Tero had promised to have the galley back in the water by noon. It was past noon, and she had not moved from the shingle.
Vhalar found the caulker beneath her stern, scraping pitch from the hull. Two fingers were missing from his left hand. Beyond him, chained men were dragging a heavy timber out of the galley's path to the water, urged on by an overseer with a whip.
"How much longer?"
Tero tapped a plank with his iron. A split ran through the wood.
"This needs replacing."
"You said noon."
"I found it after." He scraped away another strip of pitch, exposing the crack. "Launch her like this and she'll take water all the way across."
"Then replace it."
"I've been waiting for your carpenter to send the timber."
Vhalar looked towards the carpenter's shelter. The man beneath it hastily bent to the stack beside him.
"You. Bring it here."
The carpenter lifted a length of timber and hurried over. Vhalar made him stay while Tero marked where it needed cutting.
"By dark?" Vhalar asked.
"If he gets this fitted."
"He will."
While the carpenter carried the timber back, Vhalar looked across the anchorage towards the open sea.
Where in the seven hells was Drazen? His second knew they could not sail without the collections. The crews wanted their shares, and Sarro would charge him for every day his ships sat waiting.
A cry brought his head round.
The timber had shifted across the stones, trapping a slave's foot beneath one end. The others had stopped pulling. The overseer struck the man across the shoulders as he tried to wrench himself free.
Vhalar caught the overseer's raised wrist before he could strike again.
"He stopped pulling," the man said.
"Get the timber off him and put someone else on the rope."
Vhalar shoved him towards the sheds.
"Fetch more men. I want that path clear when the ship is ready."
The overseer hurried away. Two slaves lifted the end of the timber while a guard dragged the injured man clear. Then they took up the rope again.
From the shore, the two slave sheds looked much as any stores might: long roofs, small openings beneath the eaves, doors broad enough for a handcart. The bar across the nearer door was as thick as Vhalar's forearm. Someone inside had been coughing since he came down from the fort. He had told the keeper to separate the sick before the Lysene buyers came. If fever got among the rest, they would offer him half what the lot was worth and congratulate themselves upon their charity.
Goro was waiting beside the boats, his thumbs hooked into his belt. The captain had a new earring, a gold ring heavy enough to pull at the torn lobe. Vhalar had seen it upon a merchant taken off Cape Wrath.
"Your men ready?"
"They were ready yesterday."
"Then keep them ready."
"They want their shares."
"Have they sent you to ask?"
Goro took his thumbs from his belt. "I'm asking."
Vhalar looked at him until the captain glanced away.
It was the last day of Sarro's paid wait. Every man along the shore knew it. The four hired ships had taken their water that morning, and Sarro's boatmaster had asked whether the last of his provisions would be sent aboard before sunset. He had asked loudly, within hearing of Vhalar's captains.
"Drazen brings the coin, you get your shares," Vhalar said. "Until then, keep them sober enough to sail."
"They've been sober three days. They've nothing left to drink on."
"Sell that ring in your ear. I don't remember seeing it when we divided the last taking."
Goro's hand rose towards the ring, then stopped. Vhalar went past him to the end of the landing.
Four of his galleys were to go west, with six longboats carrying the men who would land first. Two more galleys would watch the southern approaches. Their captains had orders to send warning if Rolo moved and fall back beneath the fort, not give the Myrishman another pair of prizes. The remaining two would hold the eastern anchorage. Of the four longboats left there, two were to carry messages; the others would serve the fort and the ships.
He had gone over it until he could see every hull in its place. He still disliked the gap between the southern watch and the west. Moreo had chosen his harbour well. Reaching it by water meant taking the ships round the northern coast, leaving Rolo behind him with most of the island between their fleets.
A shout came from the wall above.
Vhalar turned. The lookout was pointing beyond the eastern headland. Below him, men upon the shore had stopped work and were looking out to sea.
A dark sail showed between two pale strips of water.
Goro came beside him.
"Is it—"
"Get your men off the landing."
The captain went to clear them. Vhalar stayed where he was.
The sail grew. He knew the patch near its foot, darker than the old cloth around it. Drazen had refused a new one before going north. There was good use left in it, he had said, and he could think of better things to bring home than a sailmaker's bill.
Now the yard hung crooked. As the ship came round, Vhalar saw fresh timber along a stretch of rail. A little water spilled from her side and flashed in the sun.
No collector followed her.
He waited until the ship had anchored. A boat went over the side. Drazen came down into it slowly, keeping one hand upon the rope while the other hung close to his body.
Drazen stepped ashore. His beard was full of grey salt, and there was a strip of dirty linen tied beneath his coat at the ribs. He looked past Vhalar towards the waiting men.
"The chests are aboard."
"How many did you leave behind?"
"None that we loaded."
"Pello?"
Drazen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Not here."
Vhalar let him stand there a moment. Men were pretending to busy themselves with ropes and water jars. Goro had stayed close enough to hear.
"Get the chests off her," Vhalar told him. "Put my men aboard. No one opens a lid until the clerk gets there."
Goro nodded. Vhalar sent a man to tell Sarro that his money would be ready in the morning, then began the climb with Drazen beside him.
* * *
Vhalar kicked the door shut.
"Two ships missing, and you come limping back with half your rail gone. What the fuck happened?"
Drazen unfastened his coat. The linen beneath it had stuck to his side. He pulled it loose, grimaced, and left it alone.
"Pello had word there were men searching the shore. He waited for them to come for the store. Two galleys came off the cove, and he went out to take them. We went with him."
"Two?"
"Two."
Vhalar stared at him. Three ships against two. Pello had spent years taking merchants in those waters, cutting off the shoreward escape while another ship came at them from the sea. He had brought home men worth ransoming and holds that paid for whole seasons of drinking. Now Drazen was standing in front of him with blood dried into his coat.
"Did they catch you drunk?"
"They caught us expecting men who'd throw their swords down."
Drazen reached for the wine jug. Vhalar caught it first and set it out of reach.
"You boarded them?"
"I did. Put men over the rail and went after them. There were shields waiting between the benches. We couldn't get round them, and their bowmen had the men behind us ducking before they could cross. When we tried again, they cut the grapnels. I lost men getting back aboard."
"And Pello watched?"
"Pello had the other galley fast. Our third ship came in to help him. By the time I got clear, the galley I'd been fighting was coming round on her. They'd have had our third ship between them."
Vhalar waited.
"I cut away."
"You left them."
"There were men pouring onto Pello's deck. The other ship couldn't turn without fouling him."
"And yours could."
Drazen's mouth tightened. "Yes."
Vhalar went close enough to smell the sour sweat in his beard.
"So you watched them take my ships and ran."
"I had your chests under my feet." Drazen kept his voice low. "You sent me to bring the money home. It's down there. Would you rather it was in their hold?"
"Careful."
Drazen's eyes went to the knife at Vhalar's belt. He had enough sense to keep his own hands still.
Outside, a man shouted for the haulers to lift together. Vhalar could hear Goro bawling over him. The first of the chests had reached the steps.
"Pello dead?"
"I couldn't see him."
"Don't tell me you couldn't see a fucking thing."
"I saw men going over his rail. I saw the other galley closing. I didn't see Pello die." Drazen swallowed. "I had men of my own to get off that deck. Nine of them are dead. Seven there, two on the way back. There's another below who won't last the night."
Vhalar looked towards the window. Nine from the carrier, besides whatever the other two had lost. Men who knew how to come alongside without smashing their own oars, who would climb into a ship while her crew were still fighting. He could buy another hull. Filling it with men worth feeding took longer.
"Whose galleys?"
"Dragonstone's. They came out from the island."
Vhalar turned back.
"Stark's bastard?"
"Unless someone else has taken his harbour."
"Neresso said he was a boy."
"Then someone has found him fighting men."
Neresso's letter had been full of new dues, new harbour officers, what this little bastard might ask to see when he began poking through other men's business. Vhalar had told him to pay what he must and send the rest. He had expected the boy to be another mouth wanting silver.
"Was he aboard?"
"I never saw him."
"The money ashore?"
"Not loaded. Pello had sent four men in for it. They hadn't come back when we went out."
Vhalar picked up the cup and hurled it into the hearth.
"Fuck Pello."
It broke against the stone. Drazen did not look round.
"The coast was crawling with men looking for that store, and he sat there waiting for a prize?"
"He thought he could take them."
"He was there to bring in my coin. Not give the bastard two ships to carry it off in."
He could hear it already. In the drinking sheds, aboard Sarro's ships, in whatever stinking hole Rolo had chosen to eat in that night. Vhalar had sent three ships north, and a boy had sent one home. Every merchant who had paid to be left alone would wonder whether he needed to pay again. Every captain with a grievance would have something to say over his cup.
"I'll have him chained to an oar." Vhalar turned upon Drazen. "The boy and every bastard who was aboard those galleys. They can row my ships until their hands rot."
Drazen said nothing. He was looking at the broken cup.
"What?"
"If they've taken our men alive, they won't have to row far to find us."
Vhalar's hand closed upon his knife.
"You think I don't know that?"
"Pello knew about Moreo."
For a moment neither moved. Then Vhalar took his hand from the knife and went to the window.
The chests were coming up the steps. His men had crowded the landing below, watching each one as it passed. They would hear about the ships soon enough. A few already knew; Drazen's rowers had mouths, and there had been men waiting to take their ropes.
The last time Drazen had come back short of ships, Rolo had been behind him. He had saved the pay then, too. Vhalar had seen what happened to captains who could no longer give their crews a taking. They drank alone while their mates found other ships.
He was damned if he would sit here losing men to that Myrish cunt while Moreo's sons pissed away a fleet in the east.
"We take the western landing."
Drazen looked up. "After this?"
"Especially after this. Orros gives us the landing. We go up the hill, gut the old man and take the rest."
"And if a galley comes nosing round here while we're doing it?"
"Two stay under the fort. Two watch Rolo. Your ship stays here until she's fit to sail." Vhalar pointed towards the window. "There are men on those walls. What would you have me do? Sit behind them waiting to see who comes?"
"Get your money out of the chests and into their hands. My men are talking already."
Vhalar looked down at the landing again. Goro had stopped a sailor beside the nearest boat and was questioning him. The sailor was waving an arm out towards the sea.
"They'll get it tonight."
"And Sarro?"
"He'll get his. He's sat here eating my stores all week. Now he can earn his fucking hire."
Drazen eased his coat away from his side. The cloth came free with a small tearing sound.
"Moreo's crews won't like seeing you kill him."
"They'll like being sold in Lys less. They put their swords down, they sail for me. Any who'd sooner die with him can do it."
"You'll still have to pay them."
"With the old man's gold. What do you think I'm going there for?"
Vhalar pushed the wine jug across the table. Drazen found another cup and poured, keeping his eyes upon it.
"You take two of the galleys," Vhalar said. "Keep his ships off my boats while I land. If Sarro does his part, they won't know where to run."
"I can do that."
"See that you do. I'm short of ships enough."
Drazen drank. He had something more to say; Vhalar could see him considering whether to risk it.
"Out with it."
"Goro will want to call us cowards. Let him try getting his own men across a rail like that."
"Goro will take his share and get aboard when I tell him."
Vhalar opened the door.
"Go and see to your ship. And keep your men clear of Sarro until I've spoken to him. I'm not paying that fat fuck twice because one of yours sold him a story."
Drazen put down the cup. He left without another word.
* * *
Sarro came ashore the next morning.
Vhalar watched him climb the steps with his first mate at his shoulder and two armed men behind. He had taken his time leaving the boat. First he had looked over Drazen's ship, then along the anchorage, and finally out past the headland as though another sail might yet appear there.
The payment waited inside the fort. Vhalar had kept his own captains up until well past midnight, dividing the returned money and hearing their complaints. The men staying east would have shares in the western plunder too. He had settled that before any captain could carry the grievance down to his crew.
Sarro stopped in the doorway.
"Your messenger said you had my money."
"I have."
"Good." His eyes moved to Drazen, who stood beside the window in a clean coat. "A rough passage?"
"You've seen the ship."
Sarro waited. Drazen gave him nothing more.
"Where are Pello and the other ship?"
Vhalar pulled out a chair. "Sit down."
"I saw only the one coming in."
"I know what came in."
"Then you can tell me where the others are."
"It does not matter to the work you are being paid for."
Sarro remained standing. His first mate had stopped just behind him, close enough to hear every word.
"It matters to me. I like to know the odds before I put my ships among them."
"Your ships will lie outside Moreo's harbour and frighten men who do not know how little you mean to do."
"And if the odds have changed?"
Vhalar gripped the back of the chair.
Sarro saw it. He drew his sleeve over the fading marks upon his wrist but did not look away.
"Your man has brought back a damaged ship without the two that were to come with him. You have guards round his sailors. I can ask you here, or hear six different accounts upon the shore."
"The collectors were taken," Vhalar said.
"By whom?"
"Dragonstone's new lord."
"The Stark boy?"
"His men." Drazen spoke from the window. "Two galleys. We boarded one and were thrown back. The other took Pello alongside. When we got clear, both our other ships had enemies over their rails."
Sarro looked at him for a long moment.
"Did anyone follow you?"
"None that I saw. Once we left the coast, I lost sight of them."
The merchant rubbed a finger beneath one of his rings. Vhalar had seen him do it while counting a doubtful price.
"If prisoners were taken, they can tell the boy where you keep your ships. Where you mean to take them."
"Pello knew I intended to move against Moreo. He did not know when."
"And now—"
"Now I have the money and the ships are ready." Vhalar shoved the chair aside. It struck the wall. "I have waited for the collections. I have paid you to sit in my harbour. Your mate has spoken to Orros, my men have watched the landing, and Moreo's sons are still away. How much longer would you have me wait?"
Sarro spread his hands. "Long enough to know whether—"
"Until those two shits come home with another fleet? Until Orros decides he has waited long enough and tells the old man what we offered him?"
"He would be hanging from Moreo's wall before sunset."
"Then he had better open the landing when I come."
Vhalar turned towards the door.
"Bring it."
His guards carried in the chests and set them upon the table. The clerk opened them. Sarro's eyes went to the money despite himself.
"The old balance," Vhalar said. "Your hire since Drazen returned. The advance for all four ships. Count it."
Sarro did not move at once. The clerk laid his reckonings beside the scales.
"This is my part of the bargain," Vhalar said. "Unless you mean to go back upon yours."
One of the guards set his hand upon his sword. The other did the same. Sarro's first mate shifted, and Drazen moved away from the window until he stood between the man and the door.
For a moment no one spoke.
Sarro looked at the guards, then at Vhalar. His mouth tightened. The smile he had brought ashore was gone.
"One fourth," he said. "Of the coin and goods. And I will remember this."
"As long as you do your part, I will do mine."
"My captains remain mine."
"I have not asked for them."
"And if Moreo's ships stand and fight—"
"Drazen will fight them. You show your four where they can be seen." Vhalar leaned across the table. "Will your mate stand by what he told me?"
The lean man glanced at Sarro before answering.
"Orros will give you the lower landing. His watch, his boat crews. He promised no more than that. The men at the fort answer to Moreo."
Sarro pulled the discarded chair back to the table. He sat carefully, straightened the reckonings, and called his own man to the scales.
Vhalar let the counting take as long as it needed.
* * *
By afternoon the crews were carrying their gear aboard.
A man came down with a stolen bedcover wrapped round his shield. Another had three knives in his belt and no shoes. Goro stood at the gangplank and made each man show his weapons before he passed. Those who had spent their shares too quickly were borrowing from shipmates at prices they would curse when the next division came.
The repaired galley had floated level through the night. Tero came out of her hold with his lamp and told Vhalar where the new plank should be checked again after the passage. Vhalar sent him back to the yard. He would have more ships to mend soon.
Drazen had gone aboard one of the fighting galleys. His own vessel would remain beneath the fort while her rail and rigging were repaired. He would take two of the four westward galleys when they entered Moreo's bay, keeping the way clear for the landing boats. The other two would put Vhalar's fighting men ashore while their rowers remained at the benches.
The six longboats loaded last. Men sat upon shields and water casks, their spears projecting over the gunwales. Three carried ladders lashed above the thwarts, with axes and spare bowstrings wrapped in oiled cloth beneath them. Vhalar made one boatmaster put four men back upon the landing before he swamped himself. They went to the next boat, grumbling until its men made room.
He had promised them Moreo's stores, his gold, and a share in the taking. They had begun to argue over it before the first oar touched the water.
At the foot of the fort, the slave keeper asked for more guards.
"For what?"
"The men in the second shed have heard you are going."
"They have eyes. What have they done?"
"Nothing yet."
Vhalar made him open the door.
The smell came out first. Men sat shoulder to shoulder along the wall, their chains passing beneath an iron bar. A woman with a shorn head drew a child against her knees. Farther in, someone turned his face away from the light.
"Keep the yard clear," Vhalar said. "Bar both doors. If anyone tries to break out, call the fort."
He waited while the keeper counted the keys back onto his ring. The two galleys staying east were ready to move, and the ships watching Rolo had taken their stations beyond the southern point. He had left men on the wall who would hang for sleeping there.
When he reached his boat, Sarro's four ships were drawing clear of their berths.
The merchant stood upon the stern of the nearest, one hand upon the rail. Vhalar raised his sword to him. Sarro inclined his head and turned to his captain.
* * *
The western shore emerged from the dark in pieces: a pale line of surf, the low rock at the mouth of the bay, then masts rising behind it.
Vhalar stood beneath his galley's mast with his shield upon his arm. They had rounded the island's northern coast during the night, keeping the longboats close. Now the rowers held their oars just clear of the water while the masters judged the entrance.
Above the landing stood Moreo's fort. It was a squat place of weathered stone built around an older house, with a low outer wall enclosing the stores and a higher yard behind the gate. Vhalar remembered whitewash upon the house and a chained ape that had sat upon the wall while his father quarrelled with Moreo over a prize. The whitewash had washed away. A watch fire burned where the ape's chain had been fixed.
Nine galleys lay below it, six afloat and three upon the beach. One of those ashore had been stripped almost to her ribs. Smaller boats filled the landing beneath the stores. Men were beginning to stir among them, dark figures against the pale sand.
A covered lamp opened twice at the lower steps.
Orros.
Vhalar looked to starboard. Drazen stood upon the raised stern of his galley, waiting. Beyond him the fourth fighting ship kept station, her bowmen crouched along the rail.
Vhalar lifted his sword.
The oars dipped.
They were through the entrance before the horn sounded from the fort.
A man ran along the wall shouting towards the water. Another seized the rope of the bell beside the gate and began to haul upon it. Its harsh note carried over the bay. Doors opened beneath the stores. Men came out carrying swords, some bare to the waist, others fumbling with coats as they ran.
The watch at the lower steps stood aside.
Farther out, three of Moreo's galleys were already drawing away from their moorings. One had her oars out on only a single side and turned drunkenly until men ran to the empty benches. The largest was moving towards the boats coming in with Vhalar's men.
Vhalar pointed his sword at her.
"Drazen! Keep them off the landing!"
The lieutenant raised his arm in answer. His two galleys swung across the water. Vhalar climbed down into the longboat waiting alongside, and its men thrust clear with their oars. The other boats were already pressing towards the steps.
Vhalar could hear Moreo's bell above the oars. He drew his shield higher and called to the men waiting behind him.
"There's your silver. Follow me and take it!"
The first arrow struck the water a yard short of the bow.
Vhalar watched the next flight rise from the wall. He brought his shield over his head. Wood cracked above him; something struck the man behind and knocked the breath out of him. The rowers kept pulling. Beneath their feet, water washed over the stones they carried for ballast.
To their left, Moreo's largest galley bore down upon the outermost longboat. Her bowmen crowded forward, trying to shoot past their own sail. The boatmaster shouted to his men to pull, pull, and the longboat slipped across her bow with scarcely an oar's length to spare.
Drazen caught the galley as she tried to turn after it.
His ship came alongside hard enough to break the nearest oars. Vhalar heard the crash, then the shouts of the men whose handles had been driven back against them. Hooks flew across the narrowing water. Drazen's second galley held farther out, denying the next attacker room to come round him. Moreo's third galley was still turning behind the other two.
Vhalar's own boat struck the shingle.
He went over the side into water above his knees. For a moment the stones rolled beneath his boots and the weight of shield and mail dragged him backwards. A man caught his elbow. Vhalar shook him off once he had his footing and waded clear, his sword held above the spray.
"Up! Get up the beach!"
Another arrow hit his shield. It came from the upper gate, well above the stores. The bowman who had loosed it was already reaching for another.
Vhalar ran for the lower steps.
Orros waited beside them with a handful of armed men. He was broad through the belly, with a grey beard plaited beneath his chin and a spear held in both hands. Two bodies lay near him. One had fallen across a coil of rope; the other wore the same strip of blue cloth about his arm as Orros's men.
"The landing is yours."
"The gate?"
"Shut when the bell rang."
"How many above?"
"They are still coming out of the houses."
A bolt struck the step between them and broke against the stone. Orros flinched. Vhalar pushed past him, keeping close to the wall of the nearest storehouse. His men followed in knots, splashing ashore, stumbling with their shields, shouting to those still in the boats. One stopped to haul a fallen man clear of the water. Another took the dead man's belt before running on.
Goro reached him with blood upon his cheek.
"Some of them are making for the ships."
"Let Orros have them." Vhalar caught the captain by the shoulder and pointed up the lane. "You stay with me."
The gate stood at the head of a short climb between the stores. Two square towers flanked it, their upper chambers open towards the yard. Men stood along the wall between them. There were more appearing with every breath: one pulling a shirt of mail over his head, another carrying a sheaf of spears, a boy with a bucket who vanished behind the parapet as soon as he saw the beach.
Moreo had not been idle while his sons were away. The gate timbers were newer than the wall. Iron strips crossed them at a man's shoulder and near the ground. Vhalar could see the pale heads of the nails.
"Ladders!"
They came up from the boats on men's shoulders, knocking against the corners of the stores. A shaft caught one of the bearers in the thigh. He dropped, bringing his end down with him. The men behind cursed him and tried to lift it before another flight came.
"Shields over them!" Vhalar roared. "Over them, you fools!"
Goro dragged two men into place. Others followed, lifting their shields while the wounded bearer crawled aside. The ladder rose again.
The first reached the wall to the right of the gate.
A man in a red cap went up it so quickly that Vhalar thought he might gain the top before the defenders could shift. Then a spear came over the parapet and struck his shield. He caught the next thrust upon its rim, hauled himself another rung higher, and took a stone in the face.
He fell without a sound. The man below him screamed as both came down.
The ladder hung against the wall for an instant. A hooked pole caught beneath its upper rung and thrust it out. Men scattered as it fell across the lane.
Vhalar stepped over the red cap. It had rolled almost to his feet.
"Put it up again."
No one moved.
He looked at the nearest man. A broken tooth showed beneath a lip he had drawn back from his teeth. His eyes kept going to the wall.
"Lift it."
The man bent. Someone helped him. They dragged the ladder back against the storehouse, leaving two bodies beneath the gate.
Vhalar glanced up the lane. Sending another man into those spears would buy nothing. Moreo's bowmen could shoot down into the approach while his spearmen watched the ladders, and the new gate would hold against anything they could carry in their hands.
A shutter banged above him.
He looked up. The storehouse had a loft beneath its roof, with a broad opening where bales were hauled in from the lane. It faced the left-hand tower.
"Bowmen. In there."
The door was locked. Goro put an axe into the hasp. A second stroke broke it, and the men shouldered their way inside.
"Leave the fucking goods!" Vhalar shouted after them. "Upstairs!"
He sent another party to bring the heavy timber he had seen beside the landing, a spar laid out for repair. While they fetched it, his men gathered beneath the walls of the stores, breathing through open mouths. Those who had landed from the two galleys were joining them now. The lane grew crowded. A man at the rear called that they should try the other side of the fort.
Vhalar turned upon the voice.
"And give them time to bar that too? We go through here."
A bowstring sounded overhead.
The man in the left-hand tower jerked backwards. Another ducked behind the stone. Vhalar looked up at the loft. Two archers had found room at the opening; a third knelt at a narrower window. They could not reach the whole wall, but they could reach the men looking down beside the gate.
"Keep their heads down."
The spar came up the lane, six men to a side. Others held shields over them as they ran it against the doors. The first blow boomed through the gateway. Men upon the wall shouted and rushed towards it. A basket tipped above them. Stones rattled off the lifted shields; one struck the timber and glanced into a bearer's face.
"Again!"
The spar struck. The doors shuddered and held.
Vhalar seized the nearer ladder.
"Goro. The other one. Now."
They ran them up together, one on either side of the gate. A spear struck the ground near Vhalar's foot. An arrow passed his face so closely that he felt the fletching. The ladder hit stone, slid, caught beneath the coping.
He began to climb.
The shield dragged at his left arm. He could not hold it high and use the hand properly, so he hooked his fingers over each rung and pushed with his legs. The ladder shook beneath the men coming after him. Halfway up, he heard Goro bawling at someone to climb or be thrown up.
A face appeared above the wall. A young man with a pale beard and both hands upon a spear.
Vhalar stopped one rung short of its reach.
The young man thrust down. Vhalar raised his shield, took the point near its centre and felt it bite deep. The man tried to wrench it free. Vhalar dragged the shield down and to one side.
The young man lurched against the parapet.
Vhalar let the shield go.
He climbed the last rungs with his sword hand braced against the stone. The young man still had the spear, with the shield hanging from it. Vhalar struck him across the wrist and drove his shoulder into his chest before he could drop it and draw his knife. They fell together upon the narrow walk.
A boot struck Vhalar in the ribs.
He rolled into the wall. A second man stood over him with an axe. Vhalar caught the descending haft near the head; the edge hit stone beside his ear. The man hauled back, pulling him half upright. Vhalar went with it and thrust beneath his arm.
He did not wait to see him fall. The spearman had found his knife.
Vhalar kicked him in the face and rose.
The first of his men came over the coping. Then a second. Farther along, Goro had one leg across the wall and a defender beating at his helmet with a short club. One of the loft archers put an arrow into the defender's back. Goro dragged himself over, got both feet beneath him, and struck until the man stopped trying to rise.
"The stairs!" Vhalar shouted.
Three defenders barred the descent into the yard. Behind them, others were turning from the gate. Vhalar went for the nearest before they could gather. The man gave ground along the walk, keeping his buckler close. He was good enough to turn the first cut and quick enough to answer it.
Vhalar felt the point drag across the mail beneath his arm.
He crowded in. There was no room for the buckler to swing, no room for a proper stroke. He drove the pommel into the man's mouth, hit him again, then shoved him into the defender behind. Both went down the steps.
The third ran.
Below, the yard had filled with men. Some were coming towards him; others were trying to drag a laden cart across the gate passage. Vhalar could see the bar laid in its brackets behind the doors, thick as a man's thigh.
"Down with me!"
He took the steps two at a time. His side hurt where the boot had struck him. At the bottom a man lunged from behind the stair with a boathook. Vhalar turned the shaft with his sword, caught it under his free arm and drove forward until the man struck the wall. Someone behind Vhalar finished him.
The others came down in a rush.
They hit the men at the cart before it could be turned. A mule screamed and began to kick. Its driver dropped the reins and fled towards the house. Vhalar caught a swordsman turning to follow him and cut across the back of his knee. The man fell in front of the cart, and his companion stumbled over him.
"The bar! Get that bar up!"
Goro brought men from the other stair. They crowded beneath it, straining, while Vhalar and the others held the passage. Beyond the doors, the spar struck again.
"Stop, you bastards!" Goro shouted. "Stop hitting it!"
Someone outside heard him. The next blow did not come.
The bar rose out of its brackets and fell with a crash. Men hauled upon the doors. One opened barely a foot before the cart wheel caught it.
Vhalar put his shoulder to the cart. Goro joined him. A defender came at them with a spear and was dragged down by the men squeezing through the gap. The mule kicked again, broke its trace, and lurched clear. The cart moved.
The doors swung inward.
Vhalar's men poured through, shouting his name, the names of their ships, promises of what they would do to anyone still holding a blade. The defenders gave back towards the house. A few threw down their weapons. Others tried to reach the door beneath the right-hand tower and found it already crowded with their own men.
Vhalar caught his breath against the wall.
He had lost his shield. Blood ran from a cut across his knuckles, and his left side hurt when he breathed deeply. He opened and closed the hand until he was sure it would serve.
Across the yard, a shutter burst outward. One of his men had climbed through a window. Another was trying to follow, despite Goro's shouts.
"Leave the rooms!"
The captain caught the second man by his belt and dragged him down. The first had already vanished inside.
The house door opened.
Moreo came out with his sword drawn.
For an instant Vhalar saw him as he had been when his father was alive: broad across the shoulders, fair hair bound behind his head, laughing over a captured cog while the merchant's master begged them to leave him something to take home. He had cut the man's purse from his belt and tossed it back with a single copper inside.
Now the hair was white. His mail hung loose beneath a faded blue surcoat, and a man beside him had one hand beneath his elbow.
Moreo shook it off.
"With me!"
His men came down the steps together.
There were scarcely twenty, but they knew one another. They had stood beside him through years of boarding decks and breaking holds, and they came with their shields touching. The first of Vhalar's men met them alone and went down. The second tried to turn away and was thrust through from behind.
The men who had been shouting a moment before fell back into those still coming through the gate.
"Stand!" Goro bellowed.
Moreo's men drove into them. A short spear caught Goro high upon his shield and forced him backwards. Beside him, a man dropped his axe to clutch at his throat. Vhalar saw the opening widen.
He snatched a shield from the ground and ran into it.
The first blow drove the shield against his chest. He planted his feet, struck over its rim and felt his sword glance from a helm. The man before him came on again.
"Here!" Vhalar roared. "Close on me!"
Goro struck the spearman from the side. Another of Vhalar's men pushed in against his shoulder. The retreat stopped. Behind them, more men were coming through the gate than Moreo could kill.
The old pirate saw Vhalar.
"You."
He said it so clearly that Vhalar heard him through the shouting.
"Your father knew better than to come here."
Around him his men were giving ground, but Moreo stood where he was, with his sword held low.
"He should have come years ago." Vhalar forced the spearman's haft aside. "Your time is done, old man. Mine begins here."
Moreo stepped through the gap his men made for him.
He did not hurry. Vhalar had expected a shout, some curse upon his father or the faithless men who had opened the landing. Moreo only settled his shield and came within reach.
His sword moved.
Vhalar caught the cut upon his shield. The point slid over its rim and came for his face. He jerked his head aside, felt it scrape his cheek, and struck back too late. Moreo had withdrawn behind his own shield.
Vhalar tasted blood.
Moreo had seen him snatch up the shield. He struck at its outer edge again, drawing Vhalar's arm across his body, and thrust beneath it.
This time Vhalar was ready. He turned his hip and took the point along his mail, then brought his sword down hard upon Moreo's. Steel rang. Moreo gave half a step and recovered.
Behind him, one of his men fell. Another closed the space. They were trying to give their captain room to kill Vhalar.
Vhalar went forward.
He struck high, then at the knee, then high again. Moreo met the cuts without wasting strength. His breathing grew louder. Sweat ran through his white beard. He retreated a pace towards the house, and Vhalar followed.
The retreat was an invitation.
Moreo planted his rear foot and thrust as Vhalar stepped after him. The point slipped beneath the shield and scraped across the mail at his belly. Vhalar twisted away, forcing the blade down with the shield's lower edge.
Moreo drew back for another thrust.
Vhalar struck before it came. The old man caught the blow upon his sword, but Vhalar bore down upon it and drove his shield against Moreo's, forcing it back against his chest. Moreo tried to give ground. His shoulder struck the man fighting behind him.
Vhalar shoved harder. The old pirate's knee buckled, and his blade dipped as he struggled to keep his feet.
Vhalar drew back his blade and thrust beneath his chin.
Moreo sagged against him, his sword hand trapped between their bodies.
He pushed him away.
Moreo fell upon the stones at the foot of his own steps.
One of his men cried out and came at Vhalar. Goro caught him from the side. The others hesitated just long enough for Vhalar's men to force their way between them.
"Down!" Vhalar shouted. "Weapons down, and live!"
A sword rang upon the stones. Then another.
Two men tried to reach the house. One made it through the door. The other fell upon the steps, and the men pursuing him climbed over his body.
Vhalar dropped the battered shield and stood over the old man until his own breathing steadied.
The bell had stopped.
From the harbour came a different sound: men cheering, answered by shouts from the landing. Goro went to the gate and looked down. When he returned, he was smiling through the blood upon his face.
"Drazen has two of them fast. The third came back under the beach. Orros's men have her ropes."
Vhalar looked at the house.
"Get men through every room. Roofs, cellars, the stores below. I want the ones still hiding brought out before they find a bow."
"And those who put their swords down?"
"Keep them together. I'll speak to them when we're finished."
He would need them. Nine hulls, even if one was barely a hull at all. Moreo's crews knew the channels, the coves where traders sheltered, the prices paid for cargoes that had lost their papers. They would grieve for him until their next share was counted.
Vhalar wiped his sword upon the dead man's surcoat.
Outside the gate, someone had broken a wine jar. The red stream ran between the paving stones, and men knelt with their cups in it while others fought over the jars still whole. Goro struck one with the flat of his sword and sent him after the men searching the stores.
Vhalar let the rest drink.
They had climbed the wall. He could hardly tell them now that everything behind it belonged to him alone.
A woman ran out of the house carrying a bundle against her breast. Two men caught her at the steps. The bundle fell and broke open, spilling shirts and a little wooden box. She reached for it, and one of them pulled her arms behind her while the other kicked the lid apart.
Silver scattered over the stone.
"Shared taking," Vhalar said.
The man who had bent for it looked up. Slowly, he took his hand out of his belt pouch.
"All of it."
He set three coins beside the others.
Vhalar pointed towards the gate. "Take her down with the rest."
More people were being brought out: servants from the house, a cook with flour still upon his sleeve, two girls clinging to the same older woman. Below the stores, a door had been forced open upon the captives Moreo had not yet sold. They came into the morning blinking, their ankle irons scraping the steps. Vhalar's men drove them towards the landing beside the newly taken.
One of the cooks tried to explain that she was free. The man tying her wrists told her to explain it to the buyer.
Orros came up through the gate. He saw Moreo at the foot of the steps and stopped.
"Your men have the ships?" Vhalar asked.
"Those still at their moorings. We are bringing the crews ashore."
Orros kept looking at the body.
"He came out," Vhalar said.
"He would."
"Then you knew how this would end."
The grey-bearded man lifted his eyes.
"I knew what his sons would do to the place when he was gone."
"He is gone. Keep your men together. Goro will send someone down to count the prisoners with you."
Orros understood. Vhalar saw it in the slight tightening of his mouth. He had brought him the landing, and he would keep the command he had bargained for. He would not be left alone with the ships.
"Where did he keep the books?"
Orros pointed into the house. "Above the hall. Room to the left of the stair."
Vhalar sent for his clerk.
The old man would have gold. He had seen enough being carried out already to know that. The books would tell him where the rest of it lay: which merchants held balances, which warehouses received his cargoes, what his sons had taken away and when they meant to bring it back.
Sarro would have his quarter. He could count it beneath Vhalar's eyes.
Inside, the hall smelled of spilled lamp oil and the breakfast no one had eaten. A loaf lay upon the table with a knife still in it. Someone had pulled the cushions from a bench and slashed them open. Feathers clung to the blood upon Vhalar's boot.
He crossed to the stair.
"Captain!"
The shout came through the open door. Vhalar turned, annoyed, and saw a man stumbling across the hall towards him.
"Sails!"
"How many?"
The man bent, sucking at the air.
"Speak."
"Coming round the northern point. Sarro's gone—his ships are running."
Vhalar looked past him towards the bright doorway. His men were carrying Moreo's cups into the yard.
"Rolo?" He caught the man by his coat. "What do they fly? Did you see the axes?"
The man's eyes widened.
"Black sails."
* * *
While the fighting still crowded Moreo's gate, Sarro had watched from the shade beneath his stern awning.
His first mate stood at the rail with a Myrish glass. He lowered it when Sarro held out his hand.
"They're getting another ladder up."
Sarro put the glass to his eye. For a moment he saw only stone. He adjusted it until the gate came into view, with men packed into the lane beneath it and a heavy timber swinging between them.
"Which one is Vhalar?"
"The left-hand ladder. Near the top."
Sarro found him. A man in mail was climbing with a shield above his head. It was difficult to tell one dirty killer from another at that distance, but the men below seemed unusually anxious to follow him.
"He does like to be first."
"And you still get your quarter."
Sarro lowered the glass. His mate was smiling at the men struggling beneath the wall.
"When it is paid."
Sarro settled the glass against the rail. Farther inshore, Drazen's two galleys lay entangled with two of Moreo's, their oars overlapping across the water. Men were fighting upon the decks. The third defender had turned back towards the beach after Sarro brought his four ships across the mouth of the bay.
That had cost him nothing. He had ordered the turn while the galley was still far enough away to believe he meant to fight. Once she ran inshore, he had restored his course and kept his distance.
"Will she come out again?" he asked.
"Not through us."
"She might, if someone tells her captain what I promised Vhalar."
"Then let us hope he keeps his bargains to himself."
Sarro smiled.
On the wall, the man they thought was Vhalar disappeared over the parapet. Others followed. The glass would have shown more, but Sarro left it where it was. He disliked the way it made a battle seem close enough to touch.
He reached for his cup. The edge of his sleeve drew back above his wrist, and he stopped with his fingers just short of the stem.
Vhalar had looked at him across the breakfast table: attentive, almost pleased, his hand closing harder while Sarro tried to pull free. He remembered the cords standing in the pirate's neck and the small, ugly satisfaction of the smile.
He had known Sarro was afraid.
Sarro picked up the cup.
"Your boat was back before we sailed?"
The mate nodded. "Both men. They spoke to the captain you named."
"And no one else?"
"No one who knew why they had gone. They took the empty water casks with them."
Sarro drank. The wine had grown warm beneath the awning.
Rolo now knew where Vhalar meant to be, which ships he was taking, and when the attack would begin. Sarro had sent no plea for assistance. He had described an opportunity to a man who made his living from them. If the Myrishman could not work out what to do with it, the tales of Redaxe Rolo had grown in the telling.
There had been no reply. That still troubled him.
Fifteen galleys and ten fast ships, if the latest count was right. Rolo had taken the southern beach while the admiral lay dying, before Vhalar could put his father's captains in order. He had known whom to pay, where to land, which men might fight and which would wait to see who won. Sarro knew captains twice his age who still called it luck.
Those were the ones who worried him least.
"He won't pass up a taking like this," the mate said. "You've left him very little to do."
"He's left us without an answer."
"Perhaps he means to answer in person."
Sarro looked at him until the smile faded.
Rolo had once spent eleven days hunting a Pentoshi captain who had fired upon his boat while they were under a flag of parley. The grievance had been real; no pirate would have let it pass. Yet Rolo had abandoned a rich, slow convoy to pursue one damaged ship, followed her into shoal water at dusk and lost a galley on the rocks. He had gone on in the boats.
One of Rolo's men had told Sarro the rest when he brought the captured cargo to market. Rolo had taken the Pentoshi captain alive. The ship was sound enough to tow, her hold still half full. He had burned her with the captain bound to the mast and sat in a boat to watch.
Sarro had asked what became of the men from the wrecked galley.
The man had not known. He had been more concerned about the price of the cargo than the crew Rolo had lost. That, too, made the account easier to believe.
If Rolo had only been a madman, someone would have killed him before he gathered so many ships. But he could wait, buy a man's servant, learn where a captain drank and when a harbour chain was lowered. Sarro could follow such calculations. He could not know when the Myrishman would decide that watching a man burn was worth more than the ship beneath him.
He wanted Vhalar between them when they met.
"Keep a man looking south," he said. "And another on the northern point. I want to hear of a fishing boat if one leaves the rocks."
"Already done."
"Good."
The mate glanced towards the fort. A shout had risen from the shore, too distant to distinguish. Men were running through the gate.
"You judged the old man's strength well."
"We haven't seen him yet."
"His gate is open."
"And men are still coming out of the house. Keep watching."
Sarro took another drink and handed the cup away.
The mate was watching the house obediently.
Vhalar would have to leave men here. He could not take Moreo's ships, empty his stores, find his money, settle the crews and march back across the island before Rolo had heard the first rumour. Every prize would hold him a little longer. Every man he sent aboard a captured galley would be one fewer standing beside him when the Myrishman came.
And if Rolo took the eastern anchorage instead, Vhalar would have to fight to get home.
He wanted them fighting here, where Vhalar's men were already bloodied and scattered among the stores. Rolo might win, but he would lose men doing it. Better still if neither captain came out alive. Taking the eastern anchorage cheaply would only give the Myrishman another fort and more gold to hire with.
"If one of the captains asks us for passage," the mate said, "what shall I tell him?"
"That I am a merchant."
The mate smiled.
"At the usual rate?"
"You may begin there."
He liked that answer. Sarro could tell. By evening, if matters went well, his mate would be repeating it to the other captains as proof that Sarro had understood the whole affair before a sword was drawn.
Let him.
There were men on this island who would drink his wine and call him a peddler to his face. They brought him waterlogged silk, spoiled spices, frightened people whose names they had never troubled to learn, and demanded the prices they had heard paid in Lys. When he told them what the goods would fetch, they reached for their knives. Then their crews wanted paying, and they came back.
Vhalar had inherited ships. Rolo had taken them. Both still needed someone who could turn a stolen cargo into silver without losing half its value at the first quay.
They might remember that when there were fewer of them.
Movement showed upon the steps of the house. The mate raised the glass, then offered it to Sarro.
"The old man."
Sarro watched Moreo's last men drive into the yard. For a little while the attackers gave ground. He could not see individual blows clearly, only the knot of shields pressing forward and the crowd thickening about it.
Then it broke apart.
"Down," the mate said beside him. "I think he's down."
Sarro held the glass steady. Men were running towards the house. Others knelt upon the stones with empty hands raised above their heads.
It had been quicker than he hoped.
"A quarter of all that," the mate said. "And our men haven't lost a finger."
"Have the signal flags ready."
"To go in?"
"To clear the bay."
The mate turned his head towards him, then nodded as though it had been the answer he expected.
"Of course."
Sarro could send for his share later. He had already collected his hire, the old balance and the advance. Those chests were below his feet, guarded by men whose wages came from his purse. The money in Moreo's house belonged to him only so long as Vhalar cared to remember it.
He had not forgotten the fingers upon his arm.
Nor had he forgotten what Vhalar had said about finding him, no matter where he went. A man who made such a promise might decide, after winning a fort, that he need no longer pay for what he could take.
Let him try that with Rolo.
The mate moved away to speak to the helmsman. Sarro rested both hands upon the rail and looked over the harbour.
Moreo's storehouses had good roofs. The landing lay well under the headland, sheltered from the worst of the weather. Ships could be watered there; cargoes could be held until prices rose. With enough coin, he could buy the services of men who had followed a dead captain. He knew which of Moreo's creditors would welcome a sensible settlement and which of his sons would sell an inheritance before trying to defend it.
Sarro had always paid other men for a safe place to put his goods.
He looked again at the house above the yard.
"Sails!"
The call came from aloft.
Sarro smiled.
"Now it begins."
The mate returned to the rail and lifted the glass towards the northern point. Sarro watched the nearest galley in the harbour. Her men were hauling a body clear of the oars. They had not heard.
"Sarro."
Something in the mate's voice made him turn.
The glass remained against the man's eye.
"Those aren't red axes."
Sarro held out his hand. The mate did not seem to see it.
"They're black."
"Black?"
He snatched the glass and swung towards the headland.
A dark sail stood clear of the rock. Another followed. Below them, oars rose and fell together, carrying the leading ships beyond the shelter of the point. There were more hulls behind, larger and slower, with pale canvas drawing in the wind.
He lowered the glass.
"Signal the others. Out. Now."
"What about Rolo?" his mate asked.
"Let them kill each other!" Sarro screamed.
Perhaps there would still be something worth taking when the fighting was done.
Sarro looked once towards Moreo's fort. Men crowded the yard, carrying what they had taken. Somewhere among them Vhalar was counting his victory.
There was no time to send a boat.
* * *
Jon saw smoke above the western hills before the fort came into view.
At first it lay low against the roofs. Then the wind lifted it, exposing the pale wall and the ships gathered beneath it. Through the glass he could see men upon the landing, boats moving close inshore, two galleys locked together farther out. He could not tell whose men stood upon their decks.
Their course would carry them round the northern headland to Vhalar's anchorage on the eastern shore.
Four ships were turning away from the bay.
Denys had seen them too.
"They're making for open water."
Jon lowered the glass with his left hand. His right lay against his belt, the bandage hidden beneath the cuff. It had ached through the last two nights. He had stopped expecting it to be better by morning.
"Let them go."
Denys waited.
"Keep the transports with their escort. We take the eastern anchorage."
The captain went to give the order. Beyond the rail, the four hired vessels held their distance behind the fighting ships. He had kept room aboard them for the captives they meant to bring away.
He looked towards the hills. If that was Vhalar's doing, the attack had begun before they could stop it. Whoever had won, Jon would have to learn what remained in the eastern anchorage when the coast opened before them.
Arthur stood beside the mast, one hand resting upon his sword. He followed Jon's gaze, then looked back at the ships behind them. He offered no further objection. They had spent those words on Dragonstone.
Hewyn came forward with his helmet beneath his arm. Men rose from the benches and took up shields. Aurane had gone to the rail to help pass the last quiver forward; Corwyn stood clear of the sailors, tightening a strap that was already tight. Officers moved among the legionaries, checking that every man was ready.
Jon set down the glass.
"Prepare the men," he told Hewyn. "It's time for war."
Hewyn put on his helmet.
"Black!"
The legionaries answered him, their voices striking the deck beneath Jon's feet.
"Black!"
The next ship answered, and the next. Men lifted shields above the rails. Farther back, the legionaries aboard the transports took up the cry.
"Black! Black!"