The burial at sea had left me pensive. We had retrieved only three of the seven bodies from their cabins, Gimor had deemed it safe to enter since there was not a whole lot of blood. Martyn, one of the elder sailors, had died in the disease's early stages. His heart had given out from exhaustion before the bleeding set in. Lergon had gotten himself tangled up in sheets and a hammock during his wild spasmic dance, making it easy to drag him without touching the corpse. But it was not their faces, frozen in terror, that haunted my nights. It wasn't the four men we had left entombed in their cabins either, not Segan, Kiony, Bryce and Wenyd.
It was the boy.
Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw him before me. Sunken down in front of the bunk bed, only the crude noose made from his shirt holding him in an upright position. The discoloration of his skin, the stare of his empty, dead eyes. The desperate determination it must have taken to spare himself from the worst of the fever's effects.
"What was his name?" I asked before we cast the bodies into the ocean.
"Nav or Nev, I believe," someone answered from behind. "Nobody knew him too well, he spent most of his time with Kiony."
I mumbled when I said the prayer to the Seven, hoping they'd catch my meaning and bestow their mercy upon the right soul.
﴾ _ ﴿
We found the settlement on the Isle of Flies abandoned, only moldly planks of what had been a makeshift dock remained. Perhaps I had been too trusting toward friendly natives who so clearly meant us no harm. Evidently, their information was outdated and I cursed myself for not asking when they had last traded with this place. Once again, our supplies were dwingling, but by now the crew had gotten used to rationed rum and food.
We sent a boat to the island, hoping to find at least a few useful things left behind, but the landing party returned empty-handed. They reported an overpowering foul stench that got stronger the closer they rowed to the island, making it hard to breathe when they reached the shore. Flies the size of coins harrassed them as they searched the remains of the dock, the amorphous black swarms emerging from thickets were visible even from the distance. Our men were covered in insect bites and reddened rashes, with watering eyes and running noses, when they returned to the Azure Tide, and it took them several days to recover enough to resume their daily duties.
The second port turned out to be little more than a rickety assembly of fishing huts, located on the northern shore of the Isle of Wails. A fisher who had to be a hundred years old parted with a tattered map in exchange for two jugs of Naathi wine. He barely spoke our language and the negotiations for this simple deal took longer than I liked, but in the end he agreed to mark the locations of recently sprung up smuggler's dens, and that was well-worth the time.
The island, mountainous and overgrown with thick jungles, was a glimpse of hope after our brief encounter with the putrid Isle of Flies. The humid heat was less pressing under the canopies of the trees, and the absence of buzzing insect swarms came as a welcome surprise. Shyras, the cook, asked for permission to gather herbs, roots and mushrooms, and I gladly granted it as the food had been monotonous and bland ever since it had to be rationed. The old fisherman took a hammock as payment for showing us the edible plants in the lighter parts of the jungle. Admittedly, I had been too trusting with the Naathi, but this man was too gruff, too greedy to raise my suspicions. He didn't try to lure us into a false sense of safety; despite the language barrier he was forthcoming with information, albeit for a price.
Only when evening came, we learned why the Isle of Wails was shunned by many sailors. In the dusky twilight the forest came alive with strange whispers, the wailing and moaning of a thousand lost souls. Though our guide assured us that it was only the wind howling in the mountains, the haunted murmurs sounded all too real and inhuman to stay any longer. With a decent yield of herbs and a handful of roots we rowed back to the Azure Tide, chased by the eponymous wails from the foreboding jungles.
The nearest mark on our newly acquired map roused some discussion, as it was an offshore crag colloquially known as Fort Pus. Many small ports of the Basilisk Isles sprung up in the morning and were gone before moonlight fell upon them, but Fort Pus was as constant and solid as the rock it stood on. Though the occupants changed every once in a while, the fort was never abandoned, not even for one single day. There'd be people, there'd be supplies, it was as certain as the sun's rise in the east.
What made the possibility of stocking up there so controversial was the reason why Fort Pus maintained a constant presence of pirates and smugglers. Situated in the bay of Malady Reef, the fort overlooked and guarded the beach of the larger island. There were legends about the Red Death still haunting its jungles, the very disease that had eradicated the Basilisks' native population hundreds of years ago, during the Century of Blood. Even if the rumors were not true, Malady Reef was festering with poverty, misery and disease. The powerful pirate bands of Talon sent those inflicted with infectious diseases to the northwestern island, and people they found deserving of a fate worse than death. To keep the afflicted contained, they had agreed upon a truce long ago, and it had resulted in a surprisingly steady cooperation between otherwise quarreling groups. When it came to Malady Reef, even the most ruthless corsair kings set their differences aside and worked together to ensure the maintenance of their fort. They provided men, supplies and ships to patrol the shores of the island, making sure none of the diseased could hope to escape. Any raft or dinghy trying to leave Malady Reef was sunk by the nimble galleys, flying the fort's unified flag, black with a red skull screaming in agony to the sky.
The patrol ships were too small to take on a ship the size of the Azure Tide, and according to heresay, their crews were always happy for distractions from their dreary assignment. However, after our brush with the Butterfly Fever, the proximity to a colony that housed every disease known to man was a strong enough deterrent to make us pass up on the supplies we could gain. And so we set course for Talon, the true destination of our journey, sailing along the coast of the Isle of Wails. With luck, we'd happen upon a lair the old man hadn't heard of, and if we didn't we'd just have to hold out two or three days longer. For once, Gimor and I were in agreement, and with a few reckless – or especially thirsty – exceptions, there were no complaints from the crew when we decreased the rations even further.
﴾ _ ﴿
Barter Beach appeared as a center of civilization in the bleak, desolate seascape of the western islands. It was the most stalwart one of the pirate nests, changing its location only once every few years and never moving too far from Talon's largest dock. After our departure from the shores of Naath, we had only caught sight of a patrol ship from Fort Pus in the distance, otherwise it had seemed as if we were all alone in the Summer Sea for the past two or three weeks. Now we saw several ships anchored when we arrived, most of them smaller galleys of raiders, and it understandably sparked much excitement among my haggard crew.
The Azure Tide was not the only ship that didn't sail under the flag of an outlaw band or corsair king. Some of my crewmen recognized two trade vessels from Meereen in the harbor. Slavers, perhaps hoping to strike bargains the Ghiscari cities didn't offer, or in search of exotic spectacles for the famed fighting pits. But however despicable their practices and intention may have been, their presence also meant relatively safety in this port. Pirates came here to trade, chiefly among their own kind, but they didn't turn away customers from far away shores either, and had no interest in attacking foreign ships.
The days of meager rations were soon little more than a distant memory of the past. The merchants here spoke the Trade Talk, some even conversed in the Common Tongue, albeit with strong accents, and we had no trouble to communicate what we needed. Our coins were as welcome as those of the slavers, and we filled our cargo bays with ease. While Gimor handled the business transactions and had the newly acquired supplies brought to our ship, I took in the sights and marvels of the sprawling markets of Barter Beach.
Merchants peddled everything one could imagine and more, from exotic spices and potions to the finest drinks in the world. Some scents wafting from the makeshift awnings were strong, unfamiliar and pungent in the humid heat, others were pleasant and tempting. Gruff fellows had dressed up as merchants in mismatched attire and tried to sell me barrels, sometimes even shiploads, of exotic delicacies. Saffron from Qarth, persimmons from the Free Cities, sesame seeds and black peppers from the distant shores of Yi-Ti. The atmosphere on Barter Beach was so vibrant and blithe, I almost forgot every last thing here had been stolen from ships that returned to their native ports after long, dangerous journeys.
The market district located close to the shore offered practical wares; linen and timber, tools and ropes were displayed, and a vendor touted his selection of sails in all sizes and colors. In another area I saw guarded shacks and fenced stages, and most of the Meereenese were gathered here in small groups. Once I realized that this was where slave auctions were held, I kept a distance and didn't venture further in this direction, though I admit my curiosity had been piqued. I had heard tales about the fighting pits of Meereen, and many a stranded sailor in the taverns of Oldtown had made the fights out to be the greatest spectacle he had ever beheld. Of course, most of these stories were wildly exaggerated, but knowing this only made me more curious to catch a glimpse of the truth. While absently browsing bales of cloth, silk and velvet, I stole glances to an incipient auction on a nearby stage. However, apparently only domestic slaves were on offer, and the sight of a potential pit fighter wasn't granted to me.
The bustle didn't diminish when evening came, but I felt overwhelmed by the new impressions. We no longer had to worry about rations and fading supplies, and it was time to turn our attention to the investigation we had been tasked with by Lord Buntley. Maester Jeraume had shipped several pieces of artwork to Oldtown from Talon, yet I had not seen paintings, tapestries or statues for sale. If there were art connoisseurs here, they kept their business well-hidden, but I was determined to discover their dwellings. And so I gathered a small party of men and went where tongues were loosened and secrets were spilled.
﴾ _ ﴿
The 'Wicked Wench', a tavern housed in the belly of a derelict ship by the beach, was more spacious than it looked from the outside. Compartment walls had been removed and cabins had been connected, and instead of ladders a flight of winding stairs led to the upper deck. The remodelling there had been less extensive At least the structure of separate cabins had been maintained as most of the deck was taken up by Barter Beach's largest brothel. What used to be the captain's quarter was now the private room of the brothel's madame, a swarthy woman who had squeezed her voluminous body into a bright green Qartheen gown.
After seeing the surprisingly luxuriant decorations on this deck, I asked my companion if she could arrange an audience, and I was promptly denied. "Madame Nyagai dislikes nosy strangers," she told me while I put on my clothes. "If you have no pretty girls to sell, you won't be received." It didn't deter me from my plan, however, the madame's door was closed when I left the concubine's cabin. Left and right stood two guards, each of them the size of a bear, their skin brindled with strange patterns, and neither looked particularly willing to listen to my request.
I went downstairs to the common room that occupied what had once been the cargo deck of the ship. Only two sailors of my party had already returned there, but there's one a thing a wealthy man never lacks in a tavern: company. And so I soon found myself surrounded by a group of sailors, far from sober, in high spirits and more eager to share information than the women upstairs.
The chattiest new 'best friend' I had made that evening was Niqhal, the bosun of a ship that roamed the Gulf of Grief, hunting trade vessels bound for the ports of Slaver's Bay. He claimed to be the son of a famed Mounted Guard from Astapor, but I had my doubts about this story. The stained red head wrap covered his hair and a scrubby black beard obscured his features, but neither could fully hide a complexion too light for an Astapori noble. I humored him though, expressed admiration for the choice to break with tradition and forge his own path, away from the watchful eye of his revered father.
"No, no, put those coins back!" Niqhal slapped away Davyn's hand just when it was about to drop some more coins in the bowl with our wagers. "Put that in there." He pointed to the buttons on Davyn's vest, then nodded to his companion, a brindled man the size of a horse.
"What?" Davyn looked down on himself as if there was any doubt what Niqhal meant.
"Cut off the buttons and put them in the bowl," Niqhal slowly repeated. "I like this tavern, I don't want to see it destroyed yet again."
I studied the brindled man, apparently aptly nicknamed 'Button' by his crewmates, while pretending to consider the cards in my hand. Button hadn't said a word since the game had started, except for a few incoherent grunts when he wanted more rum. He certainly didn't give the impression of a man gifted with wit, but he had been introduced as the crew's treasurer shortly after they had joined our table.
"And I don't want to see my only vest rendered useless." Davyn put his cards down and crossed his arms to cover his chest and the buttons in question. "I thought you're broke and in dire need of money to buy supplies for your next raid! Buttons aren't going to pay for fresh water and cured meat."
Niqhal rolled his eyes, or more accurately the left one, as the right one was lazy and made it hard to tell where he was looking. "Aye, we need money," he confirmed and annoyed sigh followed. "Button is too dumb to piss in a bucket, but he's good with games of chance. Unless a miracle happens and somebody buys the cursed carrack we seized, he's our best bet to win us the money. He likes coins just fine, but he likes buttons much more. Makes him angry if he doesn't get what he wants, so there better be some buttons in that bowl by the end of the night."
"Put some buttons in that bowl," I told Davyn. "That's an order." I grabbed the jug of rum and refilled Niqhal's mug, then my own. "We're looking for friends here, for information, not for trouble. I'm sure we can find a new vest for you on the market tomorrow."
Davyn grunted something unintelligible into his beard, but he pulled out his dagger and cut off two of the buttons from his vest. The eyes of the enormous treasurer lit up as these treasures were added to the wagers, Niqhal relaxed and reached for his mug. "Information, you say?" he casually inquired. "Perhaps your new friends can aid you in that regard. What are you looking for? The Basilisks have been my home for twenty years, there's nothing I can't find for you here." He took another swig from his rum and nodded to Button. "Even been to the ruins of Zamettar once or twice to trade with his people. Not worth the trouble if you ask me, but it still makes for a good tale. And some collectors like the furs of strange beasts the Brindled Men hunt."
"We're looking for a man," I prevented him from telling yet another half-remembered story about a long past voyage. "A Westerosi maester and artist, older than me, thin ash blond hair, named Jeraume."
Niqhal shot me an incredulous glance, then he burst out in laughter and Button chimed in, though I didn't get the impression he really knew why. "An artist, here?" Niqhal took a deep breath to regain his composure. "I'm afraid that's something not even I can find for you. There are no artists here. We don't need them! If we want art, we simply seize a ship from the Free Cities. Those captains, I tell you, their cabins have it all. Carpets, tapestries, fancy curtains, it's a miracle they still have room for their cargo!"
"I'm not looking for artwork," I corrected. "I was tasked with finding the man who made it. A number of sculptures for a collector, my employer, in Oldtown. The last shipment he received came from Talon, and Maester Jeraume named the Basilisks as the destination of his last voyage. He came here for a particular kind of stone, 'Valyrian Marble' he called it."
Niqhal studied me for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether I was serious about my request or just pulling his leg. "Put those coins back in," he then turned to Davyn and pushed the bowl with our wagers closer to him.
"Frankly, I'm having my doubts if I came to the right place," I quickly added. Niqhal's expression said he knew something, it was only a matter of convincing him that it was worth his while to share it with me. "I've been scouring the markets all day in search of stone carvings and merchants dabbling in artwork, and haven't found either. However, I saw treasure troves overflowing with elaborate decor upstairs, each of the girls has a room fit for a queen. Somebody must have sold it all to Madame Nyagai, but my girl insisted I wouldn't be granted an audience to ask for a name."
"The madame doesn't receive strangers," Niqhal gave back, absently looking back and forth between his cards and the bowl on the table. "She consorts with corsair kings and trusted suppliers. Takes years to build a reputation that will open her door for you." He paused when I reached for my purse, took a handful of coins and added a considerable sum to the wager. "My captain met her once, and only once, four years ago," Niqhal continued. "Sold her a shipment of red wine from Volantis, and some barrels of beets. Don't think she'd receive him again though, even if he was stricken with a fever. Terrible summer storms ravaged the sea back then, not many ships reached this port. The madame had to make an exception and deal with us small fish to keep her business going."
He still hadn't made up his mind about my inquiry, I could see it in his good left eye, but all he needed was a little nudge in the right direction. I gestured for Davyn's dagger, then carefully cut off the golden buttons from the sleeves of my coat. Button's enthralled glare followed them as I dropped the precious loot into the bowl, and surprise flashed on Niqhal's face when I folded my hand. "Luck doesn't appear to be on our side tonight," I said, looking to Davyn, prompting him to drop his cards with a resigned sigh.
"However..." Niqhal not so subtly pushed his empty mug toward me. "You don't need to speak to Madame Nyagai to learn the names of her suppliers. I might know a few men who sail with the Pale Harpy, the corsair king of Port Plunder, not far from here on the northeastern shore." He leaned back, stretched his back and let his gaze sweep the tavern. "It's possible I spotted one or two of these men here today. Can't say for certain, but if there was some good rum on the table it might attract their attention. If they are indeed here..."
﴾ _ ﴿
Damodhor Zhu looked even more imposing than Button, and he sure had the manners to match. While not quite as tall or bulky as the Sothoryi, I didn't doubt that the self-proclaimed 'Menace of the Indigo Straits' could take the tavern apart all by himself. His ebony skin was painted with strange, white patterns, he drank for three, and he exposed sharp, filed fangs whenever he laughed. He spoke with a thick Summer accent, almost hissing at times, but he was in high spirits and that made him more talkative than Niqhal had expected. Apparently his captain, the infamous Ghiscari they called the Pale Harpy, had seized an Ibbenese whaling ship and dispatched Damodhor to get rum and whores for the celebration of this grand prize.
"Westerners don't last long on these isles," Damodhor told me between the third and fourth jug of rum I had treated him to. "If someone took him hostage and the ransom still hasn't been paid a year later, I'd be very surprised if you'd find your man alive now."
"No ransom has been demanded," I gave back. "Instead a shipment, a breathtaking statue, was delivered to his benefactor, the same man who tasked me with finding the artist. His wealth is well-known, he would have been an easy target for extortion. That no demands were made, and that the statue was sent to Oldtown, leads me to believe Jeraume was not held here against his will. I believe..."
"Jeraume?" Little white flakes of chalk paint fluttered from his forehead when Damodhor's brow furrowed in thought. There was a spark of recognition in his eyes, he was trying to put a face to the name and he succeeded. "I remember him," he finally said. "Didn't know where he hailed from, I took him for a Lyseni. Hard to tell you pale folks apart." He took a swig straight from the jug, then slammed it back on the table. "He's had dealings with the Pale Harpy in the past, even stayed as a guest in the Maw for months at a time. Not recently though, come to think, but the captain might know where your artist friend went."
"Would it be possible to speak to him?" I bluntly inquired. The hour was late and by now I was inebriated enough to not fear repercussions. "As I said, my employer is rather generous. I'd certainly make it worth your captain's while."
"I don't see why not." Damodhor emptied the jug and got up from his chair. "If you're ready to embark tomorrow, I'll let you trail my ship and lead you to the Maw. But now I have to take care of business, Madame Nyagai is waiting." He was about to leave and head for the stairs, but he paused when he noticed Button's reproachful glare. With a resigned sigh, Damodhor reached for his necklace, a collection of seashells, gemstones, teeth of men and beasts, and plucked a large, round button from it. He placed it on the table in front of Button, grabbed the remaining jug of rum and turned to leave. "Meet me at the docks in the morning," he said, then staggered toward the winding stairs through the crowd.