Year 659 Day 78
My heart raced faster than my horse as I broke through the trees, bringing my cove into view. The morning wind slapped against my face, sharp with salt and the briny smell of the sea. The cove winked with sunlight—waves glittering like hammered silver—and at the end of the wooden dock, tied between two posts, sat a ship.
Not one of ours.
It wasn’t Rabissian, thankfully. But the vessel was large, nearly as large as the captured Rabiss warships bobbing farther down the shoreline. Big enough to make my pulse tick upward. These days, anyone with a boat could be trouble.
I nudged my horse to a faster trot. The wet mud of the draining marsh muffled her hooves as we climbed the bank to the ridge, each step squelching softly. As I got closer, my nerves eased. The ship only had one bank of oars, the long strokes resting like sleeping limbs against its hull. Not a warship. A trader—an explorer, maybe.
By the time I reached the beach, the crew was still unloading cargo. Men shouted over the crash of waves, heaving crates onto the sun-bleached planks.
Then I spotted a familiar figure on the pier, and a grin spread across my face before I realized it.
John.
He must have barely set foot on the pier—he still looked travelworn, coat damp with sea-spray, hair pushed back by the wind—yet he already had one of my North Cove shipbuilders pinned in place. The poor man stood stiff as a spearshaft while John gestured wildly toward the Cove Cutter, his arms carving enthusiastic arcs through the air.
I couldn’t hear a word from this distance, only the cadence of John’s excited interrogation: rapid, animated, relentless. The shipbuilder looked like he was praying for rescue—or patience.
I hoped of my horse. I understood John's Excitement. The Cutter was unique. It was beautiful. Her hull glowed with fresh varnish, ropes neatly coiled, each board fit together with care. But her masts were bare—tall wooden poles reaching skyward, still waiting for the sails that should have been finished any day now.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, "John! Why is it that every time I see you, you're trying to steal my stuff? First, you tried to seduce my weavers, and now you're bullying my shipbuilders!"
John spun around, indignation loading in his expression like a spring—right up until his eyes focused on me. Recognition hit, and the irritation melted away, replaced by bright, boyish excitement.
"Amos!" he shouted. "What is THAT? Nobody will talk to me about it!"
I stopped a few feet away, resting a hand on the warm, sun-baked railing of the pier and deadpanning, "That is a boat, John. Are you feeling well? Maybe you need to lie down."
The men around us—dockhands, oarsmen, my very nervous shipbuilder—burst into laughter. Even the trader crew cracked grins, though they probably didn’t understand a word.
John ignored them, eyes glued to the Cove Cutter as if he’d stumbled upon a mythical creature.
"I’m talking about the masts and all the ropes!" he said, waving a hand at the Cutter’s twin bare masts, the rigging lines hanging neatly like a spiderweb waiting for a breeze. "How does the sail attach? What is that spear up front? Where do the oarsmen sit?"
He jabbed a finger toward the bowsprit, then toward the empty gunwale where he clearly expected benches.
I crossed my arms. “Nope. You’ll have to wait and see. To be honest, it’s an experiment, and nobody knows if it will work yet.”
That was only half a lie. We were pretty sure it wouldn’t capsize or fall apart.
John ran a frustrated hand through his sea-wind-tangled hair. “Then what about the hull? Why is it shaped like that? How is it shaped like that? Why are the boards fitted that way? It’s deep, Amos. You wouldn’t be able to beach a boat like that.”
John was still circling the Cutter like a hawk around fresh prey, firing off questions at a pace that was starting to make my shipbuilder sweat. I decided it was time to save the poor man before he jumped into the water to escape.
Diverting the conversation, I said, “So, John, what brings you here? Weren’t you supposed to bring your family?” I put just enough disappointment into my tone to redirect his curiosity without sounding like I was scolding him.
He crossed his arms, giving me a look that said he fully intended to get back to interrogating me later. “Fine, keep your secrets. I brought Abby, but Connor is getting his first experience on a caravan down to Herron. And—” he paused, his chest puffing with both pride and exhaustion, “Abigail is pregnant.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I see what’s going on. You got your wife pregnant so you could go gallivanting around the country, but she saddled you with Abbie to keep you out of trouble.”
The men nearby snorted, trying—and failing—not to laugh. Dockhands were shameless like that.
John rolled his eyes to the sky as if appealing to the Endless One for strength. “No. And I also had to bring my sister.”
I blinked. Sister… sister… and then the memory hit like a hammer. I burst into laughter. “You brought Sherry?”
“It’s not funny,” he groaned. “I’ve been cooped up on a ship with her and a little girl who gets cranky on long voyages.”
A gust of wind whipped his hair sideways, making him look even more bedraggled. I grinned. “So where are your daughter and my shrew of a cousin?”
John stiffened and pointed a finger at me. “I am warning you right now—count or no count—she will fillet you alive if you talk to her like that. And I will never hear the end of it.”
“Fine,” I said, hands raised in mock surrender.
Something caught my eye—a young man sprinting along the pier, carrying coils of rope. I waved him over.
He skidded to a respectful stop, bowed, and said, “How may I assist you, my lord?”
I handed him a few copper coins. “I need you to find me a helicopter stick. Use this money if you have to, and keep the change.”
If I remembered correctly, Abby was around five. Helicopters—those little spinning toys apprentice woodworkers carved—cost a single copper and brought instant joy. Perfect distraction.
The boy’s face brightened. “If you need it fast, my lord, I’ve got one at home. It is well made and even painted.”
“Perfect. If you hurry, I’ll give you another two copper.”
He dashed off so fast his heels barely touched the boards.
“Oh—and tell Cookie to start making honey buns!” I shouted after him.
John’s eyebrows rose. “What is a helicopter?”
I grinned. “Wait and see. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered, skeptical.
“And you didn’t answer my question. Where are they?”
“They’re on the ship,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the trader vessel. “When Sherry saw the Rabiss ship in the harbor, she lost it and took Abby below deck. She said she would not come ashore until I confirmed it was safe. Honestly, it’s a huge blessing for me. We were hailed by a similar ship on our way north.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice as if trying to gain classified information. “How did you convince the Rabiss to trade with you? And whatever you gave them—do you have any left for me? It would have to be impressive to get them to come all the way here.”
His expression was eager.
I stared at him, speechless. "You haven't heard.
He noticed immediately. His brows knit. “Obviously not. Amos… what happened?”
I took a breath, glancing toward the Cutter, toward the Rabiss ship anchored farther out, toward the scars still etched into the docks and pilings.
“We were attacked by raiders, and we fought them off,” I said proudly.
The words hung in the salty air, the laughter from dockhands fading into the background as John’s expression shifted from confusion to dawning alarm.
He looked at me for a moment as if trying to piece together what I had said. "You cannot be serious. That is not how the Rabiss operate. Do you have some ridiculous amount of treasure here that they would be willing to make a journey all the way up here?"
"I believe they were paid handsomely to make it look like a raid."
John’s eyebrows shot up. The breeze tugged at his coat as he stared at me, trying to decide if I was joking.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because,” I said, glancing around the bustling pier before lowering my voice, “I actually may have something worth having.”
We stepped a few paces away from the shipbuilders—far enough that they wouldn’t overhear. Waves lapped against the pilings below, a steady rhythm beneath the murmur of men unloading crates and gulls harassing fishermen for scraps.
I explained everything.
The hidden pass through the mountains. The people living beyond it. The raw resources they possessed—gems, rock crystal, and how those usually traveled down the other side and ended up in Baron Bolster’s hands.
Then I laid out the entire Yarbeth conspiracy:
How the Count wanted the Rabiss to attack, kill everyone in the cove, and frame it as a massacre. How that would make Vaspar look weak. How Yarbeth could swoop in, buy the land cheap—or simply take it—since no one would be left alive to argue. I told him every connection my barons had to Yarbeth’s people.
When I finished, he exhaled sharply. “That does sound like a noble’s game.”
“Yep,” I said, spreading my hands in mock triumph. “Curse the nobles and their games. Am I right?”
“I certainly agree.” Then his tone brightened, mercifully shifting topics. “Now—how about you tell me how much you want for that Rabiss ship?”
I hesitated, glancing down the pier toward where the captured vessel bobbed gently. The Rabiss hadn’t asked for it back. I didn’t have enough trained men to run both ships. And the extra income… that could change everything for North Cove.
“I think we can work something out,” I said at last. “What about a partnership? You provide the crew, and that will get you fifty percent of the profits from our joint ventures. We’ll primarily be selling luxury goods—fine cloth, paintings, books. A thousand gold per trip isn’t unlikely.”
I didn’t mention sugar. Or lenses. Or telescopes. Some surprises were worth keeping under my hat.
Even without those details, his eyes lit up like a child spotting candy.
“It is good to have you as a cousin,” he said with a grin. “We are going to be filthy rich.”
I grimaced. “Unfortunately, most of my current product was sold to Jarum of West Cove.”
John froze. “Please don't tell me you’re talking about the cousin of Baron Eval.”
“Have you met him?”
John gave a humorless little laugh. “The Mitt Trading House isn’t prestigious enough to deal with someone like him. But everyone knows Jarum the Swindler. I can’t believe he got here first and fleeced you before I could.”
“You’re judging him,” I pointed out, “when you just admitted you were planning to do the same.”
He waved that away like an annoying gnat.
He waved me off. “That was in the past. Now we are partners. Besides, I wouldn’t have fleeced you as much as he did.”
“How do you know I got fleeced?”
John stared at me with the deadest of deadpan looks. “It’s Jarum. The man would have stolen the shirt off your back if he could.”
I paused… then started laughing.
John blinked. “What is so funny?”
“He actually did take the shirt off my back. It was a very nice cotton shirt.”
John closed his eyes and dragged a hand down his face. “Just—please—tell me you didn’t sign a contract for set quantities.”
“No. He wanted something long-term, but I told him I couldn’t promise a consistent flow. Not with hostile neighbors.”
“Well done.” John’s voice warmed. “Whether you meant to or not, you may have just solved your war with your neighbors. Nobody wants to upset Desmond Eval. And if he sent Jarum to you, that means he is very interested in you. He will not take kindly to someone messing with his trade deals.”
It made sense. If the man who controlled most of the coastal trade got irritated at Vaspar and Yarbeth for interfering with his profits, there could be heavy consequences. Maybe not enough to crush them outright…but enough to make them think twice.
Politics in this world was still something I was painfully unfamiliar with.
John folded his arms and nodded toward the Rabiss ship. “This might actually work to our advantage soon. Once Jarum learns I’m also getting your goods, he’ll know you aren’t dependent on him. And the fact that I’m your cousin protects me from the pressure he’d normally apply. Jarum is not above bullying.”
A gust of sea wind sent a spray of salt across the pier, pushing John’s hair off his forehead.
“With the competition,” he continued, “he might have to offer you better deals.”
I frowned. “So… should I give more to you than to him?”
“Definitely not,” he said, holding up a hand. “Even if you made more coin, political influence outweighs any extra profit. You might get better terms down the road if he values keeping your agreement. Let me handle the balancing act. Besides, this connection will be good for the Mitt Trading House. My father will be pleased.”
We began walking along the pier toward the trader ship, the planks groaning gently under our combined weight. Dockhands dodged around us, carrying crates, fishing nets, and baskets of herbs, giving us quick bows before continuing their work.
“I have an idea for you,” I said as we walked. “When we ship books and paintings to Carok, you could set up an art gallery and bookstore.”
John slowed, blinking. “A… what?”
I went on to explain the concept—walls hung with framed paintings, carefully arranged displays, scribes or clerks hosting readings, chairs for audiences, even curated shelves of books organized by topic. I told him about the book readings in Vaspar, and the tiny ones we’d begun holding in North Cove.
Then I had to explain that the ship he’d seen headed down to Carok was carrying everything Jarum hadn’t cleaned out on credit.
John groaned. “He beat me to it. And then you send the rest to my father.”
“True,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder, “but I’ll find something to make your trip worth your while. I promise.”
Just then, footsteps pattered rapidly along the pier.
The boy from earlier came dashing toward us, breathing hard but grinning triumphantly, clutching a freshly painted helicopter stick. Its blades were done in bright blue, with little red swirls decorating the handle—far nicer than I expected.
He bowed and offered it with both hands. “My lord.”
I took it with genuine delight. “Thank you.” I handed him the extra coin and his eyes widened before he sprinted back up the pier, eager to brag about this moment for the rest of his life.
I turned to John, spinning the toy once between my fingers.
“Okay,” I said, “time for you to introduce me to your sister and daughter.”
John grimaced like a man marching toward his own execution. “Amos… just—remember, She angry, And has been trapped on a boat with someone acting like a toddler for two weeks.”
I smirked. “Sherry or Abby?”
“Yes,” he muttered.
We walked toward the trader ship, boots thudding on the sun-warmed planks as we discussed how on earth we would find the eighty to one hundred men needed to run the Rabiss vessel. Vaspar would have been ideal—right down the North Road, easy access to manpower.
Unfortunately, that entire region was off-limits for the moment.
The thought made my stomach twist. I wondered how Fredrick was doing with his rebellion. He better not die on me. I had invested too much in that man for political reasons and personal ones.
We ascended the gangplank and stepped onto the deck. The wood bowed gently with the ship’s slow rhythm against the tide. John shot me a look that promised he would return to interrogating me about what I had to offer him later, then disappeared below deck to retrieve his daughter and sister.
A few muffled words drifted up from below—then a shrill voice snapped through the hatch:
“I swear, John, if this is another one of your tricks, I’m—”
Sherry’s threat died mid-sentence as she stepped into the sunlight.
She was tall—nearly John’s height—and thick through the shoulders. Definitely had some Bicman in her; you could spot that solid frame a mile away. Behind her, a little girl peered out, curly black hair bouncing as she tried to squeeze herself behind Sherry’s legs.
Wide brown eyes stared at me with the same look most children—and a few adults—gave me. I was freakishly large compared to most people. Only a handful of men in Kimton had matched my size, and they were rare exceptions.
I lowered myself into a crouch, which still made me taller than Abby.
“Hey, Abby,” I said softly. “Do you want to see something neat?”
She didn’t answer. Just blinked up at me like I was some monstrous creature that had wandered onto the ship.
So I pulled out the sky-blue helicopter stick.
I gave it a gentle spin between my palms. The wooden blades caught the air and whirled upward about a meter before drifting back down.
Abby’s eyes widened. Hook, line, and sinker.
I spun it faster—this time sending the little toy soaring several meters into the air. Sunlight gleamed off the painted blades as it climbed.
A smile crept onto her face.
“Should we see how high I can get it?” I asked.
A vigorous nod was my answer.
I spun it harder—really putting my arms into it—and launched it straight up. The breeze caught it and carried it out over the rail.
A ripple of gasps spread across the deck as the toy floated over open water.
Without hesitation, everyone rushed to the ship’s railing, craning to see where it might land. Abby pressed against the rail, tiny fingers gripping the wood, eyes full of dread.
The copter touched down—gently—in the water below.
Exactly as planned.
“A silver penny,” I shouted, “to the first person who retrieves the helicopter stick for my little cousin Abby!”
There was a heartbeat of stunned silence.
Then half the crew hurled themselves overboard with gleeful shouts, splashing into the waist-deep water in a chaotic race. Men cheered from the deck. Abby broke into fits of giggles, bouncing in place as sailors dove, stumbled, and flailed toward the drifting toy.
Everyone was laughing.
Everyone except Sherry.
She stood stiff as a board, arms crossed, the sour expression of a woman who had just bitten straight into a lemon. Her glare alone could curdle milk.
Well. Challenge accepted.
I approached her with my friendliest smile.
“My dear cousin Sherry, it is so good to finally meet you. You look absolutely stunning.”
Not even a twitch. She was carved from stone.
“Count Bicman,” she said with a polite bow so stiff it could have cut glass. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
She couldn’t have sounded less pleased if she’d tried.
Fine. New tactic.
“Really,” I said cheerfully. “I was so surprised by your beautiful appearance that at first I thought you were the mistress John keeps talking about.”
Her mouth dropped open like someone had cut the string holding her jaw in place. She looked between me and her brother, stunned, furious, and trying to decide who to kill first.
John’s eyes went wide. He practically leapt between us, arms waving frantically.
“Sherry! Sherry, calm down—he was only joking! I told you, he’s a bit eccentric.”
“He called me—!”
“He was trying to get me in trouble,” John said quickly. “It wasn’t anything against you.”
I burst out laughing. “John, you should see your face right now. I had no idea you were so afraid of your sister.”
Her jaw snapped shut, opened, snapped shut again. Then, with a furious huff, she spun on her heel and stormed back below deck, nearly sending the hatch slamming off its hinges.
John and I watched her vanish.
Once we were safely sure she was out of earshot, John rounded on me.
“Really, Amos? Did you have to do that?”
“I couldn’t help myself,” I said with a shrug. “She just…ugh. And besides—she came looking for a fight.”
John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I now understand why you aren’t married. Amos, as your older and much wiser cousin, might I suggest you not call women whores when you first meet them?”
I nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Yes. I see now. Your sage wisdom is a blessing indeed.”
He glared. “That better not be sarcasm.”
“That was payback for coming here to fleece me, by the way.”
“Seriously,” he said with a sigh. “You need to get over that. I’m a merchant—I try to fleece everyone. Besides…” He hesitated, then added, “On the way here, Sherry said—and I quote—‘Take that noble for all he is worth.’”
I stared at him.
“Wow,” I said dryly. “What wonderful relatives I have. And you wanted me to be nice to her?”
I rubbed my hands together, feeling the spark of mischief warm me from the inside.
“I think,” I said, “I will make her stay here as memorable as I possibly can.”
Hector Yarbeth, son of Weston Yarbeth
He paced the narrow hall like a caged animal, boots striking the stone with clipped irritation. This wretched manor was enough to drive any sane man mad. There was nothing to do here—no gatherings, no music halls, no refined company. His wife was six months pregnant, and there was not a single pleasure district in the entire county where a man could unwind.
“You need to come hunting with me, brother,” Quinton drawled from a chair he’d half-collapsed into. “You look like you’re about to kill someone.”
“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Hector snapped. “I want to be in a pleasure district in Easton.”
Quinton rolled his eyes. “You are truly obsessed. Invite one of the maids if you need to… act like an animal.”
Hector ignored the jab. “I would—if Father had brought any worth inviting. I swear he did it intentionally.”
“Well… there are those odd people near Cofi,” Quinton said thoughtfully.
“The savages?” Hector scoffed.
“I hear they have hair the color of gold,” Quinton mused, “or like a flame.”
Hector paused. He remembered the tales—strange reclusive people with odd customs, rarely seen outside their stone-walled villages. Perhaps it was worth checking. It was only a couple of hours’ ride, and if nothing else, it would ease his mind.
And even if the count was a fool, he was at least a fool who built very good roads.
*******
The wind tugged sharply at Hector’s cloak as he rode, but the day was pleasant. Fields rolled out on either side—healthy, vigorous, lush with green. As good as any field in Yarbeth. The young greens were beginning to grow their stalks; barley and oats were thick and strong. Beans and root crops he knew less about, but even those seemed to be growing well. He didn't understand why people had complained about these lands. Probably to avoid taxes.
A pity they had ruined so many fields by overplanting. Any fool knew you let land lie fallow every other year. Bicman had insisted on a third-year rotation, switching crops instead. A ridiculous notion. Father would fix that nonsense next year.
As Hector approached the village of Karr, he slowed. The place was… fortified. Stone walls rose solid and imposing, thick enough to withstand a siege. Far sturdier than any village in Yarbeth. Strange people, these Karr.
He didn’t need to go inside to find what he sought. A handful of women were working the fields outside—three young, the rest older. They all stood quickly when he rode up, brushing the dirt from their well-made clothing. Their dyes were rich. Their stitching neat. For “savages,” they dressed better than many townsfolk.
But it was their hair that stole his attention—burning red, bundled tightly into buns, held with hair sticks, though a few fiery strands escaped and danced around their faces like little wisps of flames.
And the younger ones… well, they were certainly pleasing enough.
Hector’s gaze settled on one woman, early twenties, strong posture, striking in a way the others were not.
“You,” he commanded, pointing with a gloved hand. “I have come to invite you to the manor this evening. To keep me company.”
No blush. No shock. No coyness. Just a level, unflinching stare.
“You seek to bed me?” she asked flatly.
Hector recoiled. The bluntness. The complete lack of decorum. It was obvious why these people avoided society—no refinement at all.
But he recovered quickly, offering his most charming smile.
“Yes. I find you attractive. And my wife is indisposed.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” she replied, “but I must decline. It is against the custom of our people. The goddess Yaris and her husband Henlic, first of the gods to institute marriage, decreed that intimacy is for the married alone. Thus it has been, and thus it will be.”
Her calm words poured oil on the fire of his irritation.
“You would deny your lord?” he snapped.
“I would deny any man, no matter their station—as would any woman of the Karr.”
His temper spiked. “And what if I insist?”
She didn’t flinch.
“Then you would be breaking the law of both Falmoren and North Cove,” she said. “The law of Falmoren states no person may be taken without consent. The lord of this land has expanded that law further. The punishment is fine and immediate banishment. If the rape leads to death, the criminal pays with their life.”
Hector’s vision tinged red.
“You don’t actually think these rules apply to me?” he shouted.
“It has already been proven,” she said calmly. “A noble was banished after forcing himself upon a girl in Melnon.”
“I am the son of a baron.”
“I suggest you take up your concern about how the law applies to you with the Descended—Count Bicman. I would advise you not to act rashly. It would be… embarrassing… for a family who has just sworn obedience to their lord to immediately break his laws.”
Her tone remained cool and unshaken.
Hector ground his teeth. Lord Bicman would use any excuse to humiliate the House of Yarbeth. But he could not—would not—let this insult stand.
“We shall see.”
He turned sharply, riding off with the two guards he’d brought. Dust kicked up behind them.
Neither he nor the guards noticed the subtle movement behind them—one of the young women adjusting her hair, letting a long red strand fall free. As she did, she slid a pair of metal hair sticks with wooden knobs down her sleeve, eyes tracking Hector’s retreat.
When they were finally out of earshot, Hector leaned toward the closest guard.
“Burn this field tonight,” he ordered. “Bring oil if you must. I want them to remember their place.”
That night A sliver of Karr’s fields burned under the dark sky. Flames hissed as they chewed through wheat and dry grass.
And three soldiers of the House of Yarbeth… vanished. No trace would be found.