butt him out of the way. He stared towards the shore, blinking in shock as a hundred different possibilities presented themselves for consideration.
“Yes. Quite sudden, apparently. Probably choked on a monkey or something.” Bomthe chuckled, and Marius assumed that the comment passed for humour wherever he came from. “Anyway, we’re for the off if we want to be presented to the wife and kids before teatime. I’ll be representing the Kingdom of Scorby, naturally, and you…”
“Yes?”
“Well, you paid for the trip. Thought you might like a free feed into the bargain.” Bomthe laughed again at his natural wit, and resumed his walk. “Come along now. Mustn’t be late. They may not be real royalty but I still don’t fancy a spear in the belly, yes?”
The belly wasn’t the first part of Bomthe that Marius would stick a spear into, but he dogged the captain’s heels and followed him across deck to a rope ladder and down into a rowboat tied alongside. He’d had no desire to set foot on the island, but this new development merited all sorts of investigation. He may not be a real king, Marius decided as they pulled away from the side of the
FIFTEEN
The island was not only as bad as it sounded, Marius thought as he stood ankle-deep in the scummy wash and watched sailors pull the longboat up the rocky beach, it was as bad as it could be made to sound. They had landed in the centre of a curving beach that provided the only stretch of sand on this side of the island, and now stood exposed on a wind-scoured strip of grey pebbles. Behind them lay a fringe of whitened, low-lying scrub and a few stunted trees that leaned over in the wind like pensioners at a soup kitchen. At the far end of the beach, in the dubious shelter of a small, twisted copse, a collection of huts marked the beginnings and end of human habitation at this end of the peninsula. As far as Marius could tell, none of the pathetic flora of the island had been harmed in the construction of the village. Instead, it appeared as if the huts had been cobbled together from whatever flotsam had washed up on the shore over the last three hundred years, as well as a smattering of items that could only have been stolen from visiting ships. Surely, no captain would willingly let go of the map board that served as the window shutter of that hut there, for example, or the collection of hand mirrors that tinkled in the wind from their current duty as some sort of half-assed mobile in that hut over there’s half-assed garden.
A group of barely-dressed natives lounged under the trees, watching with disinterest as the crew swore and strained to drag the boat above the water line. Marius stared back at them, a look of deeply-held pain scrawled across his features. Eventually, the sounds of cursing withered away, and Marius glanced over his shoulder to see Bomthe lining the sailors up into some sort of ragged double line. He turned, and nodded to Marius with a smile.
“Shall we proceed, Mister Helles?”
Marius raised a hand towards the village. “Where? There?”
“That’s right. Stand
“You’re kidding me.”
“Kidding?” Bomthe’s smile was as nasty as the wind. “Why would I kid, Mister Helles? This village controls the only safe embarkation point on the entire southern peninsula. Any trade that comes, comes through here. In local terms, these people are the rich and noble. If we wish to continue trading with them, we need to make with the nicey nicey. Adjust that scabbard, Pergess, or you’ll be using it to carry your pego.” From the speed with which the sailor in question complied, Marius was only half-sure the threat was idle. Finally satisfied with the comportment of his troops, Bomthe swung around and raised his hand. “Ready, men. Mister Helles?”
Grudgingly, Marius trudged out of the surf to stand at Bomthe’s side.
“Forward!” As one, the detachment strode ahead, or rather, they shuffled and slid across the rolling pebbles beneath their feet, stifling whatever curses sprung to their chapped and bitten lips. The natives waited until the column was almost upon them. Then one of the older men leaned down and cuffed a boy sitting at his feet, who slowly rose and wandered down into the village, kicking at the ripples of sand that marked the short path.
“Halt!” Bomthe commanded. The column shuffled to a stop. Marius stared into the centre of the half dozen huts. A small trestle had been erected in front of the largest of them, a pile of foot-long strips of bark to one side. Arranged along the table’s length were more strips. On top of them lay a range of unidentifiable lumps of various dull colours. Past the trestle, a spit turned over a small fire, staffed by a bare-breasted teenage girl who frowned with concentration as she pulled something from one nostril with an extended finger and flicked it into the fire. The creature on the spit could have been no more unmistakably a dog if it still wore its tags. Marius swallowed, and was answered by the taste of bile.
“Now what?” he muttered.
“Now we wait for the new King to make his appearance,” Bomthe replied, “and invite us to join the splendour of his inauguration feast.”
“You make a magnificent liar.” Marius couldn’t take his eyes from the slowly rotating dog. The young cook caught his eye, snorted, and spat something thick into the flames.
“I am a diplomat,” Bomthe said, following Marius’ gaze, “and a servant of the king. Such service has its occasional sacrifices.”
In the moments before Marius could formulate a reply, the new King chose to make his entrance. To their credit, none of the sailors so much as smirked as the balding, pudgy monarch swept out of the largest hut, his crown of bark and nut casings sitting high on his round head, a cloak made from strips of what looked to Marius like a variety of old naval uniforms trailing behind his loin cloth-clad body. He paused to look over his shabby dominion, then stared with regal haughtiness at the assembled company. Bomthe stepped forward, removed his hat, and bowed low. He glared upwards at Marius, and with a sigh, Marius copied his action. There was a shuffle behind him as the sailors did likewise. The King waited until even Marius was beginning to feel an uncomfortable stretching sensation in the small of his back, then issued a command in a voice that resembled a small child experiencing explosive diarrhoea. Two natives armed with spears emerged from either side of the hut and tapped Bomthe on the shoulders. He straightened, and motioned his men to do the same. Two sailors from the rear of the cohort stepped forward, bearing between them a sea trunk that had seen better days. Better months, if truth be told, Marius thought as he gazed at it. The sailors laid it down before the King and opened the lid, stepping back quickly to their place closest to the point of escape. The monarch bent his portly frame down into the open trunk until he disappeared behind the open lid. Marius risked a glance at Bomthe.
“An inauguration gift,” the captain muttered.
The King straightened and raised his hands. Hanging from them were several rows of brightly coloured bead necklaces. Marius bit his upper lip.
“From Manky Glenis in the Pudding Square markets more like,” he mumbled back. “I’d recognise her tat anywhere.”
“It is never unwise to be prudent in one’s outlay,” Bomthe replied as the King raised his booty high above his head and called to his people in a joyous voice. “Besides, one must tailor one’s gifts to the expectations of the receiver. It would seem we have made the right estimation in this instance.” Before them, the King was busy rummaging through the trunk, dispensing penny rings and five-for-a-thruppence bead bracelets to the stream of islanders who had appeared from nowhere at his call. He looked over to Bomthe and nodded with expansive humour, a gesture the captain accepted with a small incline of the head. “It would seem we are now welcome in His Majesty’s realm.”
“Oh, happy day.”
“Don’t underestimate the value of our trade here, Mister Helles,” Bomthe said as he turned and dismissed the men, who quickly sought the shade of the nearby trees, and the company of the island girls who were keen to show off their new jewellery to the tanned sailors so admiring of their charms. “We do very well from our commercial endeavours here. The archipelago is a source of almost unending bleaching and heating elements.”
Marius stared at him while understanding took long seconds to register. “Shit?” he finally asked. “You trade for shit?”
“I believe the commercial term is guano,” Bomthe strode into the square and greeted the new ruler with a
