TBOV: Chapter Nineteen: Treading Treacherous Waters

Chapter Nineteen: Treading Treacherous Waters

“Then as now, the Braavosi were a pragmatic people, for theirs is a city of escaped slaves where a thousand false gods are honored, but only gold is truly worshipped. Profit means more than pride amongst the hundred isles.”

―writings of Gyldayn

…

The Stormchaser’s hull was painted in swirling shades of black and indigo, so dark as to merge near seamlessly with the waves, its sails dyed midnight black to match. Their quartermaster, an old salt named Morito, insisted the scheme would trick dragons circling overhead, a claim Ballaro only half-believed. Yet the gloom that clung to the Shivering Sea might prove to be their ally. With any luck, Morito’s inane ploy might just work.

Ballaro scanned the sky, eyes narrowed against the glare. The Shivering Sea lay to the north, harsh and cold, but to the east beckoned Ibben and her sheltered harbors. There, he might sell his cargo and return to the hundred isles with much-sought after grain.

“Captain!” cried the lookout from the masthead. “On the larboard quarter—topsails, three points off the stern! Two ships, bearing down with the wind at their backs!”

Ballaro turned and raised his long-glass, cursing softly when he caught sight of a pair of lean-hulled vessels, their sails snapping bright against the pallid sky; Qartheen privateers. No doubt they carried the Butcher’s letters of marque and were eager to pick at his cargo, for they thought him easy prey.

“Douse half the sails!” he ordered. “We’ll lose them in the gloom near the Axe. They won’t follow us where dragons roam.”

At the mention of the foul beasts, a ripple of unease passed through the crew. Some fingered amulets of Moonsingers, others muttered quick prayers to the Many-Faced God. Ballaro understood their fear all too well. Even the sturdiest caravel would end up a pyre if a dragon’s flame found it. Yet no man stepped away from the rigging or the lines; there was profit in this run, and Braavosi sailors were famed for their nerve. One good haul of Ibbenese grain, sold dear in Braavos’s markets, might set every man aboard up with a small fortune.

The Stormchaser’s sails drew in, slowing her enough that the privateers gave chase in earnest. Inch by inch, they closed the distance, their prows cutting the waves with practiced efficiency. Ballaro let them gain ground, biding his time, until the dark silhouette of the Axe’s mountainous coastline crept into view. Then, with a sudden order, the brig’s dark sails were loosed, catching the freshening wind. The hull groaned as the Stormchaser surged ahead.

He knew well the rumors—these Westerosi-hired corsairs would pursue their prey as far as the Axe—no farther—lest they be mistaken for Braavosi and reduced to ash by a prowling wyrm. This was the secret of Braavos’s strategy: lure them just far enough that they would recoil in fear of fire from the skies.

Sure enough, even from this distance, Ballaro saw the pursuers shorten sail. The lead ship swung wide, a frustrated maneuver, and gave a futile flash of lantern signals. The second barked something through a trumpet, but wind snatched the words away. Moments later, both turned about, retreating to safer waters. A muffled cheer rose among the Stormchaser’s crew, though none dared raise a full-throated cry. Bold as they were, they still feared what might be overhead.

Ballaro let out a breath he hadn’t realized he held. With the blockade’s hounds turned back, the Shivering Sea stretched open before them. The northern wind tasted briny and cold, laced with faint ice crystals that stung at the men’s cheeks. “Keep us to our heading,” he said, turning to his first mate, Cajo, a wiry, sharp-eyed man who wore three silver rings in his ear. “We’ll soon find ourselves rounding the last of these rocky isles, and from there—Ibben.”

Yet the day’s perils were not done. Sometime around midday, the wind fell eerily still. The sun shone a pallid yellow through a thin band of cloud, and the Stormchaser rocked in a lazy roll, as though lulled by a dull lullaby. Then, at midday, a long, echoing roar overhead quashed the men’s talk to murmurs. Ballaro peered skyward, his heart pounding; high above, a dark shape glided against the pale sun.

“Keep steady!” Ballaro growled, though his throat felt dry as dust. He dared not reduce sail, nor attempt to flee; either could draw attention from that gliding predator. Instead, they sailed onward at the same unhurried pace. At length, the black shape curved away, vanishing into a bank of cloud. The crew let out a collective breath.

An hour later, a new sight chilled them more thoroughly than any north wind. Wreckage dotted the waves ahead—charred fragments of timber, a scorched sail half-submerged, a dead mast protruding at an angle like a broken bone. Drawing closer, Ballaro recognized the figurehead: a Braavosi caravel, now a pathetic hulk adrift in the chop. Not a living soul clung to the jagged planks. Shattered crates bobbed amid the debris, half-burnt, their cargo of casks and sundries spilled out to the sea.

The hush that fell was tangible, as though each man swallowed his terror in unison. Ballaro’s heart lurched. A day’s difference in course, and that might have been them. He looked to Cajo, who wore a grim scowl beneath his wiry beard. “Gods be good, Captain,” Cajo said, voice barely above a whisper. “They had no chance.”

Ballaro gestured a wide arc with his hand, and the helmsman eased the Stormchaser around the derelict. No sense in tempting fate by lingering, no reason to search for survivors. Clearly there were none. “May the Moonsingers guide their souls,” he murmured. The men crossed themselves in that Braavosi way, lips tight, hearts heavy.

Once well past the wreck, Ballaro exhaled slowly. A glance at the sky showed only drifting clouds, though every drifting shadow could be a scaled silhouette waiting to descend. Still, a Braavosi captain’s fortune was made by walking the razor’s edge between ruin and reward. Shaking free of the sight, he raised his voice. “Brace the yards! Keep watch aloft. We sail on until Ibben’s grey shores rise, or the gods themselves strike us down!”

The Stormchaser’s sails filled again, and the brig found her course. Quiet fell once more across the deck, only the rhythmic creak of planks and the wash of waves to accompany them. Night would come soon enough, and with it some measure of safety. Ballaro pictured the harbor of Ibben, the glint of silver coin, the promise of grain-laden holds returning to Braavos. A small fortune, if he lived to spend it. A man could die in a thousand ways on this sea, burned or drowned or both, but as the Stormchaser pressed ever onward, Ballaro refused to yield to fear. Fortune, after all, favored the bold.