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Authors: Michelle West
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days. It didn’t surprise him to see three men emerge from the Port Authority building as its doors were at last pegged open. It surprised him slightly to see that one of these men was Terrick, but it shouldn’t have—Terrick could speak Rendish, and he doubted that either of the other two who walked just in front of him could say the same.
The ship approached the dock, ropes were cast, caught, and looped around poles thick as old trees. Words were shouted—in Weston—from dock to ship; the words shouted back were Weston as well, but thickly accented, the syllables shorter and rougher.
Terrick said nothing; the crew on either side were clearly old hands, and the words might have been in a language birthed by the sea and all its demands, rather than by two different countries. When the gangplank was lowered, a single man stepped down the narrow and—to Angel’s eye—wobbly incline, and he made his way to the flat of the dock at his own speed. He carried a staff; to call it a cane would be wrong in almost every particular—but had he carried a baby, Angel would have recognized him anyway, although he had only seen him once before.
He didn’t know the man’s name. His father had pointedly refused to even hear the question when Angel had asked it, and Terrick had also, obliquely, refused to surrender it.
The most senior member of the Port Authority now stepped forward, Terrick at his right; at his left, but lagging behind, a boy carrying an inkwell and a quill. The Northern man, his hair some sort of fierce crown over the pale honey of clear eyes, looked at both of these foreigners briefly, but it was Terrick who demanded his attention.
And it was to Terrick that he inclined his head.
Terrick raised a hand, an open hand, and held it in front of his chest, arm extended, for a moment. Angel thought it a salute of some kind, but he couldn’t be certain; when his father had taught them the use of the sword, he hadn’t bothered with gestures that had nothing to do with fighting.
But the Northern man inclined his head again, and raised the hand that held the staff, drawing the staff from the wooden planks as he did so. It was perfectly straight as he held it in the air, parallel to the dock, and he held it for longer than Terrick had held out his hand.
Angel could see Terrick’s back, not his face. He wanted to move, then, to get closer, to change the vantage from which he watched, a mute witness. He could see the way Terrick’s shoulders shifted, straightening his back.
He could see the Northerner’s lips move, as the staff’s end came to rest, once again, upon wood. But he could not hear the words the man said.
He wanted to.
And as if Terrick could hear that thought, Terrick himself turned to face Angel, unseen until that moment by any other on the dock. There was nothing at all in Terrick’s face that could be called an expression; his lips, his eyes, the lines etched in his skin—they might be stone, for just a moment, a mask. Something to hide behind.
Angel understood.
He composed his own face in a similar fashion, although he felt he had nothing to hide. He then left the shortening shadows he stood in, and made his way down the dock.
Terrick turned back to the Northerner. Beyond the man’s back, the Rendish sailors were busy; Angel could see them moving and hear—at a distance—the shouted Rendish curses they leveled at each other in their haste.
But he didn’t watch them for long; the man was watching him, his gaze unblinking, his face as much a stone mask as Terrick’s. A cold one, for a cold people and a land of ice and snow. It was hard to realize that his cold, clear gaze was gold—but it was merchant’s gold, not wheat’s gold.
Angel stilled for just a moment, and wondered bleakly if the man’s eyes had always been gold, and he had failed to remember it, being caught by the strangeness of his hair, and the oddly veiled hostility with which he had been greeted.
No matter; they were
The ship approached the dock, ropes were cast, caught, and looped around poles thick as old trees. Words were shouted—in Weston—from dock to ship; the words shouted back were Weston as well, but thickly accented, the syllables shorter and rougher.
Terrick said nothing; the crew on either side were clearly old hands, and the words might have been in a language birthed by the sea and all its demands, rather than by two different countries. When the gangplank was lowered, a single man stepped down the narrow and—to Angel’s eye—wobbly incline, and he made his way to the flat of the dock at his own speed. He carried a staff; to call it a cane would be wrong in almost every particular—but had he carried a baby, Angel would have recognized him anyway, although he had only seen him once before.
He didn’t know the man’s name. His father had pointedly refused to even hear the question when Angel had asked it, and Terrick had also, obliquely, refused to surrender it.
The most senior member of the Port Authority now stepped forward, Terrick at his right; at his left, but lagging behind, a boy carrying an inkwell and a quill. The Northern man, his hair some sort of fierce crown over the pale honey of clear eyes, looked at both of these foreigners briefly, but it was Terrick who demanded his attention.
And it was to Terrick that he inclined his head.
Terrick raised a hand, an open hand, and held it in front of his chest, arm extended, for a moment. Angel thought it a salute of some kind, but he couldn’t be certain; when his father had taught them the use of the sword, he hadn’t bothered with gestures that had nothing to do with fighting.
But the Northern man inclined his head again, and raised the hand that held the staff, drawing the staff from the wooden planks as he did so. It was perfectly straight as he held it in the air, parallel to the dock, and he held it for longer than Terrick had held out his hand.
Angel could see Terrick’s back, not his face. He wanted to move, then, to get closer, to change the vantage from which he watched, a mute witness. He could see the way Terrick’s shoulders shifted, straightening his back.
He could see the Northerner’s lips move, as the staff’s end came to rest, once again, upon wood. But he could not hear the words the man said.
He wanted to.
And as if Terrick could hear that thought, Terrick himself turned to face Angel, unseen until that moment by any other on the dock. There was nothing at all in Terrick’s face that could be called an expression; his lips, his eyes, the lines etched in his skin—they might be stone, for just a moment, a mask. Something to hide behind.
Angel understood.
He composed his own face in a similar fashion, although he felt he had nothing to hide. He then left the shortening shadows he stood in, and made his way down the dock.
Terrick turned back to the Northerner. Beyond the man’s back, the Rendish sailors were busy; Angel could see them moving and hear—at a distance—the shouted Rendish curses they leveled at each other in their haste.
But he didn’t watch them for long; the man was watching him, his gaze unblinking, his face as much a stone mask as Terrick’s. A cold one, for a cold people and a land of ice and snow. It was hard to realize that his cold, clear gaze was gold—but it was merchant’s gold, not wheat’s gold.
Angel stilled for just a moment, and wondered bleakly if the man’s eyes had always been gold, and he had failed to remember it, being caught by the strangeness of his hair, and the oddly veiled hostility with which he had been greeted.
No matter; they were
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