Saltswept (The Earthsalt Duology)

Chapter One Finlyr

chapter one

finlyr

It’s a homecoming that feels more like being kicked in the belly than being greeted with warm, open arms.

‘State your business,’ the Seaguardian asks with bored indifference as we dock.

‘Returning home.’

They look me up and down and sniff. ‘Name and origin?’

‘Larkin, Spring Isle.’

‘There’s a tithe to dock a ship. Are you the captain?’

‘Aye,’ I say through gritted teeth, indicating a crate of assorted goods. ‘Collected from my passengers. Some returners, some visitors.’

The Seaguardian inspects it for a moment before nodding and letting me pass through.

My duty to my passengers ends here. When the news of Paranish opening reached Lassair, mine was one of the only seaworthy vessels ready to set sail.

Most of the others were tethered to the floating market and chose guaranteed trade rather than take a chance on Paranish.

It was unknown to the locals and after it had been closed off to trade for centuries, folk were wary of sailing all the way out there.

But I was Paranishian and still had my native tongue, although it had been a few years.

My ship – Saltswept – was barely finished with repairs, but I jumped at the chance to go home.

No, more than that: the chance to leave Lassair and the memories of my latest voyage.

What should have been my last. As we hauled to Paranish, my passengers dreamed of beds warmed by lovers or hearths stoked by family.

I have nothing but cold cider and strangers waiting for me in the capital.

I sling my pack over my shoulder and feel the solid ground beneath my feet. I’ve a thirst to quench.

Meandering the streets of Umasa is akin to finding your way to your bed drunk and in the dark.

Desperate and nauseating. The streets are narrow and the buildings close, pressing down on you.

It’s just as I remembered. The same salt-washed grime in the alleys, dirt beneath my fingernails I never quite got out.

I’ve arrived on market day, with strange stalls put up faster than I’d have thought.

Foreign smoky herbs waft over from a wooden structure furnished with colourful silks.

Bright birds perch on a table with gleaming gems in their beaks, the sunlight catching their feathers and the sparkle of their wares.

We’re all creatures of comfort, no matter how far we crawl from home. I creep through the crowds, unfamiliar voices thundering in my ears. I catch traces of Lassren on the wind and cock my head like a dog.

‘How much is this?’ a Lassairian trader asks.

‘Value in the eye of the beholder, dear heart,’ replies a Nishian merchant in a clipped, serious tone.

‘What does she mean?’ the Lassairian trader asks, turning to their companion.

‘You mark its worth,’ their companion explains in Lassren. ‘Offer her something.’

How simple when folk say what they want. None of this circling each other like beasts before the fight. You want; I have. You give; I take.

Holy Aistra, I need a drink. No, not just a drink. I need a piyata cider.

I slink away from the noise, down the wynds and closes that newcomers to Umasa avoid. They’re dark and narrow and only lead you somewhere if you know what you’re looking for.

This is my old haunt, but I keep my hand close to my hilt. Many fools get soft and comfortable after years away from home. I’m no fool.

The tavern is nearly empty, which suits my purposes.

I mark a table in the back nook and signal the keep.

The wooden table is sticky with decades of spilled cider, and the fabric of the chair has darkened and worn where elbows and shoulders have rubbed against it.

I survey the other patrons sitting in the cosy glow of the candlelight.

The day outside is bright and bustling, whereas we have sought the solace of dark and quiet corners.

‘You one of those returned wanderers?’ the barkeep asks as they take my order.

I squint to focus on their face dancing in the candlelight.

‘Aye, back on Paranish soil.’

‘You’ll have plenty of goods to barter then,’ they say with a tight smile.

This motherland courtesy hiding sharp teeth again.

‘Oh, I’m good for it,’ I wink, and they head off with a nod and grunt.

I wrap my hands around the cold mug and sip slowly, feeling the tart and sweet flavouring burning my tongue. Soon I’m pleasantly light-headed and the drink goes down quicker. My thirst might be quenched at the bottom of this cup.

After a few rounds, I catch the man at the next table dipping into my bag, fiddling with the sliders and latches, trying to unlock its secrets.

Thinks I’m cider-soaked, the cheek. The place is louder now, drinkers swimming at the edges of my vision.

I swing at the man’s face and miss, my body crashing into him hard instead.

His knee meets my belly and then we’re brawling, the bright, sharp pain of flesh on flesh.

Of everything being on the table, teeth bared, nails on skin.

He catches me in my bad leg, and I go sprawling.

When I wake, I’m on the ground, but not the tavern floor. It’s the packed earth of the alley. My entire body hurts. The stone wall is cold and rough, and this is as good a place as any to close my eyes again.

‘You all right, stranger?’ A gentle voice wakes me from my momentary slumber.

I peel open my sticky eyes and some dirty-faced waif peers down at me.

‘Aye,’ I say, beginning to stand. ‘Gathering my bearings, is all.’

The waif helps me up, surprisingly strong under that wiry frame. ‘Are you sure?’ they ask.

‘My thanks, but I know my way from here,’ I reply, leaning against the wall for support.

Their face is swimming in and out of focus as they say: ‘There’s an inn at the corner of that street. The keeper’s named Narra. She’ll see you right.’

My mother tongue of Nishian is too dulled by the cider to say more. I simply nod and grunt assent.

‘Make sure you get yourself to bed, all right?’ they say.

I stare at the stonework of the alleyway, listening to the revellers inside the tavern.

The ground smells like cider and piss. When I can finally turn my head without wanting to be sick, the stranger is gone.

I crawl away from the stench towards the next building.

The darkness creeps at the edges of my vision and I could just sit right here and close my eyes.

Even with my eyes closed the world is spinning.

The best cure for that is sleep, and I pass into the unquiet slumber of the drunk.

The soft light of the dawn wakes me gently. When I open my eyes I jerk up at the sight of a Seaguardian. Fuck.

‘Up you get, pal,’ he says, voice gently mocking as he hauls me to my feet. I let out a breath and lean into him, moving my scabbard behind my cloak. Better he thinks I’m some helpless sailor. ‘You have lodgings?’

I stare at him. He’s clean-shaven and younger than I first presumed, with hair cropped close to his head. His crooked nose is the only thing that breaks the symmetry of his face, but it makes him more intriguing to look at.

‘Somewhere to call home for the day?’ he elaborates, eyes roving over me.

‘This is my home,’ I croak, and he laughs.

‘Oh, a returner. Welcome back to Paranish. Are you from Umasa?’

‘That I am.’ I make a show of eyeing his pristine white uniform, the embroidered blue wave and sunrise sigil. ‘And you’re a Seaguardian.’

He stands a little taller, jutting out his chin. ‘Indeed.’

‘My mother was of your noble profession.’ I make my voice a low, soft growl.

I follow the Seaguardian’s eye to the shopfront I was unwittingly using as a bed.

Wooden stands and drapes of cloth protect its wares, but I clearly see the rectangle of books beneath.

The painted sign hangs from the awning: Good Morna’s Victuals and Volumes.

Not something you see every day. Books were the worst thing to barter.

Heavy, perishable, and useless unless you could read.

No wonder the shop’s main goods were food and drink.

‘In need of a bedtime story?’ I ask, quirking my brow. I finger the Seaguardian emblem, and his eyes turn hungry.

‘If I remember correctly, there are some barracks not far from here.’

Nestor liked to fuck completely naked. Most of my trysts involved only getting as much clothing off as needed to do the deed.

‘I want to feel all your skin on mine,’ he says, unlacing the front of my shirt.

I stop his hand. ‘What if we play a game?’ I ask, unbuttoning his breeches. ‘I can be the Seaguardian—’

‘And I’ll be the queen,’ he says, words tumbling out. The blood rushes to his face.

I take off my belt, not missing a beat. We all have authority complexes, parental issues – name your poison.

Nestor has already commanded the bunkmates out.

Not that I’m against an audience, but now I understand why he wanted to keep this between us.

The Seaguardians are supposed to worship the queen.

Role-playing as her is a particularly perverse form of treason.

Lower-ranking officers have been hanged for less.

He fashions a dress out of the bedsheet, and I slip into his uniform, pulling the jacket closed when his eyes are averted.

Nestor grabs me, planting kisses on my collarbone.

By Paranish, his lips are inches from the brand.

If he sees that mark, it’s all over. I won’t be some nameless sailor.

He won’t be able to overlook the cutlass.

He’ll have to ask questions about where I’ve been for the last decade.

Getting a good, no-strings fuck after months of a drought is never as simple as it seems. I push him against the wall and trace kisses down his body, dropping to my knees.

I need to distract him and so I take him in my mouth.

He moans, his fingers in my hair. And then he pulls my head back and the moans die in his throat.

His jacket has fallen open, revealing the brand on my chest: a line tattoo of a cresting wave and a sword.

Nestor pushes me onto the bed, and I fall back, breeches round my ankles.

He’s out into the main barracks before I can hide the mark and then there are hard hands all over my half-dressed form.

By Paranish, I’m done for now. I swallow, trying to find my honeyed tongue.

‘Save your spittle, pirate. We’ll find out your true name and deeds soon enough.’