Fall of Angels

XCIX

SILLEK STANDS ON the pier. Gethen stands several paces inshore of him. The armsmen at the foot of the old pier hold torches, but the light barely carries to where the Lord of Lornth stands a dozen cubits out on the rickety structure that sways with the incoming tide. The sound of surf rises beyond the bay. The harbor is empty. So are the warehouses that held goods, though a handful still hold grain.

“Only because they couldn’t get enough ships in,” Sillek says to himself.

“What did you say?” asks Gethen.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“You thought this might happen, didn’t you, Sillek?” Gethen looks down at the dark water. “That the traders would pull out without a fight?”

Below them bobs a waterlogged chunk of wood, and beyond that some unidentifiable bit of moss-covered and slimy debris. The cold air coming off the Northern Ocean smells of salt with a hint of rotten fish and ocean-damp wood.

“I hoped they would. Wars cost money, and they’ve always kept Rulyarth as a place to bleed, not to fight over. This wasthe easy part. Now it gets harder.” Sillek looks into the darkness. “We’ll have to bribe the independent traders, with something, and rebuild at least one of the piers. And probably reinstate the barges on the lower section below the rapids.”

“You’ll get some cargoes. My wines alone-”

“Your wines will likely save us, Gethen. For that I am grateful.”

“I’ve been tired of seeing the Suthyans eat up the profits with their port charges.” Gethen kicks the rotten wood of the pier, and a chunk flies out into the dark water of the harbor.

“We’ll need some charges, or we won’t have a port,” cautions Sillek. “We’ve got some hungry people here who are going to be very unhappy. And then there’s Ildyrom.”

“He hasn’t moved on Clynya.”

“No, but that ties up more armsmen and a wizard. I really can’t afford another campaign this year. That’s why that business with Karthanos bothers me. I could care less about the middle of the Westhorns. The land doesn’t feed my people, and there aren’t any precious metals there. But because a bunch of women took it over, it’s going to create a real problem with a lot of the traditional holders.” Sillek takes another few steps seaward, testing the planks underfoot. One creaks and bends under his weight. He shakes his head. “When you solve one problem, you get two more.”

“You’re right about the Roof of the World.” Gethen laughs. “That’s why I’m glad you’re the lord, and I’m not.”

“Well … if anything happens to me, you’ll inherit the mess. So don’t laugh too hard.”

“Me?” Gethen’s amazement is unfeigned.

“Who else? The holders wouldn’t accept my mother as regent, for which I am grateful, or Zeldyan, for which I am not. So I’ve named you as head of the regency council, with Zeldyan and Fornal as the other two counselors. You’re respected, and your blood runs in Nesslek. Besides, you don’t want the job-not that I hope you ever get it, you understand.” Sillek’s voice turns dry with his last words.

Both men laugh.

Behind them the torches flicker in the wind, and before them the faint phosphorescence of the waves outlines the distant breakwaters.