In Search of Spice Read online

  IN SEARCH OF

  SPICE

  REX SUMNER

  Published in June 2015 by

  MyVoice Publishing

  www.myvoicepublishing.co.uk

  Copyright © Rex Sumner 2015

  The right of Rex Sumner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover and interior artwork by Maria Gandolfo.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

  without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-1-909359-26-0

  Note: this is a work of fiction. No characters are based on actual people, alive or dead; policies and actions of countries and governments depicted bear no relation to actual historical fact. Customs of various people are from the authors imagination and have no bearing on actual customs of any people.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements III

  Harrhein IV

  Extracted from the Royal Records in Praesidium VI

  Treason 1

  Fearaigh 16

  Farewells 29

  Departure 59

  Spakka 77

  Sailing 98

  Storms 124

  Lovers 143

  Honeymoon 182

  Surfing 204

  A Tender Embrace 244

  Battle 271

  Sung 306

  Trade 336

  Hind 363

  Kalikut 391

  Vijaya 414

  Epilogue 442

  Thank You for reading! 445

  About the Author 446

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to give particular thanks to my wonderful team of readers who have provided valuable reaction to this book. Without you guys this work would be very different. I have thanked particular contributions by naming a character after you, although their disgusting habits and interesting behaviour bear no relation to your own.

  I would also like to thank the many authors, too many to list, whom I have enjoyed over the years, and whose work has of course influenced my own.

  Particular thanks to my sons who were the first to read the manuscript and influence the early direction of the book, and to my long suffering wife who has delighted in my enthusiasm and encouraged me to write for decades.

  I must emphasize that you should not expect to find any of the customs described in this book anywhere in the world. Yes, I have borrowed liberally from many cultures but adapted the customs to suit my world. You may rightly recognise Fijian customs, however the Fijians are a very modest people, unlike the Vituans.

  The interesting custom from Malacca, while being historical fact in our world, is unlikely to persist to this day. The custom of the Sung to carry a number of courtesans with them is directly borrowed from historical Chinese accounts. Personally, I think it was a much more civilised approach to meeting new people than the Western one of overbearing force.

  I am not a swordsman, Asmara would run me through in a moment. While I know some terms, specialist moves like the Heron Strike are entirely my imagination, not designed for imitation.

  Welcome to Harrhein and please enjoy a world vibrant in its differences.

  Rex Sumner

  Kuala Lumpur 2015

  Harrhein

  Over the past five hundred years, the kings of Harrhein consolidated the kingdom by conquest, bringing Fearaigh and Galicia into the country.

  Coillearnacha stayed separate, with another race, Elves, occupying the western shores. An uneasy truce prevails, with frequent raids from both sides of the border.

  No one knows what happens in the far north. Expeditions founder on the enmity of native peoples.

  To the east lie the islands and peninsulas of the warlike Spakka, who delight in raiding Harrhein and capture every ship they can, while in every other direction lies limitless ocean.

  To break free, the people of Harrhein need to make a deep sea vessel and sail over the edge of the world.

  Extracted from the Royal Records in Praesidium

  Part of the Charter for raising the Queen Rose, the list of those brave and adventurous souls who underwrote the cost of the expedition.

  Treason

  A tall austere man walked through the doorway from the inn and spoke to the booth’s sole occupant. “Hello Victor. Have you picked the Champion yet?”

  The elderly man turned from his seat in the gallery overlooking the fighting court and smiled.

  “Oliver! Oliver Bouvier! What a surprise, and just in time, my wine glass is empty and the bottle is gone. The Navarre red is excellent. As to the blades, well I think we are going to see some unusual upsets today.”

  Oliver turned and gestured to a serving girl. “A bottle of Navarre red, if you please.” He seated himself beside Victor, easing his spare frame into the seat and looked with disapproval into the salle. “A cryptic clue as always. What have you seen?”

  “There’s a girl come through the qualifying, don’t know who she is but her craftsmanship is awesome. She has been going through her opponents like chaff, and one opponent even resigned rather than face her. She is fighting next, up against a professional from Lansbridge, her first real test. Here she comes now.”

  A girl strode out of the fighters tunnel into the courtyard, tall and elegant, moving lithely like a panther. She was slim and willowy, with broad, muscled shoulders, a little heavier on the right. She wore the leather and chain mail armour of a bladesman, plus a mask over her eyes, enough to obscure recognition. Bright, dark red hair was visible under her hauberk and a beautiful rapier grew out of her hand as if it was permanent.

  “A beauty, and young, I reckon. Who is she?”

  “No idea, but she has been damn well taught. Strong too, see how tall she is. Only girl to make it through qualifying.”

  A buzz went through the crowd and a cheer arose from the open area below

  “What’s that they are calling her? Russet? And Red Rattna? That awful barbarian queen who bathes in her victims’ blood? Don’t we know her real name and background?”

  “No, she’s a mystery entrant. She has red hair and a quick blade, that’s enough for the crowds. See, she wears a small mask, as is her right. It is clear she is a Noble’s daughter who has worked with an expert bladesman. She uses a rapier very well, going through all the parries fluidly and automatically. In one of the bouts she met a compound attack by a simple displacement combined with an envelopment and took him.”

  “I have no idea what you said.”

  “Ah, Oliver, if you are going to watch fencing, you should learn the terms.”

  “I don’t care about the terms or fencing, I only came to speak with you. Disgraceful they let a girl compete.”

  “I think like everyone else you hope to see a little blood, and I am sure even a puritan like you would enjoy a girl’s blood even more.”

  “Or a lot. Even better. Damn Papists, happy to see them all die. Not sure if the crowd want to see the girl’s blood or see her shed others blood.” He mused this last, looking around at the crowd and stroking his prominent nose.

  “Well, I think they will be disappointed. She’s a clean fighter; she hits the marks perfectly and never takes a risk. At least not yet. She may have to at this level. Just look at Morten. You can see he won’t give her an inch.”

  The fighters were ready, toeing the line and raising their swords in salute. Morten had a longsword. He held it with both hands, his left hand cupped around the pommel. The ref
eree called the start and the jury stooped to watch for hits. Morten came forward carefully and made a small feint, which Russet ignored. He gave a beat to her blade and stepped back in surprise at the speed of the counter-beat. His eyes narrowed and he lunged into the tiny, high opening presented, then desperately tried to bring the sword down in a parry as she slipped his blade, ducked to the floor and sliced up at his hand by the wrist, raising a fountain of ‘blood’; actually red ink in small sachets strapped to each bladesman’s body. The referee’s whistle went abruptly and both players stopped.

  “Damn! She’s good,” said Victor. “She won it with that. Very, very clever and she played for it perfectly.”

  “What? Over? Why, she barely touched him.”

  The crowd was murmuring, unsure what had happened, though a canny few were making their way to the bookmakers, strategically placed near the lanes leading into the crowded square.

  “Tendons” said Victor with a smile. “That sachet marks the tendon, either he fences now with his left hand or he retires. Morten will retire, he can’t fence left handed. Not at this standard.”

  “But, but it was just a touch!”

  “It doesn’t take much to slice open a tendon, that’s why it is protected. It takes one hell of an accurate blademaster to make that shot - she had a tiny, tiny area to hit, the crease which allows the wrist to turn, which was moving damn fast but she hit it.”

  The referee examined Morten’s wrist, but Morten only had eyes for the girl, with a stunned smile on his face. His voice carried.

  “I misjudged you, ma’am. I congratulate you on your win, quite brilliant. You totally foxed me. May I have the honour of knowing my victor’s name?”

  The girl smiled. “Thank you, sir, for your kind words. I fear for now I must keep my identity secret a little longer, you will understand later. Good fortune.” Her voice was low and melodious, but it carried clearly round the sale.

  The referee spoke quietly to Morten, who responded firmly, “I do.”

  The referee turned to the crowd. “A tendon shot wins the bout for the Mystery Entrant. Morten retires, declining to fence on with his left.”

  The crowd did not erupt. They muttered, as they felt a little cheated at not seeing more of her. The lucky ones nodded their heads and headed off to the bookies to collect their winnings. The mutterings increased, a little angry, but deflated when the rough crowd outside the Upturned Oxcart pub began to cheer and shout, waving their beer pots.

  “Well done Russet!”

  “The Red Rattna strikes again!”

  “Fastest win for the Red Rapier!”

  “Gives us a kiss for luck!”

  At this last, the girl smiled and blew kisses to them, causing the noise to double.

  “Umph,” said Victor, “she is very young. She should stay focused - her next match is against the Champion - she needs to be ready for him, he is superb, highly skilled. Come Oliver, I shall let you buy me lunch and another bottle of this excellent red and I shall explain what happened.”

  “Never mind, I don’t need to know.” Oliver was impatient. He looked around. They were in a private booth of the Drunken Courtier, a public house; the veranda overlooked the raised fighting dais, with the door open so the waiters and waitresses could see them. “Is this place secure?”

  “Of course it is,” Victor glared at him. “I have more to lose, consorting with the likes of you. I don’t want anyone seeing you, let alone hearing what we talk about.”

  “Very well.” Oliver didn’t look convinced. “So, what is the latest news?”

  “All in good time. So impatient, it is not polite to discuss business till after we have eaten.”

  “I pay you enough not to have to put up with your foibles.” Oliver hated Victor for his upper class smoothness, but masked the hatred behind impatient anger.

  “Nonsense. And I am going to need more; I have to keep up my position in society. You must follow the customs or you will stand out, and the waiter may report it. He will think it deuced odd if we are talking business over food.” Victor waved at the waitress through the doorway. She nodded and moved off.

  Victor leaned forward. “I spoke yesterday with a friend from Westport. He tells me you can forget Fearaigh.”

  “I did not expect anything else. They do not love us.”

  “They don’t care much for your ways, they prefer the old religions, trade with the Elves and they love the Starrs. Half the army is from Fearaigh.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, and show me the money is not wasted.” Oliver’s eyes gleamed in his pale face.

  As Victor started to speak, a young man pushed his way into the room. “Hello, gentle sirs, my name is Andy. Can I help you with your order?”

  “Excellent!” Beamed Victor. “You can indeed. First we need another bottle of the Navarre, then tell me the menu. Who is the chef today?”

  “Mrs Jenks has the oven today, sir; she recommends the pheasant pie, or the steak and oyster pie. Otherwise I could do you some nice wood pigeons, or there is some ham, and I think if I hurry I can rustle up a lamprey, as it’s you, sir.”

  “Lamprey? Mrs Jenks? Really, ah yes that would be wonderful - I shall have it with a couple of pigeons, they go well together and Mrs Jenks cooks them superbly. The Navarre will complement the pigeon beautifully. Will you share with me, my friend?” He asked Oliver.

  “Thank you, no, that would be far too rich for me. Some light chicken broth, bread and a bit of cheese.” Oliver tried to smile, which was scary.

  “Certainly, gentle sirs,” nodded Andy, “it will be about half of the hour, if that is acceptable?” He minced out and they heard him snap at the serving girl to bring the wine.

  “Count Rotherstone is on everyone’s lips,” murmured Victor, wiping his mouth on a napkin with precise care. “He is considered the leader of the revolutionary cadre, even though he does nothing overtly. Raphael is not taken seriously, though a significant number of invitations are arriving for him.”

  “Invitations? So what? Be serious, man!” Oliver stared at him.

  Victor sighed. “Prince Raphael is single. The increases in invitations are coming from mothers of unmarried girls. They are hedging their bets, offering their daughters in the hope of catching a king. The increase means many of the upper classes think there is a chance he may inherit. A good chance.”

  “Ah, I see.” Oliver was actually impressed by the subtlety, but took care to hide that. “How many are converting to the true religion?”

  “That I cannot know, it is not widely talked about and very private. But there has been a sea-change in outlook. It is no longer derided, but talked about as just another religion. As you know, most of them care little for religion in any form, so this is a good sign.” Victor smiled and sipped his wine, building suspense before he delivered the good news. “The merchant boys are successful as officers. It is agreed to allow many more of them to join, and their competence allows the nobility to move their sons to the City Guard rather than fighting regiments.” He sneered. “The weaker, diluted nobility, of course. They don’t want to fight the barbarians on the northern border, or meet Spakka raids in the east. They are happy to let your lads do that for them, and the rate of retirement is up hugely.”

  “Very good,” Oliver was pleased. He placed a large purse on the table, which vanished into Victor’s pouch. “And the Palace Guard?”

  “Oh, no problem there. I lunched with the adjutant three days ago and on my advice he is taking on a cadre of not just officers, but guardsmen as well. You will own it within a few years. Worth an extra purse, I fancy!” He watched greedily as Oliver reluctantly placed a smaller purse on the table.

  “What is the King’s attitude to the new parliament? Has it changed?”

  “Not really. He’s not convinced they can do anything worthwhile, and isn’t paying much attention to them. The Princess is a different matter. She’s been bending his ear about it and I understand she is now forbidden to talk about parl
iament at meals. I believe she is spending time listening to them in session?”

  “Yes, she does. I don’t think she likes me very much.” Oliver smiled with satisfaction.

  Victor took a larger sip of wine, to stop himself commenting on the princess’s exemplary taste.

  Oliver did not think he would get much more from the old courtier, and decided to leave. Excellent news on the officers, which would speed the process, and even better news on the guard. He thought briefly of his own commission, sitting in his pocket, and wondered when he would take it up. The king would not like to find out members of parliament were officers in the new army they were raising.

  The daughter was an issue. She would work out the possibilities, and they needed to debate some sensitive issues in the coming weeks. He decided to bring forward the plan to remove her and install Raphael. He stood abruptly, seeing Victor’s raised eyebrow at his silence, and threw a coin on the table. “That’s for lunch. I shall meet with you again in a month’s time. Get a table at the archery tournament, I shall find you.” He pulled on his cloak and left.

  Victor sighed with pleasure and ruminated on the ills of life that had destroyed his investments and forced him into taking the puritan coin. To say nothing of the wretched boy who had sucked him into this mess in the first place. Still, he could see the way the wind was blowing and it would be important to come out on the right side.

  It was the last bout of the day and had stretched to half an hour, the longest bout so far. The Champion, Ariston, was moving easily, but giving the Red Queen huge respect. Both players were level on 11 points - 12 was the victory target. They had been on 11 for the last ten minutes, an unprecedented time with no score.

  Ariston was a well-muscled man in his late twenties, approaching six foot tall, balanced and moving well. He was still smiling as he fought, but his grey eyes showed his care, watching the girl like a cat, riveted on her face. The sweat rolled down his face and his shirt was stained dark. Most was sweat but a few minor sachets had burst.

  The girl was laughing. Not all the time, but you could see the joy on her face as she moved lightly and easily, matching Ariston”s every move. This did not bother Ariston; you could see he loved every moment of the challenge. The crowd was hushed. This was a bout such as you were lucky to see once in five years, and to see two blade masters enjoying each other’s skill was unusual to say the least. Once Ariston had skidded on a flower thrown from the crowd, and the Red Queen had backed up and let him recover.