Singer Sailor Merchant Mage

Chapter 181: Reparations

“Reparations can make up for stolen wages, but not stolen dignity and stolen lives.”

Abhijit Naskar

“Merda!” One of them muttered.

It summed up the situation nicely. They were in deep, deep, do-do. It was nice to see them finally realise it. Small recompense for what they had put us through the chase, the imprisonment, and the flight. The remaining five quickly bunched up, aware of the seriousness of the situation and the fact that they might just not be walking out of there after all. They placed their hands on their weapons but were smart enough not to draw them. While we were not royalty, and stats made a mockery of what exactly counted as a weapon, perhaps we should have an arms policy of leaving them at the door—a thought for the future.

We had organised ourselves to face them, with each person having a main target should they force the issue. Namir would take out Sinbad, Lady Acacia would control Ramil, and Arawn would tackle Junaid. He had jumped the gun on taking out Farris, but we had already agreed that should any of them attempt to escape, they were to be taken out by whatever means necessary. I was not convinced that Arawn could not have done it a little less messily or even left the man alive, but it had indeed set the scene.

“We meet again.” I smiled, channelling my inner villain. I did not want to appear kind, generous or merciful. We were going to take the slavers for all they were worth. Their property, people and their very lives if they did not agree to every stipulation we laid down.

“My Lord, we didn’t know.” Ramil stepped ahead of Sinbad and began to plead their case—the sudden obsequiousness off-putting in its instant display and the complete reversal of his previous persona.

“Ignorance of my position or the law of the land is no defence to your crime.” I stopped him right there.

Before, Aleera continued, unwilling to allow them to reframe the narrative. We had a script, and we were sticking to it. “First, you assaulted Lord Silversea, pursuing him and his father across the open ocean,” Aleera started listing their crimes. “Second, you attempted to enslave him, binding him in mana manacles, blindfolding him and leaving him the hold of your ship like a common criminal.” she listed them off on her fingers. “Third, you brought to our humble home several dozen slaves with the intention of leaving with them.” She paused. “Slavery is illegal on Wester Ponente.” Finally reaching her fourth and final finger, “You have entered our hall without apology, acknowledging your guilt and without offering instant reparations. Your transgressions come at a cost.”

“My slaves are my own, all legally bound and bought.” Objected Sinbad to the potential financial cost. “They have not set foot on your island, and it isn’t illegal to own slaves in the Compass Kingdoms or the Azimuth Ocean.” Why he was focused on his property instead of his life boggled the mind. A sailor should be more competent, especially considering the dangerous sea change in his circumstances.

“Would it not be possible to start again?” Interjected, Haakim. “We have sailed to your distant island to establish a mutually profitable trading relationship. We meant no offence and were unaware of whom we dealt with on the open ocean. You flew no crest.”

“Actions count louder than words, and your actions count against you. Your captain claims his slaves were all legally bought and bound when we have direct evidence to the contrary, with you attempting to enslave my brother. Your words are not worth the air they are said with.” Nevertheless, she refused to back down from our confrontational position.

“I have their documentation,” Sinbad shouted. It was clear that the loss of his slaves would ruin him. He could not sail the ship home without them or trade and carry goods.

“Not worth the paper it’s written on if you would seek to enslave my brother. Be grateful that you are still breathing, and stop arguing about losses you have no hopes of overturning.”

“But . . .” Sinbad found himself being restrained by his fellows who stood in grim silence.

Lady Acacia stepped forward now that the men had stopped arguing against their fate. “First, for assaulting Lord Silversea, the punishment is death or a weregild of 1,500 gold dinar. Second, the punishment for attempted enslavement and false incarceration of Lord Silversea is death or a wergild of 1,500 gold dinar. Third, their immediate release is required for enslaving others, and 40 gold dinar for every enslaved serf as modest reparations for their treatment. Although we acknowledge that no amount of coin can compensate for the loss of dignity and for being stolen from their lives.”

“I can’t pay that!” Sinbad shouted despite the restraints of his companions.

“We are fully aware of that and have already taken steps to liberate the enslaved, impound your ship and confiscate its cargo to cover the reparations to be made to them and Lord Silversea.” She stated.

“My ship was taken.” He sounded stunned, no longer fighting to break free.

“Yes, the former enslaved are currently being released from their bonds as we speak, while your sailors will be processed later today depending on their crimes.” She continued without mercy, impartially delivering the letter of the law. “You are, however, each still significantly short of having sufficient funds to buy your lives, and we do not believe in slavery here on Wester Ponente.” She left their sentence unannounced, the silence deafening as they each realised they would have to come up with 3000 gold or face their imminent demise.

They shifted uneasily, and I wondered whether we would have an immediate fight on our hands. They had to realise that even if they managed the dubious task of escaping our hall, they would still have to attempt to get across the lagoon through the town to their ship and then off an island on the edge of the horizon without their crew or enslaved people. It was impossible, and they realised it.

“I demand trial by ordeal,” Sinbad shouted into the lengthening silence.

“This is the Silversea Court, not the Court of the Lodestar Church. You cannot reduce your fine through suffering.” Lady Acacia rebutted his demand. It turned out that some more minor crimes could be paid for by various medieval trials, the trial of cold water, the trial of hot iron etc. But I was not keen to encourage or allow such barbaric practices on our island.

We existed in a legal grey area. Strictly speaking, we were part of international waters until we swore allegiance to Ponente. It was expected that we would when our 100 years of pioneer status finished. However, with most of the population from there, those were the rules we followed whenever needed, but it was up to us whether or not to follow them or fall into the fold at the end of our pioneering time.

The Church of the Lodestar having paid for a significant portion of the expansion and their presence on the island meant that the people could turn to them for judgement as much as they turned to us with their petitions.

“Then trial by combat,” Sinbad argued, unwilling to give up and clawing to life with his metaphorical fingernails.

“Are you insane?” Hissed Haakim, “He’ll take you apart in seconds.” He added, referring to Arawn Silversword, who had moved up through the hall to stand behind them.

“Better with a blade in my hand than a noose around my neck,” Sinbad replied. He was stepping forward and away from his companions, whose hands dropped away from holding him back.

“Is there any way we could delay or defer payment of reparations?” Ramil asked.

“You will not be allowed to leave the island if that is what you are asking, but we see more value in your life than your death.” Replied Lady Acacia. “You would be allowed to send a letter requesting reparations through a suitable intermediary and with a certain level of secrecy to maintain our security from military reprisals.”

Ramil relaxed a little in relief that there might be a way out of this. There was no outward impression he had hoped for anymore, but a slight returning tension hinted that perhaps he had.

“Not all of us are wealthy enough to leverage that amount of gold or as beloved by our family as a ransom,” Junaid said snidely, referring to himself, Haakim and Bahis.

“Depending on your debt and abilities, we have a range of payment plans,” I attempted to sound professional but was sure I still smirked slightly.

“And those are?” Junaid asked.

. . .

In the end, Ramil wrote a ransom letter, which would be rewritten and sent with Captain Kashif on his return. Junaid and Bahis agreed to indenture for life or at least until their 3000 weregilds were raised. They believed they could get out from under the Silverseas if they struck it lucky, delving into the depths of the Lodestone on their weekends. Haakim resigned himself to a new life on the island, healing. While Captain Sinbad was still determined to attempt to fight his way free.

We wondered how it was going with Murshad.

. . .

In the Church of the Lodestar

“Welcome back, Murshad.” Bishop Bailie boomed with a significant smile. “We have a sizeable swelling of our congregation this morning.”

“I see,” Murshad replied awkwardly before the many enslaved people sitting free. They made no moves toward him, but he felt uncomfortable in the free men's presence.

“Yes, slavery is illegal here on Wester Ponente. However, the Silversea family has a progressive and positive outlook toward life and one they are not afraid to defend.” He continued.

“Ah, should I come back at another time?” Murshad asked, worried about what might be happening elsewhere. It appeared his companions were walking into an ambush. If not a physical one, then certainly a political one. They were only companions at the request of the cabal that had sent them on this mission, but that didn’t mean he was utterly heartless toward their fate.

“Might be best if you stayed the morning within the Church. The crew you sailed with made a poor first impression on the local rulers. You will have some safety here due to the sanctity of the Lodestar church, but I do not believe you will return to the Compass continent anytime soon. Or at least not on the boat that you arrived on anyway.” He cautioned,

Reading between the lines, Murshad winced, “As a Bishop, could you not compel them to release the ship and the crew?” Thinking about resorting to relying on the back of the church to get them out of the predicament they were in.

The Bishop nodded in acknowledgement before declining, “We are a long way out from the Compass Continent. It might have been possible had you not assaulted the Lord himself.”

“The Lord?” Murshad questioned, confused.

“The boy you attempted to capture.” The Bishop clarified.

“Mierda,” Murshad muttered before crossing himself in the four cardinal directions followed by the four ordinal.

“Yes, quite. Let’s hope your companions are smarter with their words than their actions, or you might find yourself excepting the former enslaved, the sole remainder of your venture.” The Bishop agreed and warned. “Now, seeing as you will be free for the foreseeable future. Why not help me with helping these disadvantaged men adapt and choose some new metiers.” He gestured to the waiting crowd still working their way through the room with the shard of the Lodestar.

. . .

Back on the inner isle,

Seven slavers came to call,

Their followed, a chase, a fight, a fall,

Seven slavers all told.

But stand one beheaded, one sold.

Seven slavers sailed the sea,

Till they were broken over our lord’s knee

. . .

I stopped playing with the poor lyrics in my mind. Now that I was a Lord, I needed suitable friezes, tapestries or songs to chronicle my progress. Of course, I could try to get my mother to make one. But that was just as good as writing them for me. We were all walking out to the amphitheatre for the final duel of Sinbad the Sailor.

A captain no longer without his ship.

He had refused the possibility of working off his weregild over time compared to the others. But he had lost far, far more than them. Without a ship, crew or enslaved people, he had fallen from a captain, the king of his domain, to but another petitioner, and he seemed to have struggled with the fall in his fortune.

We had given the option, but he had refused. So we were not going to offer it again. We wanted to be seen as strong. But it seemed strange to be watching a man walking to his death. Farris’s end had been so quick that it had been over before we realised it would happen. This, though, was taking its time.

Perhaps he still thought he had a chance against Arawn Silversword. But Namir had won the right after a quick hand battle of wizard, warrior, rogue—this world’s equivalent of Rock, paper scissors.

. . .

The two warriors faced each other across a circle of sand. Silent former companions and students surrounded them. They studied one another as the watchers waited on the stone steps that climbed the mountain they would be fighting in the shadow of.

The mercenary captain was the first to make his move. His curved scimitar whipped forth from the scabbard on his belt as he dashed forward in an attempt to take Namir’s life in the first move.

But no matter how fast he was, Namir was quicker and with senses that could probably hear his heart beating; there was no way he had not seen him coming. He stepped to the side almost casually, drawing his sword rather than rushing to raise it to meet Sinbad’s blade head-on.

I did not doubt the outcome of this trial by combat.

This was an execution.

But it did not mean that it couldn’t be a learning experience.

Sinbad had missed his first strike, which would have bisected a slower man, but it did not stop him from following after Namir as he attempted a second stab that appeared to flicker twice with a smaller blade hidden in his left hand. A slightly quicker man who might have managed to block the first scimitar would have found his chest stabbed by the second blade as Sinbad would have barrelled over the top of him.

However, Namir had stepped around him, leaving him off balance, and the second blade easy to deflect with a flick of his sword, the second flickering strike never coming near. Instead, he allowed him time to regain footing before launching his offensive.

It was much like our morning sparring, only this time it was for real with a blade that would cut rather than bruise. My cousins could see Namir stepping through the moves he had taught us. Gradually speeding up to apply more and more pressure on the pirate, who progressively realised he had no hope against our martial tutor.

We watched as he countered with more and more desperation as he defended himself against the moves with methods we had been taught. The sand was flung by foot and hand, blades thrown as he attempted to close with Namir. Then caltrops dropped behind him as he tried to retreat, and we didn’t doubt they were poisoned. Finally, a ship captain, Sinbad, fought like a trapped bilge rat fighting tooth and nail to flee a sinking ship.

But Namir allowed him no let up as he continued to press him harder and harder.

Cuts began to add up as he slipped his strikes through Sinbad’s guard. Never enough to end the fight but sufficient to demonstrate the deadliness of each strike that he had forced us to learn with blunted wooden weapons, our blows always pulled rather than followed through.

Sinbad seemed to despair as every trick of his trade came up empty. There were no lines of red decorating Namir’s fine, coarse fur. His tawny pale fur was unblemished. The black spots had yet to be joined by lines of blood, and with poisoned caltrops in play, he could not afford them to be.

It was difficult not to have a grudging respect for the mercenary captain, if only for his willpower, not his morals, as he refused to give up. The colourful cloth he wore gradually received a crimson shade and dripped in places where it hung low or was folded. Breathing heavily, his stamina had to be falling quickly, moving as fast as he had been. His health could not be too low; each cut was made to demonstrate a point rather than make a kill. His cuts would heal given time. Namir appeared to be playing with his victim much like a cat could play with its food. But he showed no joy or emotion in the method he was employing. There was a lesson to be learned here, but we couldn’t see what it was yet to have drawn it out so long.

Screaming in rage and frustration, he rushed forward at Namir once more. His arm seemed to flicker, his knife stabbing rapidly in multiple flashing motions as he attempted to reach the beastkin tutor. It was no longer a double strike but a multitude of them, and Namir leapt backwards out of reach of the rapid follow-up strikes that would have taken him unaware had he remained.

As the new skill ended, so did Sinbad’s life, with Namir lunging past the now-falling man.

“That is why we do not dance with our enemies.” He told his stunned students. The fight had finished so abruptly. “Skills can come at any moment. To those who train for them and those who fight for them. Never leave it to chance to be on the wrong side of that moment. Should they fight hard enough, any man or monster can get a sudden reprieve by the system.”