source of the thoughts, though he felt as certain of them as the deck under his feet. He just about saw the smiling gawp of Lilywhite floating in front of him, nodding as if approving of something or other.

Itzal had quite forgotten how hard it was not to roll his eyes around Lilywhite. He contented himself with a sigh.

“Caesura,” Itzal said.

“Yes, sir,” Caesura said.

“You’re smiling,” Itzal said.

Caesura nodded. He looked nearly giddy, he smiled so wide.

“Why are you smiling?”

“You have before you a man formed to a limited range of tasks,” Caesura said. “One of those is battle. And a battle mounts before us. I can hear it. I can smell it. I see the crows.” Caesura paused. He looked into himself. “You might say I am going home.”

“I see,” Itzal said.

“I am not sure you do,” Caesura said. “Every fabric of me yearns for this thing…. But I hope that you do understand.”

“I think that I do,” Itzal said. In the back of his mind, he remembered his library—his warm chair, hot tea, and piles of books.

He sighed. “Caesura,” Itzal said.

“Yes, sir,” Caesura said.

“You are a king among men,” Itzal said.

“Hardly, sir,” Caesura said.

“It’s time to finish this delivery,” Itzal said. “We both have our homes ahead of us.”

Caesura bowed, closing his eyes and making his two fingers over the heart salute.

Itzal looked back out into the rain, watching the sentry keep come nearer. The signs of battle could no longer be mistaken.