Sarro's rings had sunk into his fingers. Flesh bulged on either side of the gold, pale where the bands pressed it, and one of the rubies was smeared with oil from Vhalar's fish. A bead of juice clung beneath his lower lip. He caught it with his tongue and reached for another piece.
The fat slug had helped himself before the servant had finished pouring.
Vhalar watched him eat from across the table. Below the terrace of his fort lay Bloodstone's eastern anchorage, loud with hammers and the calls of men hauling a galley ashore. He had come up from the morning muster without taking off his mail. Sweat was drying beneath it, and a split in his knuckle stung whenever he bent his hand. His forearms rested bare upon the table, dark with old scars below the sleeves. Sarro had needed to stop twice upon the steps. Now he sat in the shade, a gold chain disappearing into his collar, making a meal of another man's breakfast.
"Try the wine," he said. "It cost me enough."
Vhalar drank. Arbor gold. Good, too, damn him.
Through the openings in the parapet he could see Sarro's four ships. All four had clean hulls and well-kept rigging; their crews had furled the sails quickly yesterday, without half the shouting he heard from worse captains. They lay clear of his own vessels, where they could get under way without waiting for anyone to move.
Sarro had chosen those berths himself.
"Moreo sent a boat to you."
"He did." Sarro sucked oil from his thumb. "He wanted to know why I had come."
"What did you tell him?"
"That you had asked me. Should I have lied?"
Vhalar set his cup down.
"I want your four ships off the western landing while I take Moreo's camp. If his men put out to sea, catch them."
"I'll show myself there," Sarro said. "Crews armed, all four banners up. If anyone runs for the open sea, I'll turn towards him."
"And if he keeps coming?"
Sarro picked a fishbone from his lip and laid it beside his plate. "I let him pass. I am not losing a ship to win you a camp."
"His sons may return."
"Then I'll make the same show for them. If they want a fight, you'll have to give it to them."
Vhalar looked past him at the four ships. Moreo would have to judge their intentions from the beach, with Vhalar's men coming at him. The sight of them might keep him ashore long enough.
"Your first mates will hear the plan at sunset," he said. "See that they are here."
Sarro nodded and reached for the wine. He had never pretended to be a fighting man. He hired those, paid them well and stayed where his captains told him to stay. Last autumn he had carried cargo into Tyrosh beneath the very nose of a captain whose merchantmen he had robbed. Vhalar had heard about it from a man who had helped him sell the goods. The fat slug knew what he was.
Moreo would have known it once. Twenty years ago the old Lysene had taken ships out in weather that sent younger men crawling for shelter. He and Vhalar's father had divided prizes upon this terrace, quarrelled over the division, and tried to rob each other of them the following season. Moreo had always come back smiling. Age had caught up with him at last. At their last meeting he had needed two men to help him into his boat. Vhalar's father was dead; Moreo's time was passing too.
His sons had left him what they did not want and sailed east to raid near Slaver's Bay. A pair of vain little shits. The younger was a whoremonger, a drunkard and a coward, dining and drinking on his father's gold. His brother had lost two ships taking a third. They would quarrel over their father's chair while better men took the ships from under them.
Vhalar meant to be there first.
His father had left him eight galleys and ten longboats, besides the vessels that worked the northern stores. He had men enough to take Moreo's camp. Keeping ships off the western landing would cost him galleys he needed elsewhere.
Rolo. That young whoreson still held the south beach.
Vhalar remembered the boats coming back overloaded, wounded men lying between the feet of the rowers. His father had been dying upstairs while captains decided which son of a bitch was likeliest to pay them. Two of Vhalar's best had died getting the others away. Drazen had gone back for the wounded and the pay chest while men who had eaten at this table changed their colours.
He would have Rolo in time. The Myrishman had good crews and the appetite to use them; of the three men upon Bloodstone, he was the one who would fight hardest to keep what he held. Moreo's harbour and ships would give Vhalar the strength to finish it. With Sarro's four showing themselves off the western landing, he could leave galleys watching the south beach while he took his men against Moreo.
"Moreo's lieutenant has offered to let my men through," he said.
Sarro stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth.
There. That interested him more than all the ships in the harbour.
"The man who keeps his boats?"
"Yes."
"He has served Moreo half his life."
"Then he knows what will be left of it under those sons."
Sarro lowered his cup. "What have you promised him?"
"His command."
"You must be very sure of him."
Vhalar ran his tongue along the broken tooth at the side of his mouth. He was sure the lieutenant wanted to live. The man still lowered his voice when he spoke of Moreo, though they had met with miles of water between them and the old pirate. Fear did not disappear because a man's knees had begun to fail him. But he had asked twice whether Vhalar meant to give his ships to someone else. That worried him more than betraying the captain he had followed for twenty years.
"He has sent me the watch," Vhalar said. "His own men will be beside the boats. When I land, they stay out of my way."
"Unless Moreo has made him a better offer."
"Moreo cannot give him better sons."
Sarro's mouth twitched. "Let my first mate speak to him."
Of course. Put the two of them together, and Sarro would have a way into the western landing whether Vhalar took it or not. The man never reached for one thing when he could close his fist upon two.
"Tonight. One man, and he goes with mine."
"He asks his own questions."
"He may ask them."
"And if he comes back unconvinced, my ships stay where they are."
Vhalar let him wait for the answer. Somewhere below, a man called for more rope. Sarro's eyes remained upon him. He had offered the four ships if the lieutenant's word proved good. They were worth letting him ask his questions. Vhalar could settle what else he learned by choosing the men who went with him.
"Agreed."
"Good." Sarro broke another piece of bread and pressed it into the juices upon the dish. "Now, the money you already owe me."
He put the bread into his mouth before Vhalar could answer. Oil ran to his chin. A little glisten of it remained there when he wiped his mouth, and Vhalar found himself watching that instead of the man's eyes. Sarro was buying himself time to consider what he had just been told. Let him chew. He would still have to name a price.
"Drazen is bringing it."
"Your clerk tells me there is money coming from Tyrosh as well."
"Five weeks. Six, if the factor is slow buying grain."
"I will be in Tyrosh myself before then. My brother has freight waiting."
"Drazen will be here first."
"You expect him first."
Vhalar raised his eyes. In the doorway his clerk had stopped writing. The guard beside the stair shifted his weight and then stood still.
He could drive the knife beneath Sarro's jaw before the chair went over. The thought came readily, accompanied by the remembered feel of a man struggling against his arm. Sarro had lifted his chin to contradict him. There was room enough beneath it.
The fat slug watched his hand. He had another morsel poised between finger and thumb, but for once it did not reach his mouth.
Vhalar put the knife beside his plate.
"You will be paid when he comes. Until then, tell me what it costs to keep you here."
Sarro set the morsel down and wiped his fingers upon the cloth. "I have four crews drawing wages whether we sail or sit here. Grain will pay them as readily as a prize. I can go back to carrying it whenever I please."
"Then you lose nothing by giving me a price."
Sarro inclined his head. "For how many days?"
He looked past Sarro at the water. No dark sail beyond the headland. Drazen had been ordered to gather the treasure from the cove upon Dragonstone and the other hiding places along the Westerosi coast. Pello and the collectors were to account to him and put what they held aboard his ship. Vhalar's cousin Neresso had been told to settle every balance he could through Hull and the other ports. Coin, this time. He had no use for another hold full of goods while captains stood before him asking for their shares.
Drazen would bring it. He had brought the wounded off the south beach when there had been little profit in that.
"When Drazen returns, you receive what I owe you and the hire for all four ships begins," Vhalar said. "We sail within ten days of that. Name the price."
Sarro named his hire, then broke another piece from the bread. "And a quarter of the treasure. Coin and goods."
Vhalar shoved his chair back and stood. His hand struck the table hard enough to make the cups jump.
"For nothing?" He leaned across it. "You risk none of your men, none of your ships, yet you ask a quarter from me?"
"I ask for no ships." Sarro pressed the bread into the fish juices. "Isn't that what you really need, Vhalar?"
The fat slug put it in his mouth. Vhalar stood over him while he chewed, his palm flat upon the table. Sarro seemed in no hurry to move his plate out of reach.
"I hear things," he said when he had swallowed. "Rolo has more men and ships each season. Fifteen galleys now, they tell me, and ten fast ships. Against your eight galleys and ten longboats."
Vhalar's fingers curled against the wood. Fifteen galleys. He would have that count checked.
"The men call him Redaxe Rolo." Sarro smiled up at him, a glisten of oil upon his lower lip. "I'm doing you a favour, Vhalar. Some coin for me, and you keep Moreo's ships. His men, too. Enough to deal with that young upstart, yes?"
He reached for another piece of fish.
The fat slug had chosen his moment well. Vhalar needed those crews as much as their galleys. With Moreo's men under his command, he could strike at Rolo and still leave enough strength to hold the fort. Sarro knew it, and sat there eating as though they had been discussing the price of grain.
Vhalar took his hand from the table and drew his chair forward.
"A quarter of the coin and goods," he said as he sat. "Every ship comes to me."
"Agreed." Sarro lifted the fish to his mouth. "But you must pay for the waiting."
Vhalar rose. Sarro's servant straightened at the stair.
"Stay there."
He went inside. The clerk bent over his writing so quickly that his sleeve dragged through the wet ink. Vhalar passed him without speaking and took the chest key from his belt.
His father had worn it about his neck, beneath his clothes, as though his own son would steal from him. At the end the cord had lain against a chest wasted to bone. Vhalar could still see the rise of it beneath the filthy linen, and the patch of dried piss at the old man's hip. The servants had tried to change the bedding. He had struck one and sent the rest away.
The old bastard had been dying for days. He had shouted for captains who were long dead, cursed the Archon, cursed his son when Vhalar came to his bed. An admiral of Tyrosh, a veteran of Maelys Blackfyre's war, and he could no longer lift himself clear of his own piss.
Vhalar had reached for the key. The hand that caught his wrist had seemed too thin to hurt him.
It hurt. Even then, it hurt.
His father dragged him down until he could smell the stale wine in his beard.
"Power is not a means, it is an end."
Vhalar had bent close, waiting for more. Some last demand, perhaps. Another voyage against Tyrosh, another promise that he would drag the men who had voted against his father out of their houses.
The old man's mouth worked. Nothing came. Vhalar watched him struggle for breath. It would have taken so little to press the linen over his face. No one in the fort would have dared ask why.
He had not needed to. Before sunset the old bastard was dead. Vhalar had taken the key and ordered the bed burned.
He turned the key in the chest now. The lock grated.
His tongue found the broken tooth again. His father had given him that for asking, before the servants, why a captain who had deserted them was dining at their table. Vhalar remembered the taste of blood, and trying to hold it in his mouth while the admiral ordered him to answer.
"Look at me when I speak to you."
He had looked. The next blow had sent him against the wall.
A moon later the captain was dead, his mate bought and his crew paid from the admiral's chest. Vhalar had understood the delay then. He had used the same method himself, more than once. That much the old bastard had taught him well.
Silver shifted beneath his hand. There was enough to buy Sarro's patience for a week. The rest had to wait for Drazen. He took a bag and locked the chest again.
Above him, a guard crossed the wall walk. The stones beneath the man's feet had been laid for Daemon Targaryen's garrison, paid for with Corlys Velaryon's gold. His father had found broken walls and roofless barracks here after Tyrosh took his command and seized the family warehouses. Backing the wrong man for Archon had cost him the city; he had made men throughout these waters pay for it ever since. He had restored the fort, gathered the ships and established the trade that Neresso now kept upon the western shore.
All that work, and still he had called Tyrosh home. Still he had spent good plunder upon schemes to get back among men who had spat him out.
They could keep the fucking warehouses.
Vhalar had a fort, ships and men who obeyed him. With Bloodstone his, there would be other islands to take and harbours where he could put his own captains. Let the merchants of Tyrosh come to him when they wanted passage. He would enjoy hearing what they offered.
Outside, Sarro had finished the fish. Vhalar dropped the bag beside his plate.
"Seven days, beginning today. Your men take water and provisions from my stores. If Drazen has not come by then, you may sail."
Sarro loosened the cord. "Have your clerk weigh it."
Vhalar called the man out with his scales. Sarro watched each little pile, picking out a clipped coin and pushing it back. Then another.
"We take those here," the clerk began.
"He gets the full weight," Vhalar said. "Replace them."
The clerk found sound coins in the bag and laid them in the pan, keeping his eyes upon his work.
Sarro reached for the silver. Vhalar caught his arm, his fingers closing hard above the wrist. Sarro flinched and tried to pull away.
"Look at me."
Sarro raised his eyes. Vhalar bent towards him without loosening his grip.
"Take my coin and break your word, and I will hunt you down. Tyrosh, Lys, wherever you run. If it takes the rest of my life, I will find you and cut your throat myself."
Sarro swallowed. His eyes went to the stair. "My mate must be satisfied," he said, more quietly. "I have promised you no battle. And if Drazen has not come in seven days, I sail."
The pulse beneath Vhalar's thumb was racing. He smiled. So the fat slug could be frightened.
"I know what we agreed." Vhalar tightened his grip. "Keep your word."
For a moment Sarro was silent. He managed a tight smile. "And you keep yours. My captains remain mine, and the hire begins when Drazen returns, even if we are still in harbour."
Still bargaining. With Vhalar's hand upon him, the fat slug was still bargaining.
"You will have what I promised."
Vhalar released him and sat. Sarro flexed his fingers, then drew the silver towards him and began putting it into the bag.
The fat slug expected to sail away with his hire and a quarter of the plunder. He had houses to go back to, merchants who would welcome him, that brother finding freight. Vhalar could not cut his throat and expect four ships to fall into his lap. He would need Drazen to find out which of those captains belonged to Sarro through gratitude, which through debt, and which would take another man's gold.
There would be time while they prepared against Moreo.
Once the western landing was his, Sarro would have a place under him if he swore for it. A good place. Vhalar had work for a man who could deal in cities where his own name closed doors. And if he refused, there were quiet ways to kill a man, once his captains had ceased to need him.
"Your first mates at sunset," he said. "All four."
"They will come."
The servant brought Sarro's cloak and helped him rise. Vhalar watched the gold chain lift clear of his collar, then settle into the flesh again. His father had worn a chain like that in Tyrosh. He had kept it long after the office it signified was gone.
Sarro went down the steps with one hand upon the wall. Halfway to the landing he stopped, turned back and raised a hand. Vhalar returned the gesture.
Then he called his clerk to bring the ship accounts outside. He would choose the vessels for the western attack before the first mates came, and settle which galleys stayed to watch Rolo. Drazen would find them ready when he came home.
* * *
Alasdair had to knock twice. When Jon called him in, the boy looked at his face and reached for the washing cloth.
Jon had fallen asleep over the last drawing, his head resting on his good hand. The lamp had burned out. He rubbed at his cheek and found ink on his fingers.
"Abel is downstairs, my lord."
"How long?"
"Long enough for Wylla to feed him."
Jon straightened, his neck stiff. The drawing beneath his sleeve was stained, but the measurements were clear.
Alasdair set a basin on the chest. Beside it lay six sheets for Otho, tied separately from the harbour drawings. Jon had worked through the weight the hammerhouse supports must bear and marked the order of the work. Otho could begin the foundations while Noll made the fittings, but Jon would inspect the channel and wheel before they put either to use.
"Take these to Otho at Cinderwell. Give them into his hands." Jon separated one sheet from the others. "This is the alteration to the spring wall. He must read it with Emrick before they lay another course there."
"Shall I bring Otho back with me?"
"No, let him stay with the work. Tell him to send for me if anything is unclear. And bring back the measurements from the lower end of the channel. I want those before Woods cuts the axle supports."
Alasdair rolled the sheets while Jon put on his coat. In his first life, other engineers would have checked his figures. Here he had spent half the night going over them himself, trying to find what he had missed before Otho built it in stone.
The harbour plans stayed on his table. He laid a weight across them and put the wrapped eggshells into the chest.
"Gawen has chosen the men to ride with you," Alasdair said.
"Good. Tell them we are going to Black Fields."
Alasdair nodded. At the door, Jon remembered something else.
"Tomas's letter?"
"Still with me."
"Leave it with Gawen before you go. He has another page to put with it."
* * *
Abel had brought no chest of gold. He had brought three books, a little set of scales and a foreign silver coin so badly clipped that scarcely half its king remained.
"Six hundred and forty dragons," he said. "That is what the recovered coin comes to at the weights the maester and I have allowed."
Jon turned the silver piece over with his thumb. It was warm from Abel's hand.
"After the losses?"
"After clipping, bad silver and the cost of changing what we cannot spend here. Marrec has agreed the rates. I would not put the plate into that sum yet."
"Nor the things Wylla is keeping."
"Those are entered separately." Abel opened the first book. "The ships are entered separately as well."
Jon put the clipped coin back beside the scales. Repairs would consume money before either prize added to the fleet.
They had taken the small hall, where the morning light was better. Ethan sat beside the maester with the village returns. Perkin, the legion's quaestor, had brought his pay book and was checking the work rolls at the other end. Arthur stood by an open window. Otho had gone to Cinderwell before sunrise; his requests filled most of the sheet Hewyn was holding.
Jon sat and drew his bread nearer. Wylla had put it where he would have to move the plate to reach the papers.
"Begin with what is already promised."
Abel did. The money for the household, provisions and the men already in Jon's service had been put aside before the earlier allowance for the works. Of the three thousand eight hundred dragons then free, Jon had committed twenty-eight hundred and kept a thousand against need. There were purchases still to arrive against that allowance. A ship being late did not make its payment available for something else.
"The first kiln, the millwheel, the water works and the first houses remain within it," Abel said. "So do the timber and fittings already ordered for Qavo."
There were two hundred dragons from the Braavosi clock buyer. Eighty could go against the balance on Grafton's first cargo, with the rest held for the clock's materials, wages and carriage. Jon had wanted some of that remainder for another cargo of brick. William would still need to finish what the merchant had bought.
"Leave it with his order," Jon said.
Abel drew a line beneath it. "That leaves the six hundred and forty."
It seemed a smaller sum now that it lay beside so many things needing to be paid for. Jon had been turning the island over in his head all night, adding furnaces and quays to empty ground. He could spend this money before he finished his bread.
"The men who took the prizes will have sixty," he said. "Denys and Perkin can bring me the division. Include the wounded."
Perkin wrote the sum. "From the coin, my lord? The two ships remain yours?"
"They remain in the fleet."
The collector would cost him more before she earned anything. Jon wanted her all the same. Qavo could have her ready long before either of the new hulls, even with the brace they had found rotten beneath her deck.
His eyes went to the harbour drawing Ethan had brought down. Beneath the planned shed, two narrow outlines marked ships that did not yet exist.
He had meant to have them before Valyria.
He had drawn faster ships, better fitted to his purpose. Now the cost of finishing them lay among the houses, furnaces and wages. The island's revenue would not arrive merely because he needed it; some was still growing in Hamish's fields.
He might have to make the voyage in the ships he already owned.
He would have the soundest hulls opened and examined, and fill them with stores and spare rigging. His years at sea had taught him what to look for. Beyond the Smoking Sea, that might still count for very little.
"My lord?"
Abel had his quill poised above the next line. Jon put the drawing aside.
"Hold a hundred and forty for hiring," Jon said. "Wages and lodging. When it is promised, no one takes on another man without coming to me."
Abel entered it. Noll's return lay beside his book: a further hundred and eighty for the hammer's heavy fittings, timber and carriage. Some iron could come from stores, but the parts that had to be ordered were dearer than Jon had hoped.
"And Bennard's furnace?" Abel asked.
"Waits."
Marrec had brought fuel prices. The charcoal could come from the mainland, burned and bagged. Coal was offered through the trading ports, though none of the sellers had sent a sample.
"A small lot of coal to try," Jon told him. "Charcoal for the smiths until we know what they can use. The kiln burners can take dry brushwood and the offcuts from our yards."
"There is brushwood going with Grafton's next cargo."
"Ask the freight. Cheap fuel does us little good if it costs twice as much to bring here." Jon pushed the furnace drawing back beneath Noll's return. "And leave the building timber for Qavo and Woods."
They allowed a hundred and twenty for fuel and carriage. Abel checked the sums, then looked up.
"A hundred and forty remains."
"Keep it for Marrec's search."
Hewyn leaned back. "You will pay passage for more smiths before we have room for the ones here?"
"If we wait until their houses are finished to start looking, we may have empty houses for a year." Jon reached for Otho's list. "What does he want from you?"
"More men than I have offered him."
Hewyn passed it across. Cinderwell wanted stone hauled for the hammerhouse; Eastcove needed its drying shelter finished. Every village had asked for men, and Blackburn's list ran onto the back of the sheet.
"Two hundred," Hewyn said. "That was the number. Your foremen have begun asking my officers for more."
"They are to ask Otho. He brings it to me."
Jon worked through the parties with him. Sixty would go to Blackburn, fifty to Cinderwell, forty-five to Eastcove, twenty to Saltcliffe and twenty-five to Wyrm's Rest. Their officers would rotate whole groups, keeping enough of each century at Black Fields to train.
Ethan struck one cartwright's name from two village requests. He already had damaged wagons waiting in his yard. Hamish could spare nobody from the harvest yet, and Jon left the fishing crews alone. There were five thousand four hundred and thirty people on the island; seeing their names divided between households and trades made it plain how few could be moved without leaving another job undone.
"The fifty guarding Saltcliffe stay where they are," Jon said. "Write it where every foreman can see it. They are not part of the twenty."
Hewyn bent over Perkin's shoulder until the distinction had been entered.
The nineteen fit prisoners remained another matter. Their guards and food still cost money; their labour did not give Otho nineteen trained masons. They would continue on the quarry approach and mine path, clear of the flooded ground. The village workmen kept their paid places.
"And no more men are to be taken into the legion for now," Jon said.
"I have twelve already," Hewyn said. "They have given their names. Some have been waiting since we landed."
Jon glanced down at the work parties. Twelve he could spare.
"Take them, then. But that is all for now. I need hands for the works, Hewyn. The rest of the legion will have to wait."
Hewyn nodded. Perkin entered the twelve in his book and passed it to Abel so he could allow for their pay and keep.
"Does that include the Black Cloaks?" Perkin asked.
"No new levy for them either. Ethan and Marros will choose from the men already serving here. Bring me the names before moving them."
Arthur had come away from the window. He looked over the work parties, then at Jon.
"You ought to see what those men are being asked to do at the camp before you take any more of their time."
"I will. This morning."
Hewyn folded Otho's requests and took the written division with him.
They left in ones and twos. Ethan took the new assignments to have copies made. The maester went to finish the notices for the villages. Abel stayed while Marrec shut the door.
"The hundred and forty will begin the search," Marrec said. "It will not bring you all the men Qavo names."
He took a letter from his purse. It had come with his Lysene correspondence, from a merchant who had found sailcloth for him before. There was a millwright for sale, a man said to have built mills as well as tended them.
"He has a wife and two children. He also wants his widowed sister brought with him, and a nephew he has been teaching. The merchant spoke to him. He will not leave either behind."
Jon passed the letter to Abel. Beside the names were the asking prices, with passage reckoned underneath. Abel checked them against the allowance.
"We could bring them all, if these prices hold. There would still be something for enquiries. But we would have to leave the smith in Myr."
That offer lay farther down the letter. Qavo needed another smith; Ewan's men were already struggling with the repairs. Jon read it before returning to the millwright. The nephew was sixteen and had worked beside his uncle for four years.
"Find out whether he can do what they claim. Have a millwright question him, and see his work if there is any to see. If he is worth bringing, and the whole party can be brought within our allowance, choose him."
"The smith may be sold before we can return to him."
"I know." Jon left the letter with Abel. "We need someone who can teach. Make certain the millwright understands that before you agree to anything."
Marrec drew a second sheet towards him to write the reply. Jon waited until he had finished the conditions.
"They are to be freed, Marrec. Paid work, lodging until we have houses ready, and no debt for their purchase or passage. His family must hear the offer too. If they leave us afterwards, we lose the coin."
Abel looked up, then added that beneath the terms. Those admitted to the secret works would swear the masters' oaths; Marrec was to explain those before seeking an answer.
Marrec would also send enquiries north and ask his correspondents in Oldtown about acolytes willing to leave. Neither place could supply everyone Jon needed, but letters could travel with ships already bound there.
Denys would choose the vessels and men after his return. Jon meant to keep him here for tomorrow's meeting with Abel, Ethan and Marrec. Until they had heard him, no ship was to be taken from a patrol or promised for the eastern voyage.
When the merchant left, the hall seemed unexpectedly quiet. Jon finished the cold bread and went to find Ethan.
* * *
Hessa had been waiting in the little chamber off the hall. Rollam was brought from another room when Jon sent for him. The guard placed the boy beside his mother and remained at the door.
Seventeen, Jon remembered. Old enough to know why a man would try to run from a boat. Young enough that his mother's hand went straight to his sleeve.
Ethan set their accounts before him. Jon had read them again in the night. Rollam had carried Borren's goods on five nights, taking six coppers for most of them, eight for one. He had known they were avoiding the harbour dues. He had seen a sailor stop a man who wanted to leave. Hessa had fed a woman whose ankles were raw and bloody, and accepted her brother's explanation because accepting it let her stay beneath his roof.
"Is there anything in this you say is false?" Jon asked them.
Rollam shook his head. Hessa stared at the table.
"Hessa."
"No, my lord." Her fingers worked at the cloth of her son's sleeve. "But I never sold anyone. I told you that."
"I have not said you did."
She looked at him then, with hope so sudden that he almost wished she had kept her eyes down.
"You knew enough to ask what was happening," Jon said. "You saw what had been done to that woman. You helped Borren keep it hidden."
"I was frightened of him."
"And she had reason to be frightened of you."
Hessa's hand stilled. Beside her, Rollam had begun to breathe through his mouth.
Jon let the silence stand. Fear and dependence explained much. Neither put the woman with the bleeding ankles back where she belonged. He would not hang Hessa for her brother's trade, but he would not let her walk from the castle with nothing lost because Borren had given the orders.
"For ten years you will work where Ethan assigns you, without wages. You will be fed, clothed and housed. At the end of those ten years, your service is done."
Her face had gone slack. "Ten?"
"Ten."
Ethan wrote the term and the day it began. Jon waited until Hessa was looking at him again.
"You will work in the castle washhouse to begin with. You will not be set over anyone, and you will not be sent among the people brought out of Borren's hands."
Rollam swallowed. "May I stay with her?"
"You will go to the legion."
The boy's eyes moved to Arthur. There was no help in the knight's face.
"For ten years too?"
"For life." Jon spoke before Hessa could begin. "For the first ten years, you will receive food, clothing and shelter, but no wages. After that you draw a soldier's pay. Your service does not end with it. When you are old or hurt, there will still be work you can do."
Hessa made a small sound. Rollam had let go of her hand.
"You said you would take us alive."
"I did. You are alive."
"He is my only son." Hessa caught Jon's eye. "His father died fighting the ironborn. Borren was all we had."
"His father did not make these choices for him."
Jon rose. Hessa began to speak again, but he turned to Ethan.
"They may speak together before he goes," he told Ethan. "Have someone remain with them."
Outside, Arthur waited until the door was closed.
"You have given him a long service for five nights' work."
"Five nights he admits. I judged him on those."
"I heard you."
Jon looked back towards the door. He could hear Hessa crying now, with Rollam saying something too low to make out.
"He took their money. He saw a man being held and said nothing. I am not asking you to like the sentence."
Arthur studied him for a moment. "Hewyn will need to know what he is receiving."
"I will tell him myself."
Ethan caught up with them at the foot of the stair.
"The collector's mate has asked twice whether you mean to hear him today."
"When Lord Monford brings Neresso."
"He says he has more to tell."
"Then he can keep it in his head until they are both here." Jon turned to him. "I want their accounts separately, before either learns what the other has said. Let him wonder how much Neresso will give us."
Ethan's mouth twitched. "He has had time to wonder."
"A little more will do him no harm. Feed him. Keep him apart. And do not tell him which answers I mean to compare."
* * *
Tomas was trying to write his new name when Jon came in. He had filled half a sheet with it. The first attempts were cramped; the last had grown so large that there was scarcely room for Sableheart before the edge.
"My mother will think someone else wrote it," he said.
"She'll recognise that hand." Jon pointed to the letters crowded against the edge.
Tomas looked at the end of the name and laughed. Jon took the chair beside him. He had asked Gawen to join them, but the older knight was still in the passage speaking to Wylla.
"Any word from Denys?" Tomas asked.
"Not yet."
The pleasure went from Tomas's face. He laid down the quill.
"He'll send as soon as he can," Tomas said.
"I know." Jon moved the inkpot away from the blanket. "There is something else I wanted to speak to you about. You will need a page."
Tomas glanced towards the door, where Olyver usually waited.
"Olyver has duties of his own," Jon said. "I mean a boy for you to teach, as well as someone to carry your messages and help with your gear."
"I'm scarcely able to look after my own gear."
"Then you can begin by telling him how."
Gawen entered with Wylla and two boys. The taller had pale hair cut roughly above his ears, the shorter a dark head and grey-violet eyes. Both wore clean clothes that had plainly belonged to other children. The smaller boy was holding his cuffs clear of his hands.
Ethan had found them work in the household after their parents died. Daemion, the taller, was ten and carried fodder in the stables. Haerys was nine. He had been helping in the kitchens and had tried more than once to follow the pages into their lessons. Their families were of the island's old Valyrian stock, Wylla had told Jon when he asked her that morning. Neither had kin able to keep him.
Jon had seen Daemion often without knowing his name. He was usually disappearing beneath a bundle of hay.
"You know Ser Gawen," Jon said. "And this is Ser Tomas Sableheart."
The boys bowed. Haerys nearly struck the table with his forehead and came up scarlet. Tomas pretended not to notice.
"Wylla tells me you would like to serve as pages."
"Yes, my lord," Daemion said at once.
Haerys nodded, then remembered to answer aloud. His eyes kept returning to the bandage on Tomas's brow.
Jon explained what would be expected of them. They would serve their knights, care for what was entrusted to them, and attend lessons with the other boys. They would learn to read and reckon as well as ride and use a practice sword. They would earn their squires' places when their knights thought them ready.
Daemion listened solemnly until Jon reached the riding. Then he asked whether he would be allowed on a horse before he was a squire.
"When the groom says you are ready," Gawen told him. "Have you ridden?"
"Only when they were taking the horses down to water."
"With leave?"
Daemion's ears reddened. Wylla looked away, and Jon suspected she already knew the answer.
"You will ask next time," Gawen said. "You can begin by coming with me after this. There is a saddle I want looked over, and I cannot work the buckles with this arm."
The boy stared. "Am I to be yours, ser?"
"If you can learn to ask before borrowing a horse."
"I can."
Haerys looked at Tomas. The young knight had gone quiet, watching Gawen as though there were a trick to this that he hoped to learn by seeing it done.
"And Haerys will serve you," Jon said to him.
Tomas sat a little straighter. "I'd be glad of him."
The boy came nearer when Wylla touched his shoulder. He noticed the shield drawn on Tomas's board and bent to see it.
"Is that your hand?"
"A gauntlet," Tomas said. "It will look better when a painter does it."
"Aries drew that one," Jon said.
"Better than mine, then."
Haerys traced the shape in the air, careful not to touch the page. He asked what the words beneath it said. Tomas read them to him.
"Our Hearts Hold Fast."
The boy whispered them once to himself. Tomas offered him the sheet, then stopped when Haerys reached for it with the hand he had been chewing.
"Wash that first. There is a basin there."
Haerys hurried to it. Water splashed over the rim. Tomas smiled, then looked at Jon with an uncertainty the boy could not see.
"What if I teach him badly?"
"Ask Gawen. Or Arthur. You had to learn too."
Jon could remember Tomas waiting among the boys in the North, trying to stand as though he already belonged beside a lord. Now someone smaller was waiting for a word from him. He wanted more of that: children from the island growing into men whose place did not depend upon a great house finding them useful for a season.
Gawen took Daemion away to the stables. Before he went, he gave Jon a sword wrapped in cloth.
"Hewyn has found someone for it. Ask him when you reach the camp."
Jon knew it as soon as he felt the plain pommel through the wrapping.
"The boy's family?"
"His mother can barely keep him in boots."
Jon nodded and took the sword. Haerys had returned to Tomas with dripping hands held out for inspection. Tomas gave him a cloth and asked him to fetch the writing board once they were dry.
"I'll come back before supper," Jon said.
"Bring news."
"If I have it."
Tomas nodded. He watched Jon go, but by the time the door closed he was showing Haerys how to keep the board level without gripping the wet edge of the page.
* * *
The road to Black Fields was full of men coming the other way.
Jon drew Bucephalus to the verge as Murch came round the bend at the head of his ten. They carried picks and shovels, with their food tied at their belts. Hennet grinned up at Aries before lengthening his stride to catch the others. Jon had known those faces in the North, when Malcolm's First Century was still learning to keep its line. Murch was keeping them together now, calling the rear men forward as the road narrowed towards Blackburn.
Beyond the rising ground, tents stood in rough rows beside stacks of timber. Norren, centurion of the Third Spears, was counting grain into the covered store. He sent a man farther inside with his sack, away from the damp boards by the door. Most of the camp still lived under canvas.
Hewyn met them at the horse lines, finishing an answer to a runner before coming to Jon. His appointment as primus pilus had made him senior centurion of the cohort without relieving him of much of his old work. Arthur held Bucephalus while Jon dismounted. Aries took the reins; Colin and the other household men led their horses after him.
Farther along the lines, Ser Vaelor Scales was examining a saddle with Aleyx Waters, his squire. Marros had spared the knight from the garrison to help train Jon's mounted men. For now, Vaelor had more to say about the mounts than the riders. He greeted Arthur, then called Aleyx back to show him something beneath the girth.
"The twelve are here," Hewyn said.
The volunteers waited near the entrance, their bundles at their feet. One had brought a spear with its head wrapped in sailcloth. Several had the fair hair common upon the island; a dark-haired lad at the end had eyes nearly the same violet as Jon's. He wanted more men of that blood in his ranks. If he could buy families free in Essos, there would be room here for those willing to serve.
"Have Perkin take their names and swear them," he said. "These twelve. No others until I give leave."
Hewyn sent his runner for the quaestor. As they moved towards the practice ground, Rennick brought the Second Spears past them for their march, halting briefly while a man bound a split sandal.
Malcolm's First Spears were forming against Gerralt's Fifth Sword-and-Shield Century. Men were missing from Malcolm's line. The others closed the gaps at his order, shields knocking together.
"Some of your work parties," Hewyn said.
"They will rotate. Otho has two hundred, not as many as his foremen can find work for."
"I shall want the First together again before the week is out."
"Set the parties accordingly. Ethan is sending him your copy."
Heward rode along the front, his bad leg stiff in the stirrup. As campidoctor he could stop the drill, and Malcolm watched for his signal. Jon watched the men. He could see which were following the order and which were waiting to be pulled along by a neighbour.
The first advance broke at the left. A young spearman moved too soon; when the man beside him tried to catch up, a swordsman put his shield into the opening. Two more pressed after him. Malcolm called a halt before the struggling men brought down the file.
Heward had the section put aside its weapons and walk the movement. The young man kept looking sideways until the instructor stopped him again. Gerralt's men waited, sweating beneath their shields. One sat and began binding a finger while his companion held the end of the cloth.
"We can give them another go after dinner," Hewyn said. "They'll be watching the gap now."
"Let them," Jon said. "Then change where the attack comes."
Arthur glanced at him. Upon the collector's deck there had been little warning of where the next man would come from. Jon stayed while the section tried again. It held together longer, though Heward was still correcting them when Brus brought the Sixth Sword-and-Shield Century up to relieve Gerralt's men.
Gerralt came over with a shield whose binding hung loose. Its owner followed, turning a blistered hand palm upwards.
"Cinderwell?" Jon asked him.
"Hauling stone, my lord. I meant to mend it last night."
"He came back after supper," Gerralt said. "Ate what was left and slept in his boots."
Jon took the shield by its sound rim. He had seen tired men overlook worse faults than this. The work would continue, but there had to be time between putting down a pick and taking up a weapon.
"Have the returning parties look over their equipment before they eat," he told Hewyn. "Give them time to mend it. If they come in too late, do it before drill."
Gerralt took the shield back. Seeing Colin behind Jon, he caught his former pupil's eye. Jon remembered the centurion's reluctance to lose him to the household in the North. He had wanted to give Colin ten men, once the lad learnt some patience in teaching them.
"Still keeping your own shield up?"
"You can ask Ser Arthur."
"I was asking you." Gerralt looked towards the twelve, now gathering round Perkin's book. "We have some who have never held one."
Arthur gave Colin leave to help while they remained at the camp. Hewyn put four of the recruits with him and sent the others to two waiting veterans. There was no swordwork yet. They fetched practice shields and stood awkwardly with them while Colin showed his four how to hold their arms.
Jon followed Hewyn to the forge shelter with the damaged shield. Three of Ewan's experienced apprentices had charge there. Their master and Noll were at Cinderwell, working on the hammer and the new works; these men had the camp repairs under Ewan's directions.
The eldest took the shield and put it beside two pieces of harness. A pick head was heating in the hearth. Beyond it lay fittings from the works, each with a request that its owner needed them first.
At the far bench a younger boy was sorting nails against a wooden measure. He pushed the short ones into a separate pot, then brought the smith a handful of the right length.
The apprentice lifted a fitting from the bench. "That came from the crane," he said. "I've no pattern for it. The man said Lord Jon wanted it."
"Send it to Ewan with the measurements. He gives you your work here. Hewyn may put a weapon or harness ahead of it for a man going on duty."
The apprentice found the chalked board that had come with the iron and tied them together. Rymond, centurion of the Fourth Spears, arrived while he was doing it. His men were carrying stores by hand because their wagon had been taken to the works. Hewyn sent for it and kept Rymond beside him until they had agreed which days it could be spared.
On their way back Jon passed Colin's recruits. One was holding his shield almost flat against his chest.
"Out," Colin told him. "Like I showed you."
The boy pushed his arm straight. Colin caught the rim before it struck his neighbour.
"Not that far. Here—"
Arthur stopped beside them. "Let him see your arm."
Colin took a spare shield and stood beside the boy. He moved slowly this time. The recruit copied him, lost the position when he adjusted his feet, and looked unhappily at Colin. Jon saw the young guardsman begin to speak, then reset his own shield instead.
"Watch the elbow. We'll do it again."
Rollam arrived as the men were going to eat.
The guard brought him to Hewyn with Ethan's order. His clothes were bundled beneath one arm and his wrists were still tied. Jon took the officer aside and told him what the boy had admitted, then waited while he read the sentence.
"Ten years without wages," Hewyn said quietly.
"Food, clothing and shelter throughout. After that he draws ordinary pay. He serves for life."
"Has he been taught anything?"
Jon called Rollam closer. Hewyn asked about weapons, running and swimming. The boy knew nothing of a spear. He could swim, and seemed anxious to make certain the officer understood that much.
"Then you can begin with the rest," Hewyn said. "You sleep where your decanus puts you, eat with your ten and answer at the count. If you are missing, we look for you."
Rollam glanced towards Jon.
"If you try to leave the island, you come back before me," Jon said.
The boy nodded. Hewyn called for a decanus, but Rollam stayed where he was.
"My lord. When can I see my mother?"
"You may go to the castle when Hewyn can spare a guard. Your duties come first. You return with the man who takes you."
"Will she know where I am?"
"Ethan will tell her." Jon turned to Hewyn. "Arrange it with him. And have Rollam taught. He is to serve as a soldier, not spend the rest of his life carrying things because no one will train him."
Hewyn folded the order. The decanus cut the cord from Rollam's wrists and told him to pick up his bundle. Rollam rubbed one wrist, looking from the officer to Jon as though there might be something more. Then he followed the man between the tents.
Jon sat to eat. Aries brought the wrapped sword from the saddlebag and laid it beside his bowl. He had been quiet since Rollam's arrival.
Hewyn sent for Darys, one of the young trainees already attached to the camp. He came from the cooking fire still chewing and swallowed when he saw who was waiting. His boots were much mended. He had no sword belt.
"Ser Gawen and I spoke of him," Hewyn told Jon.
Jon unwrapped the blade. Beside him, Aries stopped breaking his bread.
"This belonged to Keir," Jon said. "He served in my household. His mother asked that it go to a boy whose family could not buy him one."
Darys looked at the plain pommel, then at Hewyn.
"Go on," the officer said.
"I could pay something. When I have it."
"She gave it," Jon said, and held out the scabbard.
Darys took it in both hands. He eased the blade free far enough to see the steel, then pushed it carefully home. Jon remembered Keir's mother keeping the belt. She had made herself leave the sword upon his table, though her hand had gone back to it before she left.
"Keep it clean," he told Darys.
"I will, my lord."
Hewyn sent him to the storekeeper for a belt. Aries watched until the tents hid him.
"Will he use it?" he asked.
"When he has been taught."
The boy pushed a crumb across the table with his thumb. "Keir was very quick."
"He was."
Jon waited, but Aries said nothing more. At the northern camp Keir had pulled him beneath his shield. The spear had taken Keir high in the chest. Jon remembered Aries reaching for him before Rylas dragged the boy clear. He put his bread down.
Darys returned with a belt stiff from long disuse. He tried it standing beside Hewyn, who was listening to a report from the stores. The scabbard hung badly; when he shortened the strap, the buckle caught against its mouth. He glanced towards Jon and tried the other hole.
Aries slid off the bench.
"You have it twisted."
Darys looked down. Aries took the scabbard's weight while he unfastened the strap, then passed the end back through the loop. His fingers stayed clear of the hilt.
"There. Try it now."
Darys drew the sword a hand's breadth and sheathed it again. "That's better."
He thanked Aries and went to show a companion waiting near the tents. Aries returned to his place beside Jon. He did not watch them draw the blade.
Colin rejoined the household men at the horses. His four recruits were going with the others to see where they would sleep. One tried to give back the practice shield he was still carrying; Colin pointed him towards the rack, then waited while he put it away.
Aries had Bucephalus ready. He held the reins while Jon mounted, then climbed onto his own horse. Beyond them, the decanus led Rollam out of a tent and towards the cooking fires.
* * *
They came back through Blackburn in the afternoon. The grain ship had finished unloading, and men were carrying the last empty sacks away from the quay. Farther south, a few of Qavo's men worked upon the smaller prize. Jon could see the pale wood where part of her rail had been replaced.
Tobin was at the harbour arm with the masons. He came to meet them when Jon dismounted, wiping stone dust from his hands.
"Your sixty will be welcome."
"Keep the skilled men where they are. Let the soldiers clear and carry."
"The mason has already told me." Tobin pointed to the damaged stretch. "He wants the loose stone out before he lays more. Some of it has gone deeper than he thought."
Jon went with him along the sound part of the arm. Water stirred between the fallen blocks. He could picture the shape below it from yesterday's measurements, but the exposed face was worse than the drawing suggested. A layer that looked firm from above had opened along a joint.
He crouched and followed it with his eyes, then asked for the mason's cord. Arthur took his elbow as he stood again.
"You need not climb down there to see it."
"I wasn't going to."
Arthur kept hold of him until he had stepped away from the edge.
Jon measured the damaged length from safe ground and worked through the additional stone with the mason. The width at the base mattered more than the neat face people would see above the water. They marked the portion that must be opened at the next low tide. Tobin would have the loose blocks carried clear so the men laying the repair could reach sound ground.
The longer harbour walls remained lines on Jon's paper. He wanted them badly enough to find himself looking past the broken arm towards the ships beyond it. He made himself return to the measured cord. Those ships would have to use this entrance for a long while yet.
Harbert and one of his learners were waiting at the shore-watch shed. The old man began to rise when Jon came in, bracing a hand upon the table, but Jon pulled up a stool before he could get to his feet.
He remembered Harbert's name upon Denys's list from Fair Isle: a broken hip and leg, a wife and two daughters waiting at home. Jon had ordered his pay continued whether he worked again or not. Catelyn had made him add someone to help his wife lift him. Now Harbert had a boy's work spread before him, and little patience with the figures.
"You let her drift here." He put a finger upon the drawing. "Which side of the mark were you?"
The boy hesitated. "Farther out."
"Then we still need the depth here."
Jon sat with them and brought the measurements back to the same tide mark. The boy had been practising inside the old harbour. A ship following his drawing would pass nearer the shallows than his boat had gone. He marked the stretch to measure again.
The survey for the new entrance would wait until the arm was repaired. Jon left Harbert the crossings he wanted measured when the men could be spared.
Alasdair found them as they were returning to the horses. He had dust up the backs of his boots and Otho's answer tucked inside his coat.
"He has the plans. Ewan and Noll were with him when I left."
"The spring wall?"
"Emrick went straight out to it. Otho wants you to see the hammerhouse channel when it is cleared. He has marked the place."
Jon opened the sheet. Otho had put a cross where the new course met harder ground, with a note asking whether the turn could be eased. Jon would need to see the cut. He told Alasdair to send word that the men could continue above it, leaving that reach until he came.
Merren reported that small carts could now pass along the quarry path; the heavier loads must wait upon the crane. Saltcliffe's optio had asked after Gella's fittings. Jon sent the question on to Noll, then returned Otho's sheet to Alasdair.
"Make sure every foreman has his copy of the assignments tonight."
They left the harbour and rode uphill. William heard them outside his workroom and opened the door before Jon could knock.
"If you want a date for the Dornishman, I haven't got one."
"I wanted to see the clocks."
"Then you may come in."
Lady Merryweather's stood upon the bench, its case still open. The weighted bar moved steadily above the wheels. William let Jon watch it for a while before showing him the new bearing.
"Three nights with this one. It no longer grips when the room cools."
"How much does it lose?"
William showed him his notes. The rate still changed, but it no longer lurched after the coldest hours. He wanted another comparison before closing the case for its final trial. Jon had handled instruments in his old life that would have made this look like a child's toy. Here, watching the teeth advance beneath the bar, he felt an affection for it out of all proportion to its accuracy.
"Good," he said. "Send for me before you pack it."
Perrin had cleared a corner for the order book. The Braavosi advance was entered at the top; the enquiries from Pentos, Myr and Tyrosh followed beneath it. Only the first had brought them money.
"The Pentoshi wants a month named," he said. "Myr has yet to send the size. But this one may answer quickly."
He laid the Tyroshi letter before Jon. The buyer would have the carved case made at home. He also wanted to send a man with the ship that collected the clock, to learn how to tend it.
"He offers more for the teaching," Perrin said. "An advance with his acceptance."
William left the bench to read the letter.
"Ask what the man knows already. If he knows his trade, I can show him how to tend this one. Someone there ought to. If they send it back for every fault, it will spend half its life at sea."
"He needn't stand at that bench to learn it." Jon indicated the unfinished parts beside the other workman. "Show him on the clock he is buying. No drawings go with him."
William read the offer again. "He asks to be taught to replace a wheel."
"Fit one we send him, yes. Make one, no."
Perrin drew his ink closer. "He may not pay the extra for that."
"Put those terms in the letter."
The extra money would have helped with the brick he had refused himself that morning. He left it out of his reckoning. William had taken years to train, and Jon meant to keep the manufacture here.
William returned the letter to Perrin. "Write out what I will show him. I don't want him arriving with a chest of tools and another promise."
"Let me see it when you have both agreed," Jon said. "And the Pentoshi?"
William could give him a range of dates if his two workmen were left at their benches. Men downstairs kept asking to borrow one for an afternoon. Jon confirmed that they were to stay, then asked about learners for the new rooms in Blackburn.
"Two," William said after considering it. "If Ethan can find two who can count and use their hands. More would only keep the others from working."
Their wages would come from the hiring allowance. William would choose them himself; a larger workshop would be of little use until he had people to put in it.
Aron's rough drawing lay beneath the book. Jon left the Dornish enquiry with William to price once the missing dimensions arrived. He would promise no date yet.
Perrin began their answer. William returned to Merryweather's clock, and Jon left him to his work.
* * *
The harbour signal came while Jon was washing the dust from his face.
Alasdair met him outside the chamber. "Denys, my lord. His ship is coming in."
"The galley?"
"Not with him. A boat came ahead with word. He has people aboard."
Jon was already moving. He sent Aries to Tomas and went down with Arthur, leaving the horses this time. By the time they reached the quay, Lorren's men were waiting with a litter. Wylla stood beside them with a bundle of cloaks.
Denys came over the side before the passengers. His coat was torn at one shoulder. He looked tired enough to sleep standing, but he smiled when he saw Jon.
"We have her."
Jon caught his arm with his left hand. "All five?"
"Five. Two women and three men. They gave me names for Laro." Denys took a folded sheet from inside his coat. "The galley is following under a prize crew. I brought these back in my own ship. She was fit to make the passage sooner."
Arthur took the account. Jon released Denys's arm and looked towards the rail. A woman was standing there with a sailor beside her, staring at the quay. She would not take his hand. After a moment he stepped back, and she began the descent herself.
Laro had come down with Wylla. He had kept behind the bearers until he saw her face. Then he called a name and pushed past them.
The woman stopped halfway. One hand tightened upon the rope. Laro said it again, laughing now, though the sound broke in his throat. She hurried the last few steps and caught him so hard that he stumbled.
Jon stood aside. Behind her came a man with one foot wrapped in linen, leaning upon a sailor. Two others followed. The last woman had to be brought down with help; Lorren went to her at once, speaking gently while he examined her.
All five. Jon counted them twice before he could stop himself.
Denys had caught the galley outside the creek before dawn. The scout had stayed with her when she began to move, and the warning had given him time to come across her course. There had been fighting, men hurt on both ships. His account named those of his own crew who needed tending. The galley's master and surviving fighting men were under guard aboard their prize.
"I left a man who knows that coast with them," he said. "They are taking her slowly. She will come in when she comes."
"And you are staying."
Denys looked at him in surprise.
"For now," Jon said. "Eat, sleep and let Lorren look at that shoulder. Tomorrow I need you with Ethan, Abel and Marrec. We have set money aside for the eastern search, but I will not choose ships without hearing you."
"I thought you might want me out again by nightfall."
"You have men still coming home. See to them first."
Denys nodded, and Jon went to Laro.
The young man was trying to speak to everyone at once. He brought one of the rescued men forward, then stopped when he saw Lorren's litter being lifted. His friend said something sharply in Lysene. Jon caught enough to understand that Laro was being told to let the healer work.
"There is a room ready," Jon said in High Valyrian. "You can go with them."
Laro answered too quickly. Jon asked him to slow down, and the second time understood his thanks.
"Tell Tomas they are all here," Jon said to Alasdair. "Tell him you saw them."
He waited until the last had left the quay, then went back to the castle behind them.
Lorren kept him out until he had finished. Jon used the time to read Denys's account with Arthur. The rescued people had come from the same galley the mate had named. Whatever Neresso said when he arrived, they would now have living witnesses to set beside the ships and the goods.
"The mate will hear the ship came in," Arthur said. "Men talk."
"Let him hear that much. No names, and none of what Denys has written." Jon folded the account. "He can imagine the rest."
When Lorren let him enter, Laro was sitting upon a stool between two of the beds. Someone had brought broth. The woman who had embraced him at the quay held hers in both hands, breathing in the steam.
Jon stayed near the door until she looked up. Without the crowd and the ship behind her, she seemed smaller. The borrowed cloak had slipped from one shoulder. Wylla put it back without interrupting what Laro was saying.
He made the introductions slowly enough for Jon to follow. There were trades among them: a woman who had woven cloth, a man who had worked with rope. Others had only the work they had done in their homes and aboard the ships that took them. Jon did not ask them to make an account of it for him now.
"If you have families to send to, the maester will write for you," he said. "Laro has already given us word for his father in Lys. Yours can go with it, if that is where it must be sent."
The man with the bound foot asked who would pay the captain.
"I will."
He looked at Laro, who nodded hard.
The weaver set down her bowl. She had no husband to send to. Her sister had gone to Tyrosh years before; she did not know whether the woman still lived there. Jon listened while she tried to explain where the sister had worked. One of the men remembered the name she could not find.
"Tell the maester when you have rested," Jon said. "We have letters going east. He can put the enquiry with them."
"If she is there, can I go to her?"
"When you are well enough to travel."
The woman looked at Laro until he repeated it in Lysene. Then she drew the bowl back onto her lap. Jon sat when Wylla brought him a stool.
"There is work here too, if you want it. We need people who can weave, make rope, build and teach. You may stay on Dragonstone."
The man beside Laro looked towards the door. "For how long?"
"As long as you choose."
"And what would we owe?"
Jon heard the care with which he asked it. He had been explaining wages all morning to men who expected wages. He began again, more slowly.
"You will be paid for your work. While you are ill, you stay here and are fed. No debt is being kept against you for it. If you wish to go home when you are well, we will find passage."
The man looked at Laro again. This time the young Lysene answered at length. Jon understood most of it: the opened door, the letter to his father, the meals he had been given without being told what they cost.
He let Laro speak. When he had finished, the weaver asked whether there were other women working at the looms here.
Jon repeated the question to Wylla.
"There are," she said. "I can take her to them when Lorren says she may go."
He gave the woman her answer.
"I could show them what I know," she said. "While I wait for word."
Jon had been hoping she might stay. Instead he told Wylla exactly what she had offered. Wylla nodded and asked which cloth she had worked with. For the first time the woman answered without looking to Laro, using her hands when she could not find a word Jon knew.
No one agreed to settle that evening. One wanted his mother found; another asked how far it was to Lys. Jon answered what he could. He had expected relief to leave them easier in the room, but every offer still had to be examined for what lay behind it.
He stayed until Lorren returned. At the door, Laro caught his sleeve.
"My father will think I am dead."
"We will send the letter."
"Soon?"
Jon put his good hand over Laro's. "I will ask Marrec tonight."
Laro nodded reluctantly and went back to his friends.
* * *
Ethan had the guest list spread beside the harbour chart when Jon found him. Through the open door, servants were carrying bedding towards the chambers set aside for the visiting households. Gawen stood in the passage with Daemion, showing him which men were to be sent to Marros and which messages belonged with the household guard.
The boy repeated a name wrongly. Gawen made him say it again before letting him go.
Jon watched him run off, then went inside.
"Monford?"
"The lookout has a sail coming from Driftmark. If it is his, he will be here before dark." Ethan drew a chair away from the table. "The other households have sent their numbers. There is room, though Lord Celtigar's men will have to share more closely than they asked."
"They may complain to you after they have slept in the beds."
"They generally do."
Jon sat. His hand had begun to throb again, and he rested it against his leg beneath the table. Ethan noticed but did not comment.
He had laid four older packets beside the acceptances. Velaryon, Celtigar, Sunglass, Bar Emmon. Jon recognised the seals. These were the letters Ethan had kept while Jon was still in the North, with notes of ships arriving and men sent to speak on their lords' behalf.
"You have watched them longer than I have," Jon said. "What were they doing before I came?"
Ethan drew the Velaryon packet nearer.
"With Lord Monford, much what he is doing now. Watching the water, watching Hull, and making certain no one forgot how much of both he understood."
"Did he object to the grant?"
"He swore when he was required to swear. They all did. But an oath to a lord in the North left him little to alter here." Ethan found a letter and flattened its curled edge. "His captains came to us about patrols. Sometimes they asked what we meant to do. Sometimes they told us what had been done."
Jon read the passage Ethan indicated. It concerned a merchant stopped and searched in waters both islands' ships used. The captain had sent his account after bringing the vessel into Hull.
"Was he wrong to stop her?"
"No. That is why I sent thanks instead of a quarrel. But I kept the letter."
Jon looked up at him. Ethan's crooked hand rested beside the seal.
"He will not like Blackburn growing at Hull's expense."
"He will like ships buying from him," Ethan said. "He will like good patrols. He may like your harbour well enough until one of his masters brings his family to live beside it. Then he will want to know whose servant that man is."
"A free craftsman may take work where he is offered it."
"Tell him that before Marrec hires someone who owes his yard another year's work. It will spare you an argument worth hearing."
"Have the agreements checked. The work here goes on."
Ethan turned to the next packet. Celtigar's steward had asked who would receive the island accounts under the new grant and which older obligations Jon meant to recognise. He had been courteous, persistent, and much more interested in the sums than in the absent boy whose seal would stand above them.
"He will have heard about the clocks," Jon said.
"And the prizes. Men who heard that you took two ships will have made four of them by now."
Jon thought of Abel's six hundred and forty dragons, each portion already spoken for. "He can hear the true number from me."
"Let him hear what you intend as well. He will try to work out what you can afford whether you tell him or not."
The Sunglass letters were more formal. There were questions about the oath, the witnesses and the arrangements for worship while the household visited. Ethan had answered them carefully. With Bar Emmon, most of the correspondence had passed through captains: shelter in bad weather, reports from the coast, a request that a fishing boat detained for unpaid dues be allowed to sail.
Jon read that one twice. The request had come before the payment.
"Did you release her?"
"After he paid."
"Did his lord write again?"
"No." Ethan gathered the loose pages. "They were learning what they could ask of me. Now they will learn what they can ask of you."
Outside, someone opened the door to a guest chamber. Light moved across the passage as a servant carried a lamp inside. Jon could hear Gawen answering a question, his voice patient until the same question came again.
"They will ask what they asked of you," Jon said. "I would rather hear it from them than have their captains settling it among themselves."
"And the first time one tells you his father was promised otherwise?" Ethan asked.
"He brings the promise. We read it. I will honour what I owe, and he will do the same." Jon put the letters down. "I will hear their counsel. I will not haggle over whether my commands bind them."
Ethan gave a slow nod. He did not offer another caution. Instead he showed Jon where the households would sit, which chambers were ready, and where Marros would receive their armed retainers. The renewed oaths would come before the dinner, as the summons required. Guests would be welcomed at the public landing. The new naval ground was to remain under its own watch.
Arthur joined them before they had finished. He brought the old reports Jon had asked for, folded inside a plain cover. Ethan shut the door before putting the guest list aside.
There was little certain about Oswell or Gerold. Arthur set aside one account after reading the description, then kept another to compare with a name Ethan remembered.
"This man knew Gerold before the war," he said. "If he is still where the letter says, I would trust an answer from him."
Jon drew the account nearer. Most of it concerned a ship's movements. There was nothing upon the page to tell him where his uncle and aunt slept, or who stood at their door.
"If your man finds either knight, can he reach the children?"
"We must ask." Arthur rested his hand upon the table. "Gerold and Oswell went to Dragonstone when I took you north. We divided the duty. I stayed with you; they went to the queen and Viserys. I hope they are still with him."
"And Daenerys."
"And Daenerys. But finding them will be the beginning. A merchant may hear where they have been. We need someone who can remain with them until there is a ship to bring them away."
Jon thought of Laro asking how soon his letter would leave. He had been able to put his hand over the boy's and promise to speak to Marrec. His own kin were somewhere beyond that same water, with no one here able to promise him even an address.
"Denys is to bring them here, if he can find them."
"You also need him to choose the men for the ships, see to the prizes and find workmen in Myr. He cannot leave a child in an inn while he goes looking for a glassmaker."
"Then he does not." Jon looked up from the report. "Marrec has merchants for the workmen. If Denys finds my family, everything else on that voyage waits."
Arthur held his gaze, then nodded. "He will need to hear that from you."
"He shall, when we meet with Abel and Ethan. We have not settled his sailing." Jon pushed the account back to Arthur. "Prepare what he needs to ask your man. Keep the children's names off the page. We can give Denys those instructions ourselves."
Ethan drew the private papers apart from Marrec's list. Arthur took a clean sheet, but sat for a moment before beginning. Jon left him to it. He still wanted to know why no word had reached Ned. That could wait until his uncle and aunt were found.
Arthur helped Ethan sort what Denys could carry openly from what must be given to him by word. Jon sent for Marrec and asked that Laro's letter take the first trustworthy passage towards Lys, without waiting for Denys's own voyage. The Watch's fish and cloth could also be bought within the provision allowance once carriage north was agreed. Tomas's letter would go with that cargo if its captain could be trusted; until then, Gawen would keep it.
Marrec went to the harbour before the light failed. Jon stayed with Ethan, going over the households once more. He wanted the men at the landing to know whom they were receiving. No one was to turn a visiting lord's request into an order for the workmen, or take a boat from Denys because a retainer claimed his master needed it.
Alasdair knocked while Ethan was sealing the last instruction.
"Ships off the headland, my lord. The watch has made out Lord Monford's banner."
Jon got to his feet. The ache in his hand had become a steady pulse.
"Have men waiting at the landing," he told Ethan. "Neresso comes up separately under guard. When I send for the mate, bring him to the room beside the hall. Keep the doors shut between them."
Ethan took the prisoner's accounts from beneath the guest list and went to give the orders. Arthur stayed while Jon straightened his coat.
In the passage, Daemion stood beside Gawen with a lamp held carefully in both hands. Tomas's new page had joined him. Haerys saw Jon and came forward, remembering his bow this time.
"Ser Tomas asks whether you are coming back."
"Tell him I will come when Lord Monford's business is done." Jon paused beside the boys. "Did he have the news?"
Haerys nodded. "Alasdair told him. He made him tell it twice."
Jon smiled and sent Haerys back to him. Arthur was waiting at the window overlooking the bay. Jon joined him there.
Beyond the harbour arm, the leading sail came clear of the headland. Others followed. Down at the landing, the watch was making room for Lord Monford's boats.